“If the captain of the Canton Crew wants colcannon,” I say, standing to reach the bowl. “He’ll get colcannon. And the rest of us can open a window if we must.”
I ladle the potatoes and cabbage onto Da’s plate. Mam hisses as if I’ve burned her. Da digs in with his spoon, spilling mash down his front.
Mam scowls, but apparently she decides not to fight me. All thoughts of her headache disappear as she launches into a speech she’s obviously rehearsed. “Katie. Ilya and I are thrilled to have you here today.”
She makes it sound as if the Russian is her co-host for this meal, as if the food came out of his own larder. I glance at Dato see what he thinks of being erased like that, but he’s snuffling like a pig, shoveling in more colcannon with his shaky spoon.
I push my plate toward the center of the table, determined not to take a single bite. Cole remains an island of calm beside me.
Mam glares, but she doesn’t allow my gesture to interrupt her practiced words. “It’s time for the Canton Crew and the Tarasov bratva to patch up our disagreements.”
Patch up. She makes it sound as if some bratva thief came to Sunday Mass at St. Brigid’s wearing white after Labor Day. Like a rogue clansman took the bread plate to his right at brunch. There isn’t a hint in either her tone or her words that ourdisagreementsinclude kidnapping, rape, and a trail of murdered bodies.
My fingers fold around my knife, but before I can select a target—Mam or Danilov—Cole grips my thigh beneath the table. His grasp is steady and hard through my linen trousers, igniting my tattoo and all the scars from my cutting.
Unaware that my husband has purchased her a few more seconds of peace, Mam reaches for her wineglass. “Ilya and I need your help,a stór.”
“Not bloody likely,” I push through clenched teeth.
“I know your sister is living with you now, after the unfortunate…disappearance of her fiancé.”
Death. It wasn’t a disappearance. I killed Pyotr Tarasov. But no one has found his body, and they won’t because Sawgrass was in charge of the disposal.
Narrowing my eyes, I wonder what Mam is plotting for Breagha. “Go on,” I say very carefully.
“Your father and I worked hard to find you a suitable husband,” Mam lies.
I glance at Cole, whose face reveals as much as a frozen river. He bought me so Da would hire him, so Cole could add the Crewto his endless list of clients. The fact that our scorched souls belong together has nothing to do with Mam or Da.
My mother settles her fingertips on Danilov’s forearm, interrupting his studied attack on a slice of lamb. I realize the Russian hasn’t said a word yet. I wonder if he speaks English. “Now it is your sister’s turn,” Mam says to me. “Ilya has promised to make her very happy.”
Breagha. Pawned off on another Russian. Part of my conniving mother’s ongoing plot to hamstring the Canton Crew for her personal power and prestige and wealth.
Apparently encouraged by my enraged silence, Mam says, “The wedding will be on the first of August.”
Breagha is sweet and good and innocent. She’s found a man she loves—Nathan Cohen, a grad student she met while packing food for the homeless. Nate is as far away from the Tarasov bratva as any man can possibly be, and the only thing my sister wants in the world is to marry him.
Mam is bold enough to issue a direct order. “Katie,” she says. “You will have your sister at St. Basil’s by no later than ten in the morning that day.”
“Go to hell.”
“What sort of a thing is that to say to your mother?”
“Go tofuckinghell.”
I watch Mam flip through her options—shock, rage, faked incomprehension. She settles on hurt, crumpling her face into a mask of sorrow. “Why are you determined to be such a difficult child?”
“Why are you determined to whore out your younger daughter to a cocksucking Russian prick?”
Danilov has enough English to understand that. Mam sinks her claws into her pet Russian’s arm to keep him from pushing back from the table. “Katie! Apologize this instant!”
For one blinding instant, I picture my fists closing on the edge of the starched white tablecloth. I can tug it, hard. I can send flowers and china and silver and crystal flying. I can salvage a fork to stab at my mother’s narrowed eyes, then have a go at Ilya Danilov with a knife.
Before I can move, though, Da farts, loud and long and wet. The reek is enough to make Danilov swear in Russian. Even Cole grimaces.
And I decide to change my response.
I stand. I plant my hands on the table. I lean toward my mother and I say, “No.”
