I watch as she straightens, each muscle moving like she’s chiseling her body free from a block of stone. She finds the bottle of Voss I left for her, and she twists the cap free. She drinks like a woman who’s been wandering in a desert for years.
She sits for a moment, hands braced on the mattress beside her, probably waiting to see if the water stays down. When it does, she finally pushes herself to her feet and starts the long, painful journey to the bathroom.
I’ll go upstairs in a moment to see if she needs help in the shower. I’ll lay out her favorite clothes, her softest gray hoodie and her most comfortable yoga pants. I’ll cajole her into eating something, or I’ll order her to do it, whatever she needs.
But first, I have one more call to make.
“Tarasov,” he answers after the phone has rung so long I think I’ll need to leave a message.
“The paintings are at the freeport. The expert there is set to run the auction on Monday. At five o’clock.”
“We will be there. My boyeviks and me.”
“After the auction, you can arrange for a gallery at the freeport. That’s how you avoid the tax consequences of removing the paintings from the premises.”
“And the Picasso?”
“It’s there too.”
“Excellent. Monday. At five.”
As I end the call, I still feel guilty for bringing Diamond Freeport into this thing. But my determination to take down Pyotr Tarasov is more set than ever. The bratva kingpin didn’t say a word about Kate. It never occurred to him to ask if she’s recovered.
27
KATE
It was the feckin’ tile.
Just my bad luck the zoo had a nature theme for the jacks, and they chose those shades of green for the floor and the walls. I might not even have noticed, if I wasn’t already wired about Tarasov.
But Iwasthinking about Tarasov. About the Bad Men. About everything that happened eighteen years ago.
Because once again, the bratva’s a problem. Tarasov’s a threat that will turn nuclear once Breagha tells Mam and Da she’s changed her mind about marrying the bratva brigadier. The war that will result when my sister dumps Tarasov for her beloved grad student will make the Dogfight look like a stroll after Sunday church.
Breagha calls me three times on Saturday and twice on Sunday. She doesn’t believe I had food poisoning. Sunday night, after supper, she finally asks if I’m pregnant. If my life was amovie or a book, that would be a funny way for both of us to realize the truth.
I’m not up the duff. But my entire life is changing because the carefully packed box of my memories was ripped open in that green-tiled toilet. Now I can barely sleep, even with the light on.
I only feel safe when I’m with Cole. He ran into the jacks to catch whoever hurt me. He brought me home and put me to bed. He’s made excuses, all day Saturday and Sunday, to stay close. Three separate times, he’s walked me across the street to visit Granny. He knows the men from Sawgrass are keeping us safe and I can work the biometrics on my own, but he understands I need him by my side.
So at lunch on Monday, when he asks if I want to go with him to the freeport, I jump at the chance. I need to prove to everyone—Tarasov, Cole, myself—that I won’t be intimidated by the bratva shitehawk.
Cole gives me five minutes to change out of my ripe hoodie and yoga pants. I grab the first decent clothes I can find—my cream linen pants and a white tailored shirt that looks like it was cut for a man.
“Why are we taking the Mercedes?” I ask in the garage. I expected him to choose the Jaguar for the two-hour trip, to eat up the miles in the luxury car.
“No reason,” Cole says, but he looks directly in my eyes as he answers. He’s lying, and I don’t have the faintest idea why. The guards stand at attention as we clear the iron gate.
I know Cole is going to Delaware to hand over the Picasso to Tarasov. I wonder if I can wait in the car and avoid seeing the Russian.
But that’s absurd. I have to get past these ridiculous memories. I have to get back to living my life. Cole will need my help to destroy Tarasov after today’s auctions.
“Did you take any road trips when you were a kid?” I ask, to distract myself from the memory of green tile.
“They weren’t really road trips,” Cole says. “More like running for the border.”
I laugh before I realize he’s serious. “Why’d you have to flee?”
