The sum has three more zeroes than my own worst-case estimate.
I’m ruined.
5
KATE
Cole and I stand in our bedroom. From the window, I can glimpse the garage and a new gunmetal-gray generator providing power to the security team now working around the clock.
“I don’t understand,” Cole says. “Why do we need to drive all the way to Baltimore, just to share another miserable meal with your parents?”
I clench my hands into fists, then spread my fingers wide, as if it’s possible to throw away the tension knitted into my shoulders. “It’s Sunday Roast,” I say helplessly. “Lamb. Veg. Colcannon.”
“I’ll have a new cookbook delivered within the hour,” Cole says. “Anna will be a colcannon expert by dinnertime.”
I think I’m supposed to smile, but I’ve never been good at doing the things I ought to do. “Mam asked me to come,” I say.
“The mother who is welcomed Pyotr Tarasov into her house?”
Cole is being surprisingly subtle. Mam welcomed Pyotr into her bed, at the same time she was plotting Breagha’s marriage to the bratva brigadier.
“I need to see Da,” I whisper.
There. That’s the truth. My father suffered a major stroke a month ago. Nikolai Tarasov exaggerated the other day—Da isn’t in diapers. But he isn’t well. As a loyal Lynch, I need to see him and I’m terrified to see him and I’d give almost anything for Cole to forbid me to go to Baltimore.
Instead, he takes out his mobile and taps a quick message.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Jacobson,” he says. Anthony Jacobson is the Sawgrass agent managing Cole’s security team.
“Do we need to get him involved? We’re only going to see my parents. We aren’t even bringing Breagha or Granny.”
“To Baltimore. Within two miles of Nikolai Tarasov’s fort. In territory the mob and the bratva have been disputing for decades. This isexactlywhen Jacobson needs to be involved.”
He’s right, of course. But I think he regrets his action when Jacobson announces he’ll drive the presidential-grade SUV—bulletproof glass and specially reinforced panels—with my bodyguard, Cameron, armed with a rifle in the front seat. Jacobson wants two escort cars as well, one in front and one behind, each with a similarly armed lookout.
It’s feckin’ ridiculous. It’s paranoid and it’s ostentatious and it’s a waste of everyone’s time.
But it’s easier to agree to the team than fight my way clear. Even when Jacobson insists on a half-hour delay while he consults with his men on the most secure route to the Canton Crew compound.
When we finally arrive, Jacobson negotiates with the footsoldiers guarding the gate. I recognize Davey O’Farrell; he’s had the job for years. There’s a new man with him, lean as a ferret, with a hungry look that makes me wonder how badly the Crew’s business has fallen off since Da fell ill.
I don’t have to read lips to understand the argument Jacobson has with Davey. Jacobson wants his men to secure the premises before Cole and I exit our vehicle. Davey’s not inclined to agree, as he communicates by flashing the Glock holstered at his waist. The ferret merely watches.
The argument goes on for a quarter-hour before I open my door. Cameron hits the ground before I do. “Get back in the car,” he orders.
I shove past him. “Davey. Open the gate.”
“For you, yeah. But not for these yokes. Your Mam said only you.”
Mam. Not Da. I need to get inside more than ever.
The old Kate would throw a tantrum now. She’d rant and rave and tell Davey and the ferret to fuck themselves.
But I’ve learned how to bargain. “Cole comes with me,” I say, before I gesture at Jacobson and Cameron. “And they wait in the parlor. The rest of our men stay outside the gate.”
Davey frowns as if he’s trying to solve quadratic equations in his head. The ferret’s eyes shift rapidly from Davey to me to the men arrayed behind me. Davey finally settles on an answer. “Your Mam says?—”
