Chapter 35
KATE
One shot takes out the SUV’s back window, shattering the glass with a sound like a million mirrors breaking.
Cole’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles as white as his face.
He hisses when we take the first corner, then stomps on the accelerator like he’s trying to put the pedal through the floor.
We race through three stop signs before he jerks the car to the right. Four blocks fly past before he turns again, left this time. Another two, and we’re out of Canton, edging toward downtown and the interstate.
“We need to go back for Breagha.”
“We’ll get her,” he says, which is what he promised as he forced me out of the house.
“We need to fetch her now!”
“We’ll both be shot on sight if we go back there now.”
“She’s my sister!”
“She’s safe tonight.” He sounds exhausted. “No one will hurt her while the bratva’s waiting for a wedding.”
“You think Tarasov can do it? Force the Orthodox church to go ahead?”
“I’m pretty sure the bratva can do anything it wants on Butchers Hill.”
I want him to be wrong. I want to rescue Breagha.
But the wind is whipping through the Land Rover’s shattered back window, underscoring everything he’s said.
Catching a scream of frustration against the back of my teeth, I pound the glove box with my fist. But I give up trying to convince Cole to retrace our steps.
“What happened to Da?” I finally ask. I try not to see my father grasping for his chair, try not to hear his gurgled nonsense.
“I think it was a stroke.”
“Is he dead?”
Cole’s shoulders twitch, a gesture that would be a shrug if he wasn’t getting over a beating.
“We need to help him,” I say.
“What do you want to do, Kate? If you call 911, your mother won’t let them past the gate. Same, if I send Patel up there.”
“I can go to the police.”
“And tell them what? Baltimore’s Irish mob boss collapsed at home, in the presence of his wife who is of completely sound mind? And she has chosen to manage his treatment in their shared domicile? But you, his practically estranged daughter, think something else should be done?”
“Something else should be done!”
He shifts his grip on the steering wheel. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. You have an open checkbook. No expenses spared. How should we help your father?”
I open my mouth. Close it. We cover a few more miles, Cole eyeing the road like a Formula 1 driver.
“Did you mean it?” I finally ask. “Are you quitting your work for the Canton Crew?”
His jaw sets. “I mean it.”
Something eases the iron band that’s been clamped around my chest since I heard Da doing his best to intimidate Monsignor Dulaney. “Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t thank me yet. There’ll be hell to pay. From your father, if he’s in any condition to follow through on his threats. From your mother, if not.”
“I’ll pay then,” I say. “I’m used to making their lives hell.”
We finish the ride in silence. I lean against my headrest. Cole minds the road. By the time he turns onto our cobblestone street in Georgetown, the lines of pain are etched so deep on his face that I’m not sure they’ll ever be erased.
As he approaches the gate, two guards in olive drab uniforms spring to attention. I say, “Who the hell are they?”
“Apex Security,” Cole says.
“Why did you dismiss—”
“I didn’t,” he says. “Sawyer Best pulled his men after Prince said no one in the Diamond Ring can do business with me.”
“And you trust these guys?”
“I hired them for years.”
“But that was before—”
I stop myself. Cole used Apex before I let Tarasov into the house, before the bratva became a threat. Of course we’d rather have Best’s men. But they’re not an option right now. And my carping to Cole won’t change anything.
Pulling up to the gate, Cole rolls down his window. One man approaches, demonstrating excellent trigger control. “Good evening, sir,” he says in a clipped voice. “Welcome home.”
It’s a perfectly legitimate greeting. I tell myself it’s irrational to worry about the change in staffing. I try to ignore the fact that Cole looks worried too.
Cole parks on the drive, which probably means he’s trying to spare his battered body the walk from the garage. My phone rings as we’re standing in the foyer. It’s my mother.
“Katie, a stór,” she says.
My mother is calling me her love, after framing me and running us out of her house. “What the actual fuck, Mam?”
“You got home safe?”
“After you ordered us gunned down in the middle of Baltimore?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mam snaps. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? The back window of our car was shattered!”
“Your father’s men were emotional, seeing him with such a bad dose.”
“Bad dose?” I repeat in shock. “That wasn’t a head cold, Mam!”
“Well your Da’s resting comfortably now.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means he’s resting in bed.”
“He should be in hospital!”
“Where he’d be resting in bed.”
“Mam—”
She clicks her tongue, the way she always does when I’m taking up too much of her time. “We have more important things to discuss, you and me.”
“What is more important than—”
“Petya got the job done your father couldn’t do.”
Petya. Not Pyotr. A metallic clank echoes inside my skull, like the telescope lens clicking into place after I dropped in a coin on the amusement pier in Donegal.
Mam is working with the bratva.
She was working with them at my wedding, when she invited Pyotr Tarasov into St. Brigid’s. She was working with them last night, when Pyotr slept beneath her roof. She was working with them today, when she refused to get help for Da, and when she ran me out of the house.
Mam has always fought for what she wanted—getting clear of three men at the Forge and Anchor, marrying into the Lynch clan, crossing the ocean to America.
And what Mam wants most of all is power.
She saw Da build it. She saw Da lose it.
And now she sees the bratva holding all of Baltimore, going forward.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. How long has she been working for the Russians? Did she make her choice before the Dogfight? Was she with the Tarasovs when Breagha and I were taken from the playground?
A snake squeezes through my belly, but I force myself to ask, “What job, Mam?”
“Pyotr will marry your sister on Thursday, at St. Basil’s.”
Bile slicks my throat, turning my words mean. “What? Not tonight?”
“Even Pyotr couldn’t get them moving that fast. Forty-eight hours is fine. You have time to come home and do your duty.”
All of this is insane—Mam acting like Da didn’t collapse just hours ago, like she didn’t run me out of the territory, like a shotgun wedding for Breagha was always in the cards. “My duty?” I finally choke out.
“As your sister’s matron of honor. Breagha was your attendant. You should do the same for her.”
I don’t try very hard to smother my outraged squawk. “Let me guess,” I say. “You’ve already ordered your white dress as mother of the bride. That was the first call you made.”
“You only say nasty things like that to hurt me.”
I say them because they’re true. My mother wore white on my wedding day with the full intention of drawing every eye in the room. But arguing with her now will only feed the unholy compulsion that forces her to become the center of attention in every room she’s ever entered.
Instead, I say, “I have no intention of doing anything to legitimize that farce of a wedding. You already forced one of your daughters to the altar against her will. If you do that to Breagha, I’ll be the first to stand and object. I will never hold my peace.”
“You selfish little slut! Pyotr says the Russian church doesn’t give anyone a chance to object.”
Of course they don’t.
Mam goes on: “Your sister needs you, Katie. Your clan needs you. Two days is all I ask. Come help her prepare for her wedding.”
“I’ll burn in hell before I’ll spend a night under the same roof as Pyotr Tarasov.”
“Well you’re in luck then. Pyotr is home with his own family. They have traditions as well. He won’t see Breagha again till Thursday.”
Mam is right. My sister needs me—just not in the way my mother believes.
“Katie?” she pushes.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You egocentric, narcissistic twat. You never consider anyone but yourself!”
“Charming, Mam. You’re truly convincing me to change my mind.” I end the call before she can question my sarcasm.
Cole eyes me calmly as I jam my mobile into my pocket. I think about what I snapped at my mother. You already forced one of your daughters to the altar against her will.
I should tell him I don’t feel that way anymore. Our arranged marriage has become something I never imagined. I owe him that. But before I can speak, he asks, “They’re forcing Breagha?”
I nod, because my throat is suddenly too tight for me to manage words.
“She needs you,” he says.
Frustration and helplessness meld into anger. “What? Did you and Mam plan all this together?”
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he asks, “Am I taking you back to Baltimore this afternoon?”
“You aren’t taking me anywhere,” I say. “You’re going upstairs and lying down.”
“I’m not tired.”
I ignore him. “And I’m fetching some cold packs for those bruises. After, I’m wrapping you in bandages. Compression will ease the pain.”
“I’m not—”
“And I’m not listening to any lies you tell me. Upstairs. Now. Or I’ll sic Nilsson on you.”
I’m shocked when he complies.
My mobile rings, yanking me out of a confusing dream where my tuxedo-clad father is walking Breagha down a very long pier, using a bloody crowbar to prop up the drooping right side of his body. The chirping ringtone is the one I’ve set for my sister, the only one I never allow to be silenced.
“Breagha! Are you okay?”
“I’m…fine…Kate....” She sounds like she’s floating in a sea as dense as porridge.
I twist to look at the clock on my nightstand. “Breagha, it’s 3:37 in the morning.”
“Mam let me out of…the room downstairs… She said I can stay…in my bedroom now… I forgot to call before… I just remembered…”