“Hey, are you okay?” Scarlett asked. She was barefoot and her dress was torn, stray pieces of hair falling down around her shoulders. “I had your buddy Flynn take Christopher and Mel and Kevin outside—I’m gonna guess from your hangdog face that you didn’t get her?”
“Close but no cigar,” Wolfe said, and he did another scan of the ballroom, because someone was missing. “Where’s Sebastian?”
“Gone,” Anton practically spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “They took him.”
~***~
Chapter Eleven
Sebastian was jarred back to consciousness in time with the rocking motion of the panel van. His skull throbbed in time with his heart, the source of the pain a lump above his left ear. A vague memory of balaclava-clad bruisers surrounding him in the midst of the chaos at the Four Seasons emerged from his sensory fog. He’d stabbed one in the arm, but he’d only gotten hit over the head with the butt of a gun and kidnapped for his trouble.
Opening his eyes to slits—an old trick from when he’d been whoring for his father and wanted to spy on clients when they thought he’d passed out—he glanced around as much as he could. He was on the floor of the back of the van, which had had all the seats removed save for the front two; he could feel through his tux that the vehicle-grade carpet had been removed as well, leaving behind cool steel and plastic. The masked men from the hotel were crouched around him, leaning into the turns and bumps of the road, their guns propped between their knees.
There was something warm and hard pressed against Sebastian’s right arm, and it took him a moment to work out what it was: the minigun. Or the base of it, which was bolted into the floor of the van itself. It was a mean-looking thing, and he supposed that was appropriate, given the job it was created to do. Coiled next to it was a belt of ammunition, equally menacing.
They passed under a streetlight at exactly the wrong moment, when Sebastian was moving his gaze back toward the men. One of them saw the reflection of the whites of his eyes, and kicked Sebastian back unconscious with a booted foot.
~***~
“I don’t know who you know, but it’s somebody pretty goddamn important,” Detective Jeff Kamienski said by way of greeting, as he and Silent Mark walked into an unmemorable conference room on the second floor of the Four Seasons. He was looking not at Wolfe or Anton, but at Lottie and Flynn, the latter of whom had joined them after handing off Christopher, Melissa, and Kevin to Frankie when he arrived in his squad car. “What are you, Feds? NSA?” He waved for Scarlett to put her bloodied shoes on when she was ready to hand them over as evidence. “You can keep those, Vaughn, we don’t need them. These two got you off the hook.”
“How the hell did you do that?” Scarlett wondered.
“We have connections,” Flynn said, and glanced at Wolfe in a way that was subtle enough that nobody but Wolfe himself caught it. “Let’s keep it simple and say we work for a portion of the government that doesn’t exist.”
Kamienski snorted. “That’s an oxymoron—there’s no such thing as simple when it comes to spooks.”
Silent Mark tilted his head in a way that indicated he found the oxymoron humorous.
“Call us whatever you’d like,” Lottie said, regarding Kamienski with an unimpressed expression. “The pressing issue is Wolfe’s missing date.”
Anton turned toward Wolfe with the slow grace of someone who was fully prepared to kill another human being. “Date?” he repeated, the single word sounding like it shriveled up and died in his mouth. “He’s supposed to be weaseling information out of you, not sucking your cock.”
Much like during their first meeting, Wolfe fought the urge to break Anton’s nose. “He’s our intern,” he said flatly, and beside him Scarlett shifted, like she was ready to either keep Wolfe from launching himself at Anton or hold him down while Wolfe beat in his face. “And my friend, so watch your fucking mouth.” He took two quick steps with his long legs and bridged the gap between himself and Anton so fast that neither the mob boss nor his bodyguards had time to react. “You want information? Here’s some: I know you made a big donation to Christopher’s campaign, along with Big Mike’s and probably some others. What I don’t get is why you hired Laine Parker to blow his head off—seems kind of counterintuitive to kill the guy you want to get elected governor.”
Anton was silent for several beats, staring into Wolfe’s unwavering eyes with a hard set to his jaw. “You have no idea what you are talking about. Where is Constantin?”
Wolfe’s phone vibrated in his pocket with an incoming call, and he backed off a half-step to see who it was—speak of the devil. “Constantin?”
“Wolfe, we have a problem,” Constantin said. For a wild moment Wolfe thought he meant what had happened to Sebastian, but it turned out Constantin had his own shitshow to deal with. “It’s a long story, but the short version is I pulled your brother and Lacey Stahl out of Joanne Lavinge’s swingers’ club as it was getting raided by the Mahoney Mob, and—”
Anton snatched the phone from Wolfe’s hand and started speaking into it in rapid Romanian, too fast for Wolfe’s infantile knowledge of the language to follow. Instead of eavesdropping he told Kamienski and Silent Mark about his second encounter with Laine Parker and the man driving the stolen car. They pulled aside a passing uniform and asked them to see if they could get security camera footage of the incident from the back of the hotel.
Anton hung up and tossed Wolfe his phone in a careless gesture. “Constantin will bring Jake to your mother’s house. He is, as my head bodyguard so artfully put it, ‘high as balls’.”
Wolfe realized that Constantin didn’t mention Lacey being with Jake to Anton and filed that piece of information away for later. He refused to thank Anton for anything, so he looked at Kamienski and asked, “Are we free to go? Do you need statements? Because if not, we need to find Sebastian.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like some official help with that,” Kamienski remarked dryly, like he knew it was pointless to suggest it. He looked at Anton and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, Mr. Codreanu, it’s getting harder and harder for me to believe that you’re just a restaurateur.”
While Anton brushed Kamienski off and tried to get out of an interrogation, Wolfe watched Silent Mark receive an evidence bag from another uniformed officer. Through the clear plastic Wolfe saw the bulky casing from a .50 caliber round and felt his stomach drop into his shoes—his fucking Uncle Bobby was the one who took Sebastian. He thought about telling Kamienski but discarded that idea for a few reasons, not the least of which was that despite his idiocy Bobby was still family, and he’d wind up in jail if Wolfe got BPD involved.
Silent Mark caught his eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
Wolfe mouthed thank you in his direction and grabbed Scarlett’s arm, and they slunk out of the conference room with Lottie and Flynn while Anton and Kamienski argued.
~***~
About a half-hour later, Wolfe sat at the dining room table in his mother’s house on Putnam Street in Somerville. It was the same table he’d watched Sebastian fight for his life on three months ago, and now he drank a cup of coffee with his mom, his dad, Scarlett, Lottie, and Flynn. Wolfe and Flynn had stripped off their uniform jackets and ties and were left in their shirtsleeves, and Lottie and Scarlett had chopped off what was left of their skirts so they draped to the knee instead of the ankle. Constantin was in the living room with Jake and Lacey, and the only thing he’d done when Wolfe told him about Sebastian’s kidnapping was shut his eyes and swear under his breath. Since Christopher and Melissa’s kids were being babysat by Patrick and Maureen at their house across the street, Frankie took Christopher and Melissa there along with Kevin and volunteered to stay with them until Wolfe and Scarlett found Sebastian.
After they finished telling David what happened at the gala—and Wolfe mentioned the .50 cal round—he practically slammed his coffee mug down on the table and pulled out his cell phone. “Let me see if I can get Bobby, I
’ll be right back.”
He went out on the porch, and Wolfe asked Angela if they could speak in private. They went into the kitchen and Wolfe bent down to hug his mother. She returned the embrace and he buried his face in her shoulder. He’d honestly been worried for a moment that by not telling her about David he’d broken something fundamental in his relationship with his mom.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the side of her head before he pulled away. “I wanted to tell you, and I should’ve, but Dad—”
Angela cut him off by placing her small but strong hands on his shoulders. “Your father explained everything. I may not agree with some of his choices, but…” She took in a deep breath. “As pissed off as I am, I understand that he was trying to protect us. I don’t agree with it, but unless you have a time machine we’re also not going to change it.” She looked up into Wolfe’s face and whatever she saw there made her forehead crease, one of her hands moving to cup his stubble-covered cheek. “You’re going to find Sebastian, Jimmy. And when you do, please give Bobby a swift kick in the ass for me?”
Wolfe was helpless to do anything but smile. “Sure, Ma. I can do that.”
~***~
In the living room Scarlett stood over Jake where he was lying on the smaller branch of the L-shaped couch, her arms folded across her chest. “What the hell is wrong with you? And why—” she flapped a hand toward Lacey, who was passed out on the big part of the couch “—are you hanging out with Lacey Stahl?”
Jake looked up at her with a glazed expression, his lips pale and stained silver. He shivered with the comedown from his last hit of Rapture, disfigured fingers tapping with no rhythm against his thighs. “None of your business,” he sneered, right before his eyes rolled back in his head and he joined Lacey in the land of the unconscious.
“Fantastic,” Scarlett muttered, and turned to face Constantin. He sat in the recliner near the television, staring aimlessly at his reflection in its black screen. “Hey… why were you following Lacey? Was it for Anton?”
“I have a daughter,” Constantin said after a moment, so softly that for a second Scarlett thought she’d misheard him. She came closer and crouched down next to the chair. “I have never met her, but she would be around Lacey’s age, I think.”
Scarlett looked at Constantin with pale green eyes full of curiosity. “I had no idea. Were you married, or…?”
“Dumnezeule, no,” he replied, chuckling at the thought. “Her mother was a woman I met at the Palatul Parlamentului—” the Palace of the Parliament, Scarlett recalled from Frogger’s research on Anton, was in Bucharest and it was the seat of parliament in Romania “—while I was standing guard for Anton during his meetings. She was a secretary, and unlike the majority of the women there she did not walk faster when she saw me.” He smiled, craggy face lifting at whatever memory was playing in his head. “She was so beautiful, and very well-spoken. I often felt—what is that expression? Tongue-tied, when I talked with her? I did not have much free time during Ceaușescu’s regime, but I hung around her office whenever I could.”
Scarlett smiled too, but she suspected this story didn’t have a happy ending. “What happened?”
“She discovered she was pregnant.” Constantin rubbed at his eyes, and Scarlett pretended she didn’t see the tears glimmering in them. “I was ecstatic at the idea of becoming a father, but Dumitra… she did not see things the same way. She feared that my job, my association with Ceaușescu—with Anton—would be a danger to our child. And her point was only proven when Vladimir was killed instead of Ceaușescu. It wasn’t long after that when the government began to crumble, and the Codreanus fled Romania. I begged Dumitra to come with us to America, but she refused. I don’t… for all I know she died in the riots and never even gave birth.”
Scarlett was silent for a moment as she absorbed Constantin’s story, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know what it’s worth,” she said slowly, “but in my opinion, I don’t think you’d be following Lacey around if you didn’t have a daughter. Your fatherly instinct is there, Constantin—I see it with Sebastian all the time.” She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him a bit for emphasis. “If you want to find Dumitra and your daughter, we’ll help you. Let’s deal with our current multiple-crisis situation first, and then maybe we’ll take a trip to Romania.”
~***~
Aiden and Laine dumped their second stolen car in the parking lot at the Mattapan T stop and walked back to their apartment in the dark. Laine trembled the whole way, her borrowed catering company jacket too big for her shoulders even when they were hunched up to her ears. Aiden could hardly stand to look at her as they passed under streetlights and dodged around the odd drunken bum, and by the time he was unlocking their door his hands were shaking with barely-contained rage.
As soon as they were inside, Aiden crowded Laine into the nearest corner. He raised his hand but didn’t strike her, and she lurched away from him with wide eyes. “Why the hell are you such a fuckup?” he hissed, vision going red at the edges. “That was our chance, Laine, and you couldn’t even get that fat bastard Big Mike drunk before you ran away?” If one of Aiden’s coworkers hadn’t texted him that they’d seen his sister bailing on her temp job, he would’ve watched her get hauled away in a squad car.
“I saw—” Laine started to speak but her voice broke, one hand holding the side of her head where her scar began. “I’ve seen Jim Wolfe twice now, Aiden, he—he knows me, from before, from when I was…” She trailed off, squinting and breathing hard, and Aiden was reaching for the drawer in the little table by the door where they tossed the mail and their keys. “Aiden, why am I doing this? Why am I trying to—?”
Aiden yanked the drawer open and pulled out a vial of Rapture, popping out the stopper and jamming it between Laine’s open lips. He tilted it up quickly before throwing it aside and clamping her mouth shut. She let out a closed-mouthed scream and tried to fight him, but he jammed a thigh between her legs and pinched her nose shut until she swallowed. The drug began to take hold in under a minute, and she slumped barely conscious in Aiden’s arms. The doses Aiden kept on hand for Laine were stronger than what the average consumer could get, and he was grateful for that as he dumped her on the couch.
Pulling a burner phone out of the coffee table, Aiden turned it on and pressed the only speed-dial number. His call went straight to voicemail, and after the beep, he left his message: “Codreanu, it’s me. I think my sister needs a tune-up—I’m bringing her to Blakely.”
~***~
Chapter Twelve
It was past midnight in Somerville’s Winter Hill neighborhood. In a run-down laundromat on Pearl Street, Sebastian Codreanu opened his eyes. He knew it was a laundromat right away from the smell, detergent and old socks and the sharp tang of bleach for the machines between customers.
In his experience a lot of laundromats also offered dry cleaning, and he’d been with Constantin on a number of occasions when clothes needed to be picked up. He seemed to be in some kind of back room, maybe a storage area? There were lots of shelves and not much light, just some from the street outside seeping in through a high window. His head hurt worse than it had in the van and his arms and legs were tied with rope to a wooden chair.
Sebastian realized he couldn’t feel his phone or his wallet in his pants, and since they’d taken his tuxedo jacket he no longer had the switchblade concealed in the inside pocket. The fixed dagger he kept strapped to his ankle was gone too, but they evidently hadn’t looked closely at his shoes. There was a hidden blade in the toe of his right loafer, one of those just in case things that Constantin insisted on but Sebastian never thought he’d use. So much for that.
The door to the room opened, and a man walked through it. He was easily as tall as Wolfe or David, but unlike them he carried a beer belly and a slight limp. He was around Constantin’s age and looked it, with bad skin and prominent wrinkles around eyes like craters in his skull. He dressed like some
one who bought their entire outfit from a golf catalogue, and two generic thugs (most likely picked from the crop left standing after the shooting at the Four Seasons) trailed behind him like lapdogs. “Mr. Codreanu, how do you feel? I told the boys not to be too rough with you.”
Sebastian worked his jaw and spat blood on the floor, his tongue stinging raw from where he’d bitten it. “Well, I know you’re not a Mahoney—they would never be this foolish.”
The goons exchanged a look with their boss, and then the bigger one took two quick steps forward and punched Sebastian in the gut. Air escaped his body in a harsh wheeze, but he disguised his gasp of pain as a mocking chuckle—he was sure Anton would be proud.
“Let’s get something straight here,” the man in the golf clothes said, his accent all urban Boston, reminding Sebastian of slamming screen doors and Moxie. He walked around Sebastian’s chair in a slow circle, coming to a stop in front of him. “This can be civil or it can be bloody, I don’t care. But you’re going to tell me where your old man is hiding the Rapture formula, one way or another.”
The question spiked fear up Sebastian’s spine because he didn’t know the answer, but he couldn’t let these idioți know that or he’d be leaving the laundromat in a garment bag. “If you’re not Mahoneys, then what are you?” he mused aloud, looking up at Golf Clothes and his weathered face with a mocking half-smirk. “Winter Hill Gang, perhaps? Or whatever is left of it.” The man’s expression soured, and Sebastian knew he’d hit a nerve. “What makes you think I’ll tell you what you want to know, hmm? I’ve been tortured before.”
He earned himself another punch for that, this time on his cheek. It was hard enough to make stars burst behind Sebastian’s eyelids, but it also rocked him back in the chair, which gave him an idea of how strong the wood was and how much force it would take to push it over. He forced out a laugh and spat more blood on the floor, making sure the edge of the spray caught the shoes of the goon who’d just hit him. All he had to do was keep them talking. Someone—be it Anton or Wolfe—would come for him eventually. He hoped it would be Jim.
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