Chapter 41
KATE
In the end, Cole manages to fold himself into the Jaguar and drive home alone. I ferry Granny and Breagha back to Georgetown in the Land Rover. By unspoken agreement, my grandmother sits in the back of the car with Breagha, arms around my sister, crooning to her in Irish.
Breagha won’t understand a word of it, but she seems to take comfort in being petted.
Breagha, in fact, won’t understand much of anything. I don’t know what Mam has her on, but her eyes are so dilated, the dome light causes her obvious pain. The few words she mutters are slurred, as if her tongue is too big for her mouth.
As we turn onto the cobblestone street, Granny says, “Okay, poppet. Time to sit up. You’re coming to my house tonight. It’ll be a grand adventure.”
“Granny…” I say, but I don’t have any idea how to end that sentence. I want to help my sister. I can’t stand the idea of adding to my grandmother’s fatigue; she must be exhausted after her trip to Baltimore. But I have an important appointment waiting for me in the dungeon.
“What Breagha needs is a nice little kip.” Granny looks at me over my sister’s mussed hair. “Some peace and quiet. Not all the comings and goings you have, at the main house.”
She can’t know. There’s no way anyone in the world can be aware of the prisoner in my basement. But Granny nods toward the battalion of guards at my front gate and then at hers. She may not be certain of the details, but she understands something is amiss.
“Call me,” I say. “If you need anything at all. No matter the time.”
“Of course, a chroí,” she says.
I park as close as I can to the carriage house, and I help both Granny and Breagha get inside.
Mrs. Watson is watching television on the large screen in the living room.
She leaps to her feet as we step through the front door, immediately settling Granny in an armchair before she escorts Breagha to the toilet, briskly promising to wash her face.
“Granny…” I say.
“She’ll be fine.”
“I know. But Mam…”
“Don’t think about your mother.”
“Da…”
“His fate is in God’s hands now.”
“I…”
I want to tell her all that’s happened. She’ll understand the frantic animal trying to chew its way through my ribs. She’s the one who healed me years ago.
“You’re strong, Kate. You’re brave. You’re the fiercest Lynch who’s ever lived. You’ll always manage the hard things, the things no one else dares to do.”
Half an hour later, I’m down in the dungeon.
I’ve changed out of that pink monstrosity, but I carry it downstairs so Tarasov can glimpse what he missed. I’m comfortable in my hacker uniform—yoga pants and a T-shirt.
Cole follows me into the dungeon without taking time to change out of his tux. Instead, he hovers by the stairs, an avenging demon, waiting for orders to drag some soul to hell.
Even with the temperature lowered, the room is getting rank. There’s the smell I remember, the odor of Larissa turning in the dark. This time, of course, it isn’t my nanny; it’s Tarasov’s bodyguard, bloating on the floor.
There are other smells, too. Tarasov has soiled himself, foulness running down his legs.
“We missed you at the wedding,” I say.
But Tarasov doesn’t answer me. Instead, he looks to Wolf. “Let me out of here,” he says.
“I’m not the one holding you.” Cole sounds amused.
“I’ll speak to the bratva,” Tarasov bargains. “I’ll tell them the fake paintings were my idea. I give you my word, no one will seek revenge for the auctions.”
“I don’t trust your word. And I’m not worried about revenge.”
“You should be,” Tarasov snarls.
I’ve had enough of negotiations that don’t include me. Crossing to the hose that hangs on the wall, I see that Cole has planned for all eventualities; there’s a faucet for hot water and another one for cold. The nozzle on the coiled gray hose has half a dozen settings, from jet to rain to mist.
Tarasov glares defiance at me, even though his voice sounds thready through his chapped lips. “My pakhan will have your tits for this.”
“Your pakhan won’t spare a thought for you.
Not after he sees you grovel.” I study his naked body like it’s a drawing in a biology textbook.
His wrists sag in his cuffs, the weight of his arms pulling them against the sharp metal.
I suspect that if I cut him down now, he’d spasm so hard he’d go into shock.
“Never,” Tarasov says.
“We’ll see about that.”
I blast him with the hose, leaving the temperature on cold. He howls as the stream hits his dangly bits. I ignore him as I sluice his filth toward the drain in the floor. By the time I finish, he’s chattering hard enough that I can hear his teeth across the room.
“You have a choice,” I say. “You can wear my wedding dress.” I nod toward the heap of stained taffeta in the corner. “Or the matron of honor dress I wore for Breagha.”
“Go t— to hell,” he says.
“Choose.”
“Not on your life, you fucking c— cunt.”
“It’s your life,” I say. “How long do you think you’ll last, without something to keep you warm?” I give him a moment to think. The only sound in the room is water dripping from his hair.
“The wedding dress,” he finally says.
I turn to Cole. “Get it on him,” I say. “And give him some water to drink.”
Cole and I haven’t rehearsed this. He’s still recovering from the beating he took at the freeport. But he inclines his head as if he’s been taking private lessons from Nilsson.
I leave before I have to watch him follow my orders.
On Friday, Tarasov’s choice is staying in his spread-eagle pose or taking a doggy-style stress position, wrists chained beside his ankles. He chooses the new posture.
On Saturday, his choice is a loaf of moldy bread or a slab of rancid beef. He chooses the bread.
On Sunday, he gets to decide between forfeiting his password to all his bratva computer accounts or taking a bullet in his brain. He chooses the password.
On Monday, Cole finds me in my office. I’m staring at my computer screen, working my way through the bratva accounts Tarasov compromised. I’m not changing anything yet, not taking advantage of my access. I need time to learn my way around.
“How long?” Cole asks.
I don’t pretend I don’t understand. “Until he’s paid enough. Not just for me. For what he planned with Breagha. For what he did with Mam, plotting to take over the Canton Crew.”
“Your sister’s safe.”
She is. She’s living with Granny across the road. Every morning, her mind is clearer than it was the day before. She’d be devastated to learn what I’m doing downstairs.
“He’s a bad man, Cole.” I’m proud that I don’t plead.
“He is. And what he did to you can never be forgiven.”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing away compassion.
Cole crosses the room. The bruises on his face have faded; there’s just a hint of shadow along his jaw.
He brushes my hair back, leaving his fingers tangled in my curls.
“You’re more than fine. You’re strong. You’re brave,” he says, and the echo is so close to what Granny said five days ago that I wonder if they’ve been talking.
“But don’t let him black out your heart.
He couldn’t do that to you when you were eight. Don’t give that to him now.”
I turn my head, and my lips find the pulse point in his wrist. “I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”
Cole’s right.
It’s time to end this.
Tonight.
Granny and Breagha join Cole and me for dinner. Anna outdoes herself with a standing rib roast and jacket potatoes, served beside a platter of roasted veg and steaming Yorkshire pudding.
Cole pours fifty-year-old port for all of us, but Granny and Breagha are the only ones who drink. Granny says it reminds her of figs. Breagha says it tastes like Christmas, which makes her laugh because it’s the middle of June.
Standing in the foyer, I kiss their cheeks and wish them both a good night. Granny puts the back of her hand against my forehead and holds it there for a moment, shaking her head.
“What?” I ask.
“You look a bit peaked.”
“I’m fine,” I promise.
She purses her lips. “Well if you aren’t, you will be.”
Cole walks them across the road. I use the time to retreat to our bedroom. I study my face in the mirror. Granny’s right. My color is high. My breath is coming faster than it should, and my heart feels like it’s missing one beat in ten.
I collect a leather case from my nightstand, one I swore I’d never use again. When I meet Cole in the foyer, his gaze immediately latches onto the zipped pouch.
I don’t say a word as he follows me into the kitchen. Anna has left every surface spotless, and the air smells faintly of lemons.
I open the junk drawer to the left of the fridge.
Every kitchen has one, even a billionaire’s.
There’s a jumble of pens and a ragged-edged notepad, twist-ties from plastic bags and a pair of cheap, paper-wrapped chopsticks.
At the back, where I spied it weeks back, is a spool of black thread, pierced by a silver needle.
Palming the thread, I say, “One more thing.” We stop in Cole’s office for his 44 Magnum.
Downstairs, the dead bodyguard smells disgusting and looks worse. Cole is right. It’s time to end this game.
“The cameras are on?” I ask him.
“They’re on,” he confirms.
Tarasov is still trapped in his spreader bar, doubled over, his hands beside his feet. He’s twisted onto his side, face pressed against the floor, fouled wedding dress crushed beneath him. He fights to get to his knees as I stand near his head.
But he still hasn’t learned his lesson, because he makes another appeal to Cole. “Wolf.” His lips are cracked. “You have to get me out of here.”
Cole appears to have gone deaf.
Tarasov cranes his neck to look up at us. “What day is it?”
“Monday,” I answer.
“No,” he says. “The date.”
“June 15.”
I never thought I’d hear Tarasov’s high giggle again. “The fifteenth,” he wheezes. “Get me out of here, Wolf. You need me free.”
I dig a toe into Tarasov’s naked flank. “He’s not the one in charge here.”
Another giggle, wilder than the last, then Tarasov chants, “He’s the one who loses.”