Chapter 40
COLE
Granny is an extremely perceptive woman.
“I don’t think you borrowed Nilsson’s Land Rover for my benefit,” she says as I slide behind the wheel. This is the third time in a week that I’ve taken the large vehicle. I should buy myself one and stop pretending a sports car is appropriate for everything I do.
I dodge Granny’s broad hint. “I wanted you to be comfortable. It’ll take an hour and a half to get to the wedding.”
She harrumphs, but she doesn’t call me on my evasive answer. Instead, she nods at the guards by both gates, mine and Nilsson’s. “It’s beginning to look like a military parade around here,” she says.
As much as I don’t want extra eyes on the premises—given the captive in my basement—I’ve ordered more guards from Apex. Four armed men stand at each gate. Two are detailed to my front door, two to Nilsson’s, and two to the carriage house. A pair of K-9 teams patrol each property.
I hope to God that’s overkill. But once tonight’s farce of a wedding fails to move forward, I suspect the extra manpower will be necessary.
Granny’s still waiting for a response, so I say, “I’ve heard rumors of some threats.”
“I’m certain you have,” she says.
I catch her studying my tux and paying far too much attention to my cummerbund. I intended it to cover the lines of the pressure bandage Kate wrapped before she left this morning.
Trying to distract Granny, I say, “Two granddaughters married off in one year. Did you have that on your bingo card?”
Her lips twist with a wry smile. “Not even a hint. At least one of those marriages seems off to a good start. I’m not so sure the other will be a strong match.”
I need to tread lightly. I know Breagha is about to be left at the altar. The groom is hanging, spread-eagle, in my basement. But the only other person who knows Breagha Lynch is about to be jilted is Kate.
The loyal matron of honor left for Baltimore shortly after she jammed a cattle prod up the recalcitrant groom’s ass.
Kate’s the one who said we have to keep up appearances, to pretend we know nothing about Tarasov’s whereabouts.
She feels so strongly about the matter that she was willing to wear the hideous pink dress Orla sent to the house.
As I ease the Land Rover onto the Beltway, Granny says, “I hope you know how grateful I am to you.”
“I’m glad to see the carriage house is getting used.”
She snorts softly. “I’m not talking about the carriage house.”
“Mrs. Watson—”
“I’m not talking about Helen either.” Granny’s eyes are bright as I maneuver into the far left lane. “I’m talking about Kate. About my little nettle. Brush against her, and she’ll sting like holy hell. But grab her tight, and you can keep her forever.”
I’ve never heard a more accurate analogy.
Granny laughs. “Why, Cole Wolf. I’ve made you blush.”
She has. I clear my throat and stare at the road. “If Kate’s a stinging nettle,” I finally say. “Then what is Breagha?”
“A sweetheart rosebud,” she answers without hesitation. “She’s small and she’s pretty and she’s wrapped so tight no one ever imagines what she might be holding inside. But people might be surprised by how much she has to offer, once she finally blooms.”
“You’re quite the gardener,” I say.
“Someone has to watch over my girls. Much to my ever-living shame, their da never did.”
“That’s not your fault,” I say, as gently as I can.
“I never should have agreed to let his father bring us to the States. At the time, I thought it best. I thought the Lynch clan would thrive in new soil… But I was wrong.”
“None of us can read the future.”
“I should have paid more attention to the present. When I was young enough to change things. To have an effect on my family. On the clan.”
“You had an effect on Kate. You were the only person there when she needed you most. After the kidnapping.”
Granny’s breath catches in her throat. For a moment, I think she might need one of her rescue inhalers, but when she speaks, her voice is as sharp as a razor. “Then she’s told you about that.”
“She has.”
“All of it?”
After last night, I can finally tell the truth, without reservation. “All of it,” I say. The words come out more fierce than I planned. More proud—of the Kate who survived Tarasov’s abuse back then and of the Kate wreaking her vengeance now.
“Good,” Granny says.
We drive the rest of the way to Butcher’s Hill in silence.
St. Basil’s is a massive red-brick church, built on a West Baltimore hill. Outside, there’s a cluster of green onion domes. Inside, the walls are tiled in gold, with detailed mosaics of saints marching across a screen at the front of the church.
An usher guides Granny and me to places of honor on the left side of the aisle.
The benches behind us are filled with restless men in dark suits—the Canton Crew, on enemy territory by explicit order of their boss.
Or by his wife, I suppose, because Barry Lynch is in no position to order anyone to do anything.
A few Canton men come up to congratulate Granny on Breagha’s wedding. She accepts their kind wishes with the reserve of a queen, calling each by name, offering a regal nod, but never providing a hint of warmth. Behind us, the whispers lilt with Irish brogues.
The pews on the right are filling with friends of the groom—mostly men, but some women and children.
Nikolai Tarasov sits in the front row, wearing his tux like a uniform.
His broad Slavic face is impassive as various bratva men shake his hand, nodding toward the altar, offering their congratulations on the auspicious occasion of his only son’s wedding.
I do my best to ignore the glares directed at me by Tarasov’s men, the ones who bought my forged paintings. Even though the freeport canceled the transactions, some Russians are clearly calculating payback. One man slides his finger across his throat in a silent threat.
It’s warm in here. The pillar candles beside the altar reflect off the gold mosaics. The air is tinged with incense and impatience.
I glance at my watch. The service should have started five minutes ago.
The murmuring guests begin to speak in louder tones. A child’s wail is cut short by a harsh word. One man greets another in guttural Russian.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
I can only see the side of Nikolai Tarasov’s face. He’s leaner than his son, his thin lips disappearing into a gray goatee that makes him look like a disapproving fox. He slips a phone from his breast pocket and types a quick message. He frowns when he doesn’t receive an immediate reply.
The wedding was supposed to begin half an hour ago. A priest enters the sanctuary from a side door, his black cassock stiff with gold embroidery. The crowd falls silent, as if we’re watching a play on a Broadway stage.
Cringing, the priest approaches Nikolai. He bows like he’s standing in front of an altar, and then he leans close to whisper something in the pakhan’s ear.
Nikolai scowls and takes out his phone again. Not finding what he’s looking for on the screen, he says something short and sharp to the priest. The man repeats his bow and hurries back to the side door.
This time, the volume of the guests’ gossip swells immediately. Beside me, Granny clutches her fingers in her lap. She seems aware this is no ordinary delay.
In the end, we wait two full hours. The priest makes three more appearances, deferring less each time. The crowd moves from excited speculation to annoyed grievance to sullen, grudging fear.
Finally, Nikolai stands and turns to face the pews. I expect him to play the role of gracious host, apologizing for circumstances beyond his control. Instead, he says, “The wedding is off. Leave.”
The dismissal is met by a roar of disapproval from the Canton Crew behind me. Their princess was being sold here. They showed up when their captain could not.
Ignoring the complaints of his enemies, Nikolai snaps his fingers. “Anton! Pavel! I need to speak with you now. Everyone else, goodbye. Safe travels. Leave.”
Two men glide up to the front of the church.
I’m sketchy on the chain of command within the bratva, but one of these guys is clearly a fighter, with the bald head, broad shoulders, and crumpled nose of a seasoned warrior.
The other is frantically typing at a screen in his hand; I’m willing to bet he’s in charge of the technology Nikolai uses to keep his troops in line.
I can’t leave Granny alone here, but she barely managed the walk from the car to the pew. She’ll never tolerate exploring the church, going upstairs or downstairs, wherever Breagha’s been waiting for her missing groom, wherever Kate has been playing her matron of honor role.
“Go on, then,” says a man with russet hair and an easy smile. His voice is soft with Irish vowels. “I’ll sit with Mrs. Lynch while you wrap up your business for the family.”
“Ennis,” Granny says, with a tight smile. I can’t tell if she’s tired, or if she’s read the same bratva threats that I have. But she says to me, “Ennis is a friend. Go fetch Kate.”
I shake the Irishman’s offered hand, and then I start my search.
In the end, I find the women in a small room at the end of a dark hall beneath the glittering sanctuary. The door is cracked open, sending a knife of light across the dim corridor. I hear Breagha’s soft voice first, slurred and pleading.
“I swear, Mam! I didn’t do anything! I have no idea where Pyotr is!”
“Not one more word,” Orla snaps.
“I—”
The sound of a slap echoes in the hall. I rush to cover the last few feet.
The scene in the tiny room speaks as clearly as a play. Orla looms in the center of the room, her body encased in a gold brocade dress as stiff as an insect’s carapace. Blood red nail polish glints from the fingertips she’s shaking as if she’s the one who’s injured.
Breagha trembles in a frothy cascade of white, the train of her dress tangled behind her, a veil slipping from her hair.
Mascara runs down her cheeks in thick black streaks.
She’s wearing too much blush, and her mouth is outlined in heavy red lines that probably matched her lipstick before she chewed it off.
She’s pressing one hand to her cheek and sobbing, grasping for her sister.
And Kate stands like a marble guardian—one arm pulling her sister close, the other extended toward her mother in the universal sign for Stop. She’s wearing that ridiculous pink confection that she’d never choose on her own, but she’s doing it for Breagha.
She nods at me, a single dip of her head before she says to her mother, “I swear to God, Mam.” Her voice is so low and so calm she could be reading from a script. “One more feckin’ word from you, and I’ll turn you over to the feds.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I’ve all the records in the world from before Da fell ill, and it won’t take me long to pull up what you’ve done in the past week.”
“You couldn’t—”
“Or maybe I won’t bother with the feds. Maybe I’ll just show the clan how you’ve sold them all out to the Tarasov bratva. How long do you think you’d last, Mam? How many hours before you get a bullet in your head and a rat shoved down your feckin’ throat?”
Orla’s laugh sounds like rattling chains. “All these years, and you know nothing about your so-called clan. Rats are for traitors who talk to the feds.”
“My mistake,” Kate says, and now her voice is as cool as winter glass. “That rat shouldn’t go down your throat, then. It should go up your feckin’ gowl.”
Orla shrieks, but Kate ignores her. Instead, she reaches gently for Breagha’s arm, guiding her sister toward the door and me. “Let’s go, Breagha. You’re coming home with us.”
And that’s how I end up with a third Lynch woman living under my roof.