I’ve never heard a more accurate analogy.
Granny laughs. “Why, Cole Wolf. I’ve made you blush.”
She has. I clear my throat and stare at the road. “If Kate’s a stinging nettle,” I finally say. “Then what is Breagha?”
“A sweetheart rosebud,” she answers without hesitation. “She’s small and she’s pretty and she’s wrapped so tight no one ever imagines what she might be holding inside. But people might be surprised by how much she has to offer, once she finally blooms.”
“You’re quite the gardener,” I say.
“Someone has to watch over my girls. Much to my ever-living shame, their da never did.”
“That’s not your fault,” I say, as gently as I can.
“I never should have agreed to let his father bring us to the States. At the time, I thought it best. I thought the Lynch clan would thrive in new soil… But I was wrong.”
“None of us can read the future.”
“I should have paid more attention to the present. When I was young enough to change things. To have an effect on my family. On the clan.”
“You had an effect on Kate. You were the only person there when she needed you most. After the kidnapping.”
Granny’s breath catches in her throat. For a moment, I think she might need one of her rescue inhalers, but when she speaks, her voice is as sharp as a razor. “Then she’s told you about that.”
“She has.”
“All of it?”
After last night, I can finally tell the truth, without reservation. “All of it,” I say. The words come out more fierce than I planned. More proud—of the Kate who survived Tarasov’s abuse back then and of the Kate wreaking her vengeance now.
“Good,” Granny says.
We drive the rest of the way to Butcher’s Hill in silence.
St. Basil’s is a massive red-brick church, built on a West Baltimore hill. Outside, there’s a cluster of green onion domes. Inside, the walls are tiled in gold, with detailed mosaics of saints marching across a screen at the front of the church.
An usher guides Granny and me to places of honor on the left side of the aisle. The benches behind us are filled with restless men in dark suits—the Canton Crew, on enemy territory by explicit order of their boss. Or by his wife, I suppose, because Barry Lynch is in no position to order anyone to do anything.
A few Canton men come up to congratulate Granny on Breagha’s wedding. She accepts their kind wishes with the reserve of a queen, calling each by name, offering a regal nod, but never providing a hint of warmth. Behind us, the whispers lilt with Irish brogues.
The pews on the right are filling with friends of the groom—mostly men, but some women and children. Nikolai Tarasov sits in the front row, wearing his tux like a uniform. His broad Slavic face is impassive as various bratva men shake his hand, nodding toward the altar, offering their congratulations on the auspicious occasion of his only son’s wedding.
I do my best to ignore the glares directed at me by Tarasov’s men, the ones who bought my forged paintings. Even though the freeport canceled the transactions, some Russians are clearly calculating payback. One man slides his finger across his throat in a silent threat.
It’s warm in here. The pillar candles beside the altar reflect off the gold mosaics. The air is tinged with incense and impatience.
I glance at my watch. The service should have started five minutes ago.
The murmuring guests begin to speak in louder tones. A child’s wail is cut short by a harsh word. One man greets another in guttural Russian.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
I can only see the side of Nikolai Tarasov’s face. He’s leaner than his son, his thin lips disappearing into a gray goatee that makes him look like a disapproving fox. He slips a phone from his breast pocket and types a quick message. He frowns when he doesn’t receive an immediate reply.
The wedding was supposed to begin half an hour ago. A priest enters the sanctuary from a side door, his black cassock stiff with gold embroidery. The crowd falls silent, as if we’re watching a play on a Broadway stage.
