33. Dublin Blues
DUBLIN BLUES
We wind up at a local pub the concierge recommended for dinner. He was right; it’s a popular spot. So busy that we get seated at two stools alongside the bar since all the tables are taken.
Carina doesn’t seem to mind the arrangement. Honestly, neither do I. I scoot my chair closer to hers than necessary, telling myself it’s for security. I’ve taken every precaution I could, but it’s not possible to be too careful.
Igor knows I’m in Ireland; I told him I was meeting with Cillian while I was already in Europe. I have no reason to be paranoid some aspect of this will go wrong, no reason to have my arm draped possessively across the straight back of Carina’s stool like a physical shield.
No reason, except the I trust you that refuses to stop echoing in my head. She said those words aloud, said them in a decisive way that left no room for misinterpretation of their meaning.
This plan cannot fail.
It’s what is best for her.
It’s a betrayal I can justify. We would benefit from using her as blackmail, but we don’t need to. Carina never should have been a pawn in play, and I’m simply making sure she’s kept separate. I’m lying to my pakhan, but it’s to keep him from having something he should never possess.
Yet I’m fighting the inevitable outcome because I don’t want to let her go. Because I spent my last trip to Chicago battling the urge to see her one final time, and I don’t know how I’m going to walk away again tomorrow morning.
“What can I get ye?” A ruddy-faced man with a silver beard appears, white towel slung over one shoulder as he grins crookedly at Carina.
Me he gives a resigned glance, correctly guessing—or at least suspecting—I’m here on some sort of unsavory business. I’ve been told before that I give off ominous energy.
Carina’s outfit matches a tourist’s. Plus, she’s smiling back.
“What do you recommend?” she asks. “This is my first trip to Ireland.”
Impossibly, the man beams brighter as he begins to list off his favorite items on the pub’s menu.
Carina decides on fish and chips and a cider he advertised as “popular with the lasses.”
Rather reluctantly, the barman turns to me next.
“Shepherd’s pie and a Guinness,” I request.
“I’ve never seen you order anything except vodka before,” Carina comments once we’re relatively alone again.
“I’m trying to blend in.”
She smiles. It’s different from the one she flashed the bartender. Softer.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
This would be easier if she didn’t look at me like that.
She’s refusing to marry Morello, and the little I’ve heard about him suggests he keeps his hands pretty clean.
Doesn’t have the stomach or the appetite for excessive violence.
She finds him objectionable, but she’s always wet for me.
I could slide my hand up her thigh right here, and I doubt she’d stop me.
She’s suspected the truth since seeing the knife wound, and she’s continued meeting me.
I wouldn’t mind suggests she wants to keep meeting me, even after last night’s confessions.
I’ll have to kill Seamus tonight after he delivers her papers.
I can’t risk him revealing her new identity if anyone comes asking.
I was planning to pretend I’d forgotten something or track him down after she fell asleep tonight, but maybe I should do it in front of her.
It won’t change my feelings for her, obviously, but it might be easier to let her go if she wants me as far from her as possible.
Hearing I’ve killed will be very different from witnessing it.
Carina lifts her left hand, using her thumb to smooth the lines of my forehead.
“You look serious,” she tells me. Her lips curve up before she adds, “Husband.”
I decide I’m definitely shooting Seamus in front of her.
“We’re not here on vacation,” I say more harshly than I intended to.
Her hand drops right as our drinks arrive.
Carina grabs her cider, lifting it. “To our work trip. No fun allowed.”
My jaw works as she sips. I unclench it so I can grab my glass and swallow half the contents in one chug, including the head.
The annoyance in her expression lingers, but her eyes widen. I don’t normally drink in public. I never drink in public actually. In certain places, I’m paranoid about being poisoned the way my uncle was. Anywhere, it’s a poor idea to muddle my senses.
She noticed that, which irritates me for no reason at all.
As does the fact that I don’t care about being responsible right now. I want to sit here and eat dinner with her and forget the reasons this isn’t a leisurely outing.
“What are your brothers like?”
“Why?” she asks, instantly suspicious.
“Just curious. You never talked about your family.”
“Yeah, and now you know why.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me anything …
” My voice trails because I’m not sure what I’m asking her to tell me.
I want to know she’ll have someone, or someones, looking out for her if she ever winds up back in Italy.
I want to know about her family, separate from their illegal activities, because they’re part of who she is.
I shake my head, swallowing another sip of beer.
The heavy, malty taste is nothing like the smooth slide of vodka.
“Never mind. Let’s discuss the weather.”
Last time I was in Ireland, it poured rain the entire visit. Today, there’s a spectacular sunset casting a pink glow over the street outside.
Carina leans closer. “If I answer, you have to answer my questions.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it, Lev.”
“I will.” I can’t promise they’ll be replies she likes, but I can be honest.
She nods, satisfied and—if I’m reading her expression right—taken aback.
“Uh … Leo is the oldest. I don’t see him much.
He’s married. Luca is next. He’s an amazing chef; he runs my father’s restaurant.
I’m sure he’s involved in … he has other hobbies at least. Lorenzo—Enzo—is eighteen months older than me.
He’s easy to get along with. He’d sneak me sweets as kids, wine when we got older.
Let me drive his fancy car when I was first learning.
Treated me like a sibling, I guess. Leo and Luca are more mini versions of my dad.
” She reaches for her cider, swallowing another sip.
“And your mother?”
“She’s dead. Died before I was even born. It was a surprise that I survived.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
Carina nods. “I think not having memories of her is better. It’s harder when you know what you’re missing.” She sips some cider, glass full in comparison to mine. “Is your mother alive?”
“Yes.”
“What is she like?”
“She’s practical.” That’s all I plan on saying, but more words slip out. “She and my father have a distant marriage. They’ve both had affairs for as long as I can remember. It works well for them; it’s still strange to me.”
“You’re loyal.” Carina states it like a fact.
Her confidence is wonderful and awful.
“Not that loyal.”
Sitting here with her proves that. I swore allegiance, yet I’m disobeying a direct order.
Carina looks away, studying the logo printed on the side of her glass. “I wasn’t talking about … obviously, I assumed you were with other women when we weren’t …” She clears her throat, then takes another sip. The level of her glass is creeping closer to mine.
Unpleasant emotions churn in my chest as her misunderstanding registers.
“This is me being loyal to you, Carina. I was supposed to … collect you.”
“You mean, kidnap me.”
“You are not a child.”
“Did you think about doing it?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I know. But did you consider it?”
I remain silent. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do.
Her eyes narrow. “You said you’d answer.”
“I asked two questions. You asked lots.”
“You never said there was a limit.”
I sigh. “No, Carina. I was never going to do it.”
She nods once, then changes the subject. “What are your brothers like?”
“Aleksandr is the oldest,” I state like that explains everything about my brother.
It does explain a lot about his attitude. It’s akin to being a king’s heir, knowing the responsibilities you’re born with and expected to carry one day. A very different sort of ruling, but still a position of power. There is literal royalty with less money and influence than the Sokolovs possess.
“I would have guessed you were the oldest,” Carina comments.
“Why?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I can’t imagine a group where you’re not the one in charge. Usually, that’s the oldest.”
“Aleksandr is plenty capable,” I state.
“Sounds like you’ve said that before.”
I exhale.
She smiles. “I’m right.”
“Aleksandr is very like my father. Very rigid. So, my father relies on me more.”
“And that bothers Aleksandr?” Carina surmises.
“I think so. Probably.”
“What about Maksim?”
I’m surprised she remembers his name, but I shouldn’t be. I’ve underestimated Carina before, same as her family continues to.
“Maksim …” I smile wryly. “Maksim drinks too much. Parties too much. I—maybe I protected him too much. Anything my father planned to ask of him, I’d offer to handle instead. He’s capable, but he’s lazy.”
“Does he know you did that for him?”
“No.” I shift in my seat. “It was to my benefit too. I accumulated a lot of trust from my father, from our men. More than is usual for a son who isn’t the oldest.”
Chicago is a prime example. I turned a small endeavor overseas into a thriving enterprise.
I was supposed to hand control over to Maksim when he turned eighteen.
By the time that happened, it was too large for him to take over, so I remained in place.
Made myself invaluable as our network there continued to grow.
“You should tell Maksim,” Carina advises. “He might think that no one has faith in him, so he’s acting accordingly.”
I’m not sure she’s right. Maksim has always seemed content—happier—in the background of business decisions. It’s never occurred to me that persona might be forced. It’s not like I can’t see the benefits of that perspective. Expectations can be exhausting.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Here ye go.” Two steaming plates are set down. “Lemme know if you need anything else. Band should be starting up soon. They’re scrambling to find a fiddle player.”
I nod toward Carina as I pick up my fork to cut apart the pie. “She plays.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part as she glances at me. “That’s not—I’m not a—” she stammers.
“Can ye read music?” the barkeep asks.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Declan! I’ve got a fiddler for ye!”