That’s it. Two words. No debate.
An army of men guard this house. I can create a computer program to do anything under the sun. We have lawyers to protect us, and even in my soon-to-be-impoverished state I can come up with enough cash to buy politicians, to tangle the bratva’s businesses for a lifetime.
Despite all that, Nikolai Tarasov remains a threat. The only rules he follows are the ones he makes. Through charm or intimidation or raw, ruthless power, the bratva pakhan gets what he wants.
“You won’t let him,” Kate says. That’s the simple, absolute faith of a child.
I want to be the man who keeps her safe. I need to be her hero. And the first step down that road is retooling Viktor to masquerade as RedBear.
I kiss the crown of Kate’s head before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up in protest, gathering the sheet close.
“To my office,” I say. “It’s time to get to work.”
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m sitting at my desk. I meant to get a jump on reworking Viktor, but instead I’ve spent two hours trying to total today’s financial ruin. Half my clients on retainer signed my basic contract without making any changes. I get to keep the money they’ve paid for this month’s services, even if they’re firing me for all work going forward.
The other half, though, insisted on adding a morals clause to my standard document. They get their money back if I takeany action that might reflect badly on their business—such as pleading guilty to multiple counts of fraud.
It doesn’t matter that I was a kid. It doesn’t matter that I only pled to keep Shannon out of jail. It doesn’t matter that the indictment was supposed to be sealed forever.
The bloodbath has been even worse than I expected. The story has been picked up by every major news outlet in the United States, the Gulf States, and Europe. The basic facts are deadly for my reputation, but rampant speculation about my supposed ongoing crimes makes it far, far worse.
As the clock strikes twelve, I stare at the carnage. My hospital client in Quebec hasn’t fired me yet. I still work for a couple members of the Diamond Ring, including Fiona. Kate’s father, up in Baltimore. There’s a handful of smaller accounts. A few have promised they’ll circle back after the fire dies down, once they convince their directors and insurance companies that I’m worth the risk. I probably still have some of the clients who hire me piecemeal instead of keeping me on retainer.
But my projected income for August is a mere five figures. And my tax bill comes due in September.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I’ve long since turned off all alerts from email or texts. But there’s one address I never block, one person I haven’t locked out.
Megan
Call me
I’ve never seen the phone number she leaves, but I type in the ten digits before she can change her mind.
“Hey, Cocoa Puff,” she answers quickly.
“Nutmeg.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“None of this is your fault.”
“It was Tarasov, wasn’t it?”
“The father. Not the son.”
“But it’s because I brought Pyotr to your house.”
It is.
And it isn’t.
It’s because of choices I made a lifetime ago. Choices Shannon made. Choices Kate made, when she slashed a scalpel through Pyotr Tarasov’s femoral artery.
It’s because Nikolai Tarasov is a fucking monster who needs to be put down like a goddamn rabid dog.
“Cole?” Megan says, and I realize I’ve taken too long to respond.
