My words look pitiful when I reread them—the type of thing I’d expect from a mark in a Catfish scam. Grimacing, I hit Send.
“Jesus. You look like someone just ran over your cat.” Fiona Moran is studying me with an amused smile.
“No cat.” I shrug. “I was just inviting someone to my wedding.”
She laughs. “I’ll have to use that one sometime.” She looks closer at me. “Wait. You’re serious. You’re gettingmarried? When?”
“Sunday.”
“ThisSunday? Like in four days, Sunday?” I nod, and she says, “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Kate Lynch.”
That sparks another laugh, but she cuts this one off sooner. “MyKate Lynch? The Irish mob princess who threw champagne in your face at my wedding?”
“One and the same.”
“I need to hear this. But hold on,” Fiona says. “I’mstarving.Let’s find that suite and eat all of Trap’s food.”
We find the suite. Fiona fills a plate with everything from hand-carved roast beef to delicately rolled sushi, with an omelet, fresh pasta, and crepes in between. I help myself to a trio of spicy tuna rolls.
Fiona and I met at the freeport about a year ago. She had a painting to sell, one that had clearly been stolen, and I was willing to make the purchase. The portion of my collection that isn’t kept at the freeport hangs in my Georgetown home, where I don’t have to worry about the prying eyes of law enforcement.
Fiona didn’t know how to negotiate the sale so I helped her, paying several million more than I would have otherwise. She gave me her marker for a favor to be done later. I’m sure I’ll collect it someday.
The truth is, Fiona reminds me of my sister. If Nut and I were the kids of a mobster instead of a con artist. If Megan had chosen a life marginally more legal than the grifting one she opted for.
I tell Fiona about Kate, doing my best to come up with aversion of the story that sounds a little less like buying and selling a human being. I’m doing business with Barry Lynch. Kate and I found we had a lot in common. Crazier things have happened.
“But two weeks from meeting to marriage?” Fiona pushes.
I turn the tables. “You’re one to talk.”
“I’ve known Patrick for?—”
“What about a honeymoon?” I interrupt, determined to carve out some advantage. “What are you doing with the Diamond Ring when you should still be off celebrating with your groom?”
“We…” She blushes. “We’re going back to the Maldives soon.”
I didn’t know she’d been there before. And something about the color in her cheeks says I don’t know her well enough to ask why she chose the tropical paradise for a little blissful escape.
She clears her throat. “Seriously,” she says. “Congratulations. I’m sure you and Kate will be very happy.”
She can’t quite pull it off. Anyone who has seen Kate and me together knows we’re dangerously close to spontaneously combusting. But I accept Fiona’s good wishes.
“Back to the cars?” I ask, ready to push back from the table.
“Just a second,” she says. “I actually have some business to discuss.”
I ease back into my chair because Fiona and I aren’t just fellow members of the Diamond Ring. Fiona is a Lone Wolf client.
Some women would shy away from difficult conversations. They’d hesitate. Take their time, searching for a gentle way to register a complaint. They’d hem and haw and second-guess themselves for ages.
Not Fiona. She says, “The accountant you assigned the Old Colony Crew isn’t working out.”
I hand-picked Jalen Carpenter myself, right after I hacked my way into a locked-down computer system Fiona inheritedwhen she took over her clan. “What seems to be the problem?”
“He’s not responsive enough. I need to reach out two or three times before he gets back to me. I shouldn’t have to wait forty-eight hours to get a reply to an urgent text.”
