Chapter 17 #3
If I weren’t having a teeny, little internal conflict, I might’ve actually swooned for that one.
“Good to go?” Basti asks as I rejoin him, Nish, and Hype. All three of them are eying me with an equally strong dose of sympathy and respect.
“Good to go,” I reply, my voice hollow as I follow Bohnes back to the window, allowing him to boost me back up because I can’t reach high enough without him.
“All done?” Widow asks, guiding me in on the other side. I strip my gloves off and shove them into my pocket to burn later. I’m shaking, but stable. Ashamed, but resolved. I did what had to be done. That’s all there is to it.
“All done.” I glance over my shoulder as Bohnes smooshes his gorgeous form into the narrow opening.
Ash is sitting on one of the closed toilet seats with his head in his hands.
Alexei is still stationed at the door, peering into my soul with the penetrating gaze of an educated aristocrat.
Widow is the one who puts his arm around my waist.
We don’t talk feelings, not here. Instead, we slip back out of the bathroom and into the crowd.
Chet is watching us as we emerge, a drink in his hand and a counteroffensive already playing in the depths of his eyes.
It’s hard to say whether he believes we killed Cody or not.
If Bohnes and Ash did right by that fire, he may not be sure.
Or, even if he is, he might not know that his son died with a severed cock in his mouth.
Jonas is as vivacious and engaging in person as he is on his political ads. He’s got half the room charmed, their eyes and ears fixed on him as he lays out his plans for all the fine apartment buildings he’s going to put on top of the Prescott track.
I narrow my eyes as a pair of doors swings inward and out walk a set of waiters with a rolling cart. On that cart, is a cake.
It’s tiered, five beautiful layers with the largest at the bottom and the smallest at the top. White lace piped onto the edges. Edible pearls embedded in the white frosting. Fresh flowers are clustered at the top. Five of them again. It’s almost like there’s a theme here.
“You really are a theatrical ham, you know that?” I whisper to Bohnes, wishing I didn’t feel as empty inside as I do.
Knowing that Polina is dead in the parking lot, that Chet will almost certainly dispose of her body to prevent suspicion, relights that fire in me, hardening a promise I already made to myself.
If a Prescott girl ever comes to me for help, and it’s not a completely ludicrous or self-sabotaging mission, then I’ll help her.
“Those flowers up top?” Bohnes says, taking my hand and dragging our entourage over to the cake.
“It’s fuck you in the form of a floral arrangement.
” He starts pointing out flowers. “Yellow bird’s-foot trefoil for vengeance.
A pink peony for rage. A black rose for mourning.
A purple dahlia for doom. An orange lily for hatred. ”
He picks up a massive knife, and it looks so right in his hand that I get goose bumps. I like a man who knows how to handle blades.
“Aren’t cakes for weddings?” Alexei asks, standing on the other side of me and admiring all the hard work that went into this particular confection. He has a faint smile on his royal lips, his blond hair gold and bright with the fireplace’s orange glow.
“You don’t like it?” Bohnes queries, examining the sharpness of the blade in his hand. Everyone is staring at us, I do know that. It’s okay. It’s where they should look.
“Even if he doesn’t, I do.” My sad heart beats a few times in response, so in love with the cake and the man who ordered it that I’m struggling twice as much with my emotions. I killed a girl. Then I got a cake. That’s fucked.
“I love it. But why do I feel like this is only part of the surprise?” Alexei sounds like he’s plotting murder. Maybe he thinks Bohnes took his suggestion to add poison.
Ash and Widow move to the opposite side of the cart, so that we’re forming a complete circle around the cake.
“Knowing Kellin, it’s always deeper than just fuck-you flowers.
” Ash smiles, freezes, looks up. He spots his father, forces himself to take a deep breath, and then welcomes that smile back like it’s painful to do so.
Poor thing. He’s afraid the picturesque little family we’re presenting to Jonas is going to cost us dearly.
The reality is that it’s going to cost Jonas dearly.
“What flavor?” Widow asks, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sharp slacks like he wishes they were holey jeans instead.
“Ash’s favorite.” Bohnes takes his phone out and sets it on the table, lifting the knife to the lowest tier of the cake. “Red velvet.”
He pushes the blade into the white frosting and it oozes red, like blood.
At the same time, a scream echoes from the speakers in the room.
It’s a scream that I well recognize, one that I’ll never forget: Ernest Bolin, being eaten alive by a terrified rat.
It only lasts a second, a fun little trick that makes it seem like the cake itself is screaming.
“For Scarlett.” Bohnes declares, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Who so loves Halloween that I couldn’t resist paying my own special little homage to it. What’s a party without a horror-themed cake? Happy nuptials to the Borisovs.”
Awww. I put a hand over my mouth to stop from blurting, not the Borisovs, the Forces. Burt is listening, and there’s no need to provoke him.
The room falls silent as Bohnes throws his head back and lets out a pleased laugh, the white cake bleeding all over his knife and oozing onto the table.
He draws out a large slice and slops it onto a plate from a nearby stack.
Picking up that same plate, Kellin turns and holds it out for everyone to see.
“Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting and strawberry jam. Go on. Help yourselves.” He gestures with the plate, but nobody rushes forward to get in line. Bohnes shrugs.
I’m given the first slice. Widow takes the next piece, putting a fork to the confection and lifting a piece to his own smirking lips.
“This better not be poisoned,” he grumbles, and then he takes a massive bite. His eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, fuck, that’s sick as hell. Might be the best cake I’ve ever had.”
Bohnes looks like a smug gothic peacock, if such a thing can be imagined.
I take my slice straight to Burt as a peace offering.
“Cake?” I ask as he lifts a blond brow at me.
“Think I’ll pass.” He tugs out a fresh cigar and waits for his hulking driver to light it.
I shrug my shoulders and take a huge bite before setting it aside.
Shiiit. That’s tasty. The boys are with me as surely as if they were attached by literal fuckboy leashes around their gorgeous throats.
I turn to Alexei, stealing the box with the finger from his pocket.
I pass this over to Burt with a flourish, proud to say that my hand doesn’t shake. I don’t sweat. I don’t think about Polina.
Feelings are luxuries, remember?
“Even more proof that Chet murdered Pavel. You’re welcome.” I wait for Burt to look inside the box.
He does, but his expression doesn’t change.
“And you’re arrogant.” Burt checks his phone.
He should see the money we transferred to pay our tithes—including the extra fee to keep Ash alive.
“Scrappy, too. If Alexei hadn’t married you, he’d probably be dead.
Thanks for the late payment, but I don’t need proof that Chet murdered Pavel.
I just need Chet dealt with, remember? Tick-tock. ”
I keep a tight smile pasted on my face. I’m aware that Alexei, Widow, Ash, and Bohnes are all standing around me, but I shut them out. I am the boss and I want Burt to understand that.
“You won’t have to worry about your rat anymore either. You’re welcome for that, too.” I fold my arms. “See? Three out of five. Told ya we weren’t gonna have any problems, Uncle Burt.”
Burt slips the severed finger into his own jacket and Alexei winces. I’m sure he wanted to keep it, to give his dad some sort of burial. I doubt the rest of the body is intact. This finger was kept on ice to use as a reminder. As a threat.
“That arrogance is gonna get you killed, kid.” Burt shakes his head and then gestures with his chin. His men begin to work their way out of the room, thinning the crowd even further and leaving the estate to me and my girls. “Walk me out?”
I nod and allow him to take my arm.
It’s pouring rain outside, so Burt stops at the door and accepts an umbrella from his driver. The umbrella seems unusually sinister, with curved ribs and sharp little tips. He holds it over the pair of us as we move out from under the protective awning above the front door.
Everything is gray and foggy and cold.
Just up the path to our left, there’s the black Facel Vega idling with its headlights on and its suicide doors thrown wide. It’s pornographic, the way that bright red interior stands out against the gloomy dark and the silver rain. The doors are getting all wet, but nobody seems to care.
“Racing cars and running from the police. Burying bodies. Attending high society parties. My, my, what a life you lead, Mrs. Borisov.” Burt turns this violently cold look on me. “You will change your name to honor the family. I’ve already filed the paperwork to have it done.”
I force myself to smile. Yep. I knew it. I fucking knew it.
“Of course, Uncle Burt. It’s not a problem.” Just an inconvenience. I’ll have to change it back after we win the family’s favor.
“Uncle Burt, is it? Not Mr. Cramer?” He makes me walk with him up the short path to his car, leaving me with the umbrella when he climbs in. The boys follow me in the rain, getting their suits wet.
“We’re family now, aren’t we?” I ask, a bit cheekily.
Burt studies me, cigar smoke twirling like a gray constellation in the damp, dark evening.
“Sure, niece. Family. You want something? I can always tell when a dog’s caught a scent.”