Page 29 of Twisted Enemy
“No, dear,” Orla says, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “My tablets always make me sleepy. I don’t want your young fella thinking I’m bored.”
Kate turns on Breagha. “Young fella?” she asks. She can’t be surprised. The Lynch plan was always to get Kate hitchedand out of the way so Breagha can land a mobster worthy of inheriting the Canton Crew.
Breagha looks stricken. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
Barry growls from his seat at the head of the table. “I said thisyoung fellawill never work—” But he doesn’t get a chance to finish his thought, because a doorbell sounds from deep inside the house.
“He’s here!” Orla sings, fluttering her fingers by her hair and sitting straighter in her chair. She hisses across the table to her husband, “Do not say one cross word. Itoldyou this is what we need.”
Barry harrumphs.
Breagha looks as if she wants to crawl under the table.
Kate’s nose wrinkles, as if she smells something rotten.
One of Lynch’s men opens the dining room door with a scowl on his face, his jacket askew so his shoulder holster is on full display. “Boss,” he says, with a nod toward Barry. Ignoring the rest of us, he shifts his attention to the hallway behind him, his fingers twitching toward his weapon.
“So sorry I’m late!” says a voice from the corridor. “Breagha!Printsyessa!Can you ever forgive me?”
Three things happen at once.
Breagha Lynch flushes a startling shade of pink.
Kate clutches the knife beside her plate, raising the blade as a weapon.
And Pyotr Tarasov sweeps into the dining room.
13
KATE
Pyotr Tarasov. Here. In the stronghold of the Canton Crew.
This is the nightmare I’ve had ever since I was a child—the Bad Men breaking into my home. I know what happens next. Tarasov peels off his skin to reveal the shiny, red flesh of a devil. He unhinges his jaw, disclosing the bottomless cavern of his throat. He swallows me whole as I plead with the rest of my horrified family to run, to escape, to hide. And then I wake in the dark, screaming.
But I’m not asleep. Tarasov is standing in the doorway, still wearing the skin of an ordinary, human man. And my family isn’t horrified.
Far from it.
Mam is smiling so wide her upper lip is twisted by her scar. Da is grunting a greeting as he chews his way through an entire Ireland of roast potatoes. And Breagha—sweet, innocentBreagha, the sister I tried so hard to save—is tilting her flushed cheek to receive the Russian’s kiss.
My lungs have been shrink-wrapped so it’s impossible to draw a full breath. I wait for Da’s soldier to draw his gun, to plant its muzzle against Tarasov’s nape, to splatter us all with the demon’s blood. But the runner looks bored, as if he’s accustomed to seeing bratva overrun the Canton Crew’s dining room.
I feel like I’ve shifted into an alternate timeline, one where the Bad Men never took me, where the Dogfight never happened, where I never trusted MaskedMarauder, and the bratva brigadier never tied me up in my own cold blue parlor. I must be imagining everything I think happened—all the threats, all the betrayals. In the real world, the actual Baltimore, the Lynch clan and the Tarasov bratva are trusted allies who sit down to a friendly Sunday Roast together, because that’s what friends and family do.
But Cole’s jaw is set like he’s transforming carbon to diamonds with his teeth. The golden flecks in his eyes are bright, and he doesn’t bother to blink. I can feel the tension strung through every muscle and tendon in his body. He’s ready to rip out Tarasov’s throat with his teeth if he has to.
“Breagha,” I croak, clutching my steak knife even tighter. Cole’s hand closes over my biceps, but I twitch away from his grasp. “Can we talk in the parlor?”
Mam smacks the flat of her hand against the table. Her eyes are so narrow I can’t make out a hint of stony green. “Katie! Is that any way to act when we have a guest?” As swift as her anger with me rises, it melts beneath a sugary laugh. She holds up her fingers at an awkward angle, and I can’t tell if she’s inviting Tarasov to shake her hand or kiss it. “Pyotr, dear,” she says. “Welcome.”
“Mam,” I choke, as Tarasov’s lips brush my mother’s skin. Cole’s grip tightens on my arm.
Granny flinches as Tarasov moves behind her. Her face was pale before, but now she looks like bleached parchment.
Granny doesn’t know Tarasov bulled his way into the Georgetown mansion. But she remembers every filthy detail of what happened eighteen years ago. And she knows she had to take me to Ireland, after.
“Barry Aloysius Lynch,” Granny says, like she’s calling her son to task for skiving off class.
