Cringing, the priest approaches Nikolai. He bows like he’s standing in front of an altar, and then he leans close to whisper something in the pakhan’s ear.
Nikolai scowls and takes out his phone again. Not finding what he’s looking for on the screen, he says something short and sharp to the priest. The man repeats his bow and hurries back to the side door.
This time, the volume of the guests’ gossip swells immediately. Beside me, Granny clutches her fingers in her lap. She seems aware this is no ordinary delay.
In the end, we wait two full hours. The priest makes three more appearances, deferring less each time. The crowd moves from excited speculation to annoyed grievance to sullen, grudging fear.
Finally, Nikolai stands and turns to face the pews. I expect him to play the role of gracious host, apologizing for circumstances beyond his control. Instead, he says, “The wedding is off. Leave.”
The dismissal is met by a roar of disapproval from the Canton Crew behind me. Their princess was being sold here. They showed up when their captain could not.
Ignoring the complaints of his enemies, Nikolai snaps his fingers. “Anton! Pavel! I need to speak with you now. Everyone else, goodbye. Safe travels. Leave.”
Two men glide up to the front of the church. I’m sketchy on the chain of command within the bratva, but one of these guys is clearly a fighter, with the bald head, broad shoulders, and crumpled nose of a seasoned warrior. The other is frantically typing at a screen in his hand; I’m willing to bet he’s in charge of the technology Nikolai uses to keep his troops in line.
I can’t leave Granny alone here, but she barely managed the walk from the car to the pew. She’ll never tolerate exploring the church, going upstairs or downstairs, wherever Breagha’s been waiting for her missing groom, wherever Kate has been playing her matron of honor role.
“Go on, then,” says a man with russet hair and an easy smile. His voice is soft with Irish vowels. “I’ll sit with Mrs. Lynch while you wrap up your business for the family.”
“Ennis,” Granny says, with a tight smile. I can’t tell if she’s tired, or if she’s read the same bratva threats that I have. But she says to me, “Ennis is a friend. Go fetch Kate.”
I shake the Irishman’s offered hand, and then I start my search.
In the end, I find the women in a small room at the end of a dark hall beneath the glittering sanctuary. The door is cracked open, sending a knife of light across the dim corridor. I hear Breagha’s soft voice first, slurred and pleading.
“I swear, Mam! I didn’t do anything! I have no idea where Pyotr is!”
“Not one more word,” Orla snaps.
“I—”
The sound of a slap echoes in the hall. I rush to cover the last few feet.
The scene in the tiny room speaks as clearly as a play. Orla looms in the center of the room, her body encased in a gold brocade dress as stiff as an insect’s carapace. Blood red nail polish glints from the fingertips she’s shaking as if she’s the one who’s injured.
Breagha trembles in a frothy cascade of white, the train of her dress tangled behind her, a veil slipping from her hair. Mascara runs down her cheeks in thick black streaks. She’s wearing too much blush, and her mouth is outlined in heavy red lines that probably matched her lipstick before she chewed it off. She’s pressing one hand to her cheek and sobbing, grasping for her sister.
And Kate stands like a marble guardian—one arm pulling her sister close, the other extended toward her mother in the universal sign forStop.She’s wearing that ridiculous pink confection that she’d never choose on her own, but she’s doing it for Breagha.
She nods at me, a single dip of her head before she says to her mother, “I swear to God, Mam.” Her voice is so low and so calm she could be reading from a script. “One more feckin’ word from you, and I’ll turn you over to the feds.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I’ve all the records in the world from before Da fell ill, and it won’t take me long to pull up what you’ve done in the past week.”
“You couldn’t?—”
“Or maybe I won’t bother with the feds. Maybe I’ll just show the clan how you’ve sold them all out to the Tarasov bratva. How long do you think you’d last, Mam? How many hours before you get a bullet in your head and a rat shoved down your feckin’ throat?”
Orla’s laugh sounds like rattling chains. “All these years, and you know nothing about your so-called clan. Rats are for traitors who talk to the feds.”
“My mistake,” Kate says, and now her voice is as cool as winter glass. “That rat shouldn’t go down your throat, then. It should go up your feckin’ gowl.”
Orla shrieks, but Kate ignores her. Instead, she reaches gently for Breagha’s arm, guiding her sister toward the door and me. “Let’s go, Breagha. You’re coming home with us.”
And that’s how I end up with a third Lynch woman living under my roof.
41
