Page 32 of Twisted Enemy
She’s beautiful. She’s strong. She’s as determined as I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life.
And she’s completely, utterly wrong. Giving herself to Tarasov won’t solve a thing. Pyotr Tarasov will manipulate her, manipulate the Crew. He’ll destroy the clan forever.
I try one more time. “There are other men you can marry. Other alliances you can make.”
“Mommy says this is the one the Canton Crew needs now.”
“FuckMommy.” My tone is full of mocking.
“Oh, Kate,” Breagha says, laughing. Her arms tremble a little as she hugs me. “That’s always your answer, isn’t it? Fuck Mommy. Fuck Da. Fuck Cole Wolf.” She shoves the lace-lined top into my hands. “But that’s notmyanswer. That’s never beenmy answer. Pyotr Tarasov is my fella. And before the summer ends he’ll ask me to marry him. I’ll say yes. And we’ll finally put the past behind us. You, me, the entire Canton Crew. And the Tarasov bratva too.”
She believes the words she’s saying. Nothing I can say will ever change her mind.
So I hug her back. And I take her stupid top. And I vow to find some way to keep that Russian bratva shitehawk from ruining my sister, the only good thing that ever came from Mam and Da and all their reckless scheming.
14
COLE
There’s a reason men like me don’t get married.
We don’t have the patience for self-aggrandizing fathers-in-law who are more intent on throwing around their literal and metaphorical weight than they are worried about the welfare of their daughters. Or their wives. Or their illegal organized-crime kingdoms.
Barry Lynch and I are standing in his home office. Sunday lunch sits uneasy in my belly—a reaction formed in equal parts by the heavy food and Tarasov’s presence at the table. I’m made substantially more uncomfortable by the clouds of cheap cigar smoke billowing from the captain of the Canton Crew.
I never bother feeling guilty for business decisions, even ones as debatable as giving Tarasov access to Lynch’s crypto files. I choose the best option given the facts at the time, and I move on.
But watching Lynch’s utter disregard for the bratva kingpin he’s welcomed into the heart of his household scrubs away anylingering concerns I might have had about sacrificing his files. Kate’s fury is one thing; I regret triggering her. But Lynch deserves whatever happens to him and his misbegotten crew.
He’s swirling brandy in an over-size snifter as he surveys his scraggly back yard. Tarasov and Breagha are walking beside a dry fountain, with Orla a calculating three steps behind. Even at this distance, I can see the awkward angle of her neck, concentration evident in every muscle of her body as she strains to eavesdrop on her favorite daughter.
Kate watches the courtship ritual from beside a massive stone-encased barbecue grill. The soft lines of her borrowed clothing don’t fool me. I’m certain she’s calculating how much damage she can do with a stainless-steel spatula and tongs.
My money—all of it—is on my wife. Tarasov would be wise to stay at the far end of the property until Kate and I leave.
“I have to say, son,” Barry Lynch says after a deep pull on his stinking cigar. “I expected you to have more irons in the fire for me by now.”
“Irons?” I ask, because that’s more socially acceptable than driving his letter opener into his eye for calling meson.
“Projects. So far, you’ve spent all your time shooting down every idea I’ve brought to you. I’m beginning to think you just don’t know very much about money.”
“Money?” I repeat.
He claps me on the shoulder like we’re friends. Or like he wants to remind me he owns my time. “I know you have your millions. Billions. Whatever. But to actual businessmen like myself, it’s important to move fast. Seize the day.”
I wonder if Lynch even begins to understand the difference between a million and a billion. One million seconds was eleven and a half days ago. I was still waiting for Kate to come home, praying to a God I don’t believe in that she’d give me a second chance.
Onebillionseconds was almost thirty-two years ago. Kate wasn’t born yet. Me either, although Shannon had probably tested the waters with some long con or other, trying to snare a baby daddy with deep pockets.
“Day,” I echo, to keep the conversation going. I wonder what Shannon would think of Barry Lynch.
Actually, I don’t have to wonder. I know she’d try to hit him with every con in the book. An Irish mob boss, with amilliontimes more money than sense? Shannon Wolf would have to be dead or in prison before she’d give up feeding off his bankroll. And if she ended up behind bars, she’d do her level best to string him along until she was released.
“Yes, son,” Lynch says, forcing my fingers into tight fists. “Seize the day. Carpe diem, as the good book says.”
I bite my tongue to keep from asking exactly which version of the Bible he thinks he’s read.
“Strike while the iron is hot,” Lynch says. “The early bird gets the worm. Fortune favors the bold.”
