Page 87 of Twisted Enemy
“We need to go back for Breagha.”
“We’ll get her,” he says, which is what he promised as he forced me out of the house.
“We need to fetch her now!”
“We’ll both be shot on sight if we go back there now.”
“She’s my sister!”
“She’s safe tonight.” He sounds exhausted. “No one will hurt her while the bratva’s waiting for a wedding.”
“You think Tarasov can do it? Force the Orthodox church to go ahead?”
“I’m pretty sure the bratva can do anything it wants on Butchers Hill.”
I want him to be wrong. I want to rescue Breagha. But the wind is whipping through the Land Rover’s shattered back window, underscoring everything he’s said. Catching a scream of frustration against the back of my teeth, I pound the glove box with my fist. But I give up trying to convince Cole to retrace our steps.
“What happened to Da?” I finally ask. I try not to see my father grasping for his chair, try not to hear his gurgled nonsense.
“I think it was a stroke.”
“Is he dead?”
Cole’s shoulders twitch, a gesture that would be a shrug if he wasn’t getting over a beating.
“We need to help him,” I say.
“What do you want to do, Kate? If you call 911, your mother won’t let them past the gate. Same, if I send Patel up there.”
“I can go to the police.”
“And tell them what? Baltimore’s Irish mob boss collapsed at home, in the presence of his wife who is of completely sound mind? And she has chosen to manage his treatment in their shared domicile? But you, his practically estranged daughter, think something else should be done?”
“Something elseshouldbe done!”
He shifts his grip on the steering wheel. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. You have an open checkbook. No expenses spared. How should we help your father?”
I open my mouth. Close it. We cover a few more miles, Cole eyeing the road like a Formula 1 driver.
“Did you mean it?” I finally ask. “Are you quitting your work for the Canton Crew?”
His jaw sets. “I mean it.”
Something eases the iron band that’s been clamped around my chest since I heard Da doing his best to intimidate Monsignor Dulaney. “Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t thank me yet. There’ll be hell to pay. From your father, if he’s in any condition to follow through on his threats. From your mother, if not.”
“I’ll pay then,” I say. “I’m used to making their lives hell.”
We finish the ride in silence. I lean against my headrest. Cole minds the road. By the time he turns onto our cobblestone street in Georgetown, the lines of pain are etched so deep on his face that I’m not sure they’ll ever be erased.
As he approaches the gate, two guards in olive drab uniforms spring to attention. I say, “Who the hell are they?”
“Apex Security,” Cole says.
“Why did you dismiss?—”
“I didn’t,” he says. “Sawyer Best pulled his men after Prince said no one in the Diamond Ring can do business with me.”
