“Robbie Malloy is strong enough to fight the bratva,” I say.
Granny frowns. “Robbie Malloy is a menace. I’d never be responsible for bringing that one here. For seeing him walk on US soil.”
Whatever she fears about Malloy, Nikolai Tarasov is a thousand times worse. “But what would Da want, Granny? Don’t you think he’d rather see an Irishman rule Canton instead of those Russian shitehawks?”
“Language, dear,” Granny murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Before I can argue more, Mrs. Watson appears in the doorway, a tray in her hand. “Ready for some lunch now?”
“Maybe later,” Granny says. “I’m too tired to eat.”
Mrs. Watson shoots me a disapproving glance. As much as I want to press Granny about Robbie Malloy, I know when it’s time to leave. “I’ll come back later,” I say. “To tell Breagha about Danilov.”
Granny shakes her head. “I’ll tell her. Poor little lamb.”
I kiss her cheek as Mrs. Watson moves in to tempt her with just a few bites. Drew Cameron springs to attention as I open the carriage house door. “See?” I say, raising my hands to give him a full view of my intact body. “Safe and sound.”
After carrying his chair inside, he escorts me to the gate. We manage two steps toward the curb before a car turns onto the street. It’s a nondescript sedan, exactly like a million other cars in the DC metro area. Its wheels rumble over the cobblestones, loud enough to drown out birdsong in the trees.
Drew shoots out his arm like a mother corralling a toddler. Rolling my eyes in annoyance, I’m tempted to dash out before the car reaches us, stranding my guard-dog while I reach the opposing pavement.
Before I can do that, though, the car picks up speed. I have one second to realize the driver’s window is down, and then Drew is tugging me down to the ground. His body is heavy on mine and he presses my face into the pavement as he shouts, “Stay down! Stay down!”
Other men are hollering. Something metallic hits the street. Tires spin on the cobblestones, taking a moment to catch before the vehicle squeals away.
There’s a hissing noise, like a nest of vipers, and I start to choke. My nose and eyes are streaming. My throat feels like it’s being attacked by a swarm of bees, and every muscle in my chest grows tight.
“Move, move, move!” shouts a man very close to my ear. Drew rolls off of me, and fingers dig into my arms and ankles. Coughing, spitting, dripping from my eyes and nose and mouth, I’m carried across the street like a splayed sack of potatoes by a team of men. Others ferry Drew to safety.
Chaos boils behind me as we’re deposited by the house. Someone drags out a garden hose. The first blast of water makes everything burn more intensely, but then the torture fades.
“Get the canister,” Drew croaks beside me. “Get the fucking can.”
“Already done,” says the Sawgrass man holding the hose.
“What was that?” I wheeze.
“Tear gas,” Drew answers tersely.
I’m shaking, trembling in the hot summer sun as if I just stepped out of an arctic cave. My hip vibrates where Drew ground it into the sidewalk.
It takes me longer than it should to realize that’s not my hip. My mobile is buzzing.
I fish the phone out of my pocket. It’s a message coming in from a number I don’t recognize. But once I tap the screen, I see that it’s a continuation of an earlier communication.
At the top of the screen, Nikolai Tarasov’s fist is wrapped around his dick. Below that, he’s sent a new message.
Lisichka
I can get you whenever I want you
You
Are
Mine
10
