Chapter 37
KATE
For the first time in our lives together, I wake before Cole does. I lie facing him, breathing shallowly. The nightstand lamp behind me casts dark shadows on his face, where the bruising from Trap Prince’s beatdown is fading to spectacular shades of green and yellow.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can. In the spacious closet, I pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. Feet bare, I head downstairs to the kitchen.
Nilsson, of course, is waiting. Having worked his magic with the coffee maker, he offers me a full cup. “Thank you,” I say, almost accustomed to being waited on.
“My pleasure, Kate.” He hesitates, as he always does, before he says my name. I wonder if I’ll ever fully break him from the habit of calling me madam.
“I’ll get the Land Rover back to you later this morning,” I say. I have to make sure I’ve left no evidence behind.
“I already took the liberty of swapping vehicles,” he says. “Mine was overdue for its regular detailing. I scheduled the service for this morning.”
I have no idea how often Nilsson has his car detailed, but I suspect whoever he trusts with the job is thorough enough to eliminate all traces of DNA from the scene. “Thank you,” I say, after a fortifying sip of coffee.
After Nilsson gives me the slightest of bows, I take an apple from the fridge and head down the hall to my office. With everything that’s happened, I have only one regret: Tarasov only had access to the Viktor code for around forty-eight hours. I wish he’d had much more time to dig his own grave.
Sitting in the chair at my desk, I fire up my computer to review Tarasov’s use of the code. The first thing I see, though, is an email from Carlotta Mirabelli.
From: [email protected]
Re: Important Communications Platform
SparkChat is a cesspool—too many misogynistic creeps. I’ve recently been spending a lot of time on CampFire. Check it out and if you like what you see, we can build a house for Ariadne’s Daughters.
I’ve heard about the platform. People gather publicly around various campfires, based on common interests. Private conversations can be held in houses. CampFire is supposed to encourage longer posts than SparkChat and deeper connections. I write back to Carlotta and tell her I’ll check it out.
Before I do that, though, I need to review the reports Viktor generated from Tarasov’s use.
The bratva brigadier was a busy little criminal.
Not surprisingly, he went after Banque Wagner, our last major mark as Red Cap Raiders.
But he pursued more personal targets as well—his District Attorney’s office in Baltimore, his local office of the FBI, and FBI headquarters.
I dig deeper into those. Tarasov combed through federal documents, looking for transcripts and recordings.
From his search terms, the truth rapidly becomes clear.
The feds had evidence of Tarasov assaulting little girls.
They planned to lock him up for the rest of his miserable life—until he agreed to give up his father, along with the entire leadership of the Baltimore bratva.
Tarasov thought he was using Viktor to erase those files. He thought he was clearing his history. Erasing his past.
He was never so wrong in his life.
There’s one more system he used Viktor to access: The records of the Canton Crew. He couldn’t wait until he put a ring on Breagha’s finger, until Da—or Mam, because she’s calling the shots now for my clan—gave him clean access to Lynch clan records.
Viktor worked like a charm. The software spun out lies so realistic I need to study them twice to make sure my family’s secrets remain safe.
I already intended to make the shitehawk pay. But the toll just got a little higher.
“Kate?” I look up to find Cole standing in the doorway.
He’s freshly showered, his near-black hair standing in spikes from a rough toweling.
He’s clean-shaven despite his bruised jaw, dressed in his usual summer clothes of a black cotton oxford tucked into matching linen pants.
The dark brown of his eyes looks softer than usual, the gold flecks in their depths sparkling in the summer light that streams through the window behind me. “We have to talk.”
“About what?” I ask levelly.
He crosses the threshold and closes the door firmly. “About the two men in our basement.”
“One,” I say. “One man and one body.”
His lips narrow, but he doesn’t contradict me.
“And I’m not sure,” I say. “That Tarasov counts as a man. He’s a spineless slug. And soon he’ll be a body, too. So no. I don’t think we have anything to discuss about the two men in our basement.”
Cole eyes me steadily. “You have a plan.”
“Of course. I plan on making Tarasov suffer. I plan on keeping him hanging until he begs to be cut down. I plan on making him pay for every single thing he ever did to me. And for all the things he thought he’d do to my sister.”
“I know the bad blood between the Canton Crew and the Tarasov bratva goes back years—”
“This isn’t about the Crew. Da would never have approved what I did last night. Mam either. This is just between Tarasov and me.”
“The bratva won’t see it that way.”
“They will once I’m done.”
“Done doing what?”
For the first time, I flinch. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“That ship’s sailed. He’s in my house. I helped you get him here. I’m the one who killed his fucking bodyguard. I can’t be in this any deeper than I already am. So what’s the endgame? What do you intend to do?”
I know the words I need to say. I’ve practiced them in my head, over and over, polishing them like a rock found on the beach.
But I shake my head because Cole shouldn’t have to hear them. I don’t know if he can stand my nightmares.
He crosses the room like he’s meeting me at the center of a tightrope. His fingers are cool as they cup my jaw. It feels indescribably good to turn my head, to rest the weight of my head against his palm.
He says, “Let me help you, Kate. Tell me what you’re going to do. Tell me why.”
I pull away from him, shuttering my heart against the flash of hurt in his eyes. Tucking my heels onto the chair beneath me, I hug my knees. Maybe the position offers me some comfort. But maybe I choose it because it puts a barrier between my husband and me.
I’ve hurt him. But he doesn’t leave. So I finally start to tell the story. I finally start to say all the secret words out loud.
“I told you the bratva took Breagha and me so they could pressure Da into handing over territory, into cashing out the Crew.”
Cole waits.
“But I didn’t tell you how it ended. How the exchange was made.”
Cole waits.
“The bratva men who kidnapped us were only soldiers acting on orders, keeping Breagha and me fed, alive. When Da didn’t jump at the chance to buy us back, the bratva had to recalculate our value. That required leadership. That meant Tarasov came to see us.”
Cole waits.
“Separate and conquer, that’s how you win a war. So Tarasov took me out of the Dark Room. He blindfolded me and he dragged me away. He took me to the Cold Room.”
Cole waits.
“He made me kneel on the cold, hard floor. He asked me questions. He forced me to make a choice.”
Cole waits.
“He said he was going to hurt one of us, hurt us bad. It was Breagha or me, and I had to choose.”
Cole waits.
“I couldn’t let him hurt my sister. She was the good one.
She was the one everyone loved—sweet Breagha, kind Breagha, Breagha with the lovely laugh.
I was already ruined—too loud, too rude, too mean.
I was the reason the Bad Men took us, because I wanted one more spin on the merry-go-round.
So I chose. I told him he could hurt me. ”
Still, Cole waits.
“Then I had another choice. He was going to put his hui in me. It could be in my mouth or in my front bum or in my back bum—he poked me with his fingers so he knew I understood. I didn’t know what his hui was.
But he smelled bad, like onions and shite, so I didn’t want him anywhere near my mouth.
My front bum was private, everyone knew that.
When I was a little girl and I was sick, Larissa put a thermometer up my back bum.
She still did that for Breagha. So that’s what I chose.
I told him he could put his hui up my back bum. ”
Impossibly, Cole still waits.
“There were more choices. He could do it that day, or the next day. If I waited, I could put off being hurt. But that meant another day in the Dark Room for Breagha, another day with Larissa, who was starting to stink. I chose that day. I chose to leave on my dress, even though it might get bloody. I chose to hand him my knickers, instead of letting him take them off. I chose to lick his hui, because it wouldn’t hurt as much if he was wet.
And one last choice: I could call him Daddy or I could call him Master.
I already had a Daddy, so I chose Master. ”
Cole closes his eyes and he clenches his hands into fists, but he still waits.
“Tarasov wrapped my hair around his fist so I couldn’t get away.
He made me ask for it: Master, will you hurt me?
He folded his arm across my belly and he threw my dress over my back and he forced his way into my back bum, shoving my knickers into my mouth when my screams were loud enough to bring the Bad Men pounding on the door.
He shoved my face against the floor, and that’s when the blindfold slipped.
That’s when I saw dark green tile beneath me and light green tile on the wall and that’s when I saw his red, red face as he shoved his hui deep inside me.
And every time he filled me, he said the same thing: Here’s your fucking choice, blyad. Who’s your Master now?”
Cole breaks.
One moment, he’s holding himself impossibly still. The only muscles twitching are the ones that control his eyelids; he’s fighting the images I’ve drawn for him, the vision of what happened to little Katie, so many years ago.
The next, his mouth stretches open. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human. It’s wild. It’s animal. It’s pure predator, ripping past his teeth. I reach for him, but he jerks away, reeling toward the door.
I clamber from my chair, hurtling after him as he veers into his office. His motions are taut; he has the precision of a hunter. He pulls open a desk drawer and emerges with an evil-looking revolver in his hand.
I call his name as he storms past me, but he’s bigger and he’s stronger and he’s more determined than I’ve ever seen him before. He takes the stairs to the basement so fast he nearly glides down the banister. I barely remember to pull the door closed as I follow.
He rips off Tarasov’s ball gag and drops it on the floor like it’s a filthy diaper. Before the Russian can gulp his first breath of unobstructed air, Cole snarls something wordless and shoves the barrel of the revolver past Tarasov’s lips.
“Stop!” I scream. “Goddammit, Cole! Don’t shoot him. He’s mine!”