by Nicole Fox
I ignore them, looking instead at Cormac. “Too scared to come in here yourself?”
He flinches again, showing how much my comment bothers him. “Just pick up the articles, you fucking animal.”
I hold his gaze for a long time and then, grinning, say, “Ask me nicely, and then maybe I will.”
“Enough!” Jerry roars, swiveling his rifle around on the strap and aiming it at me. “This is the boss you’re speaking to. Let me kneecap him, boss. Let me show him some goddamn manners!”
I note the distaste on Rafferty’s face at this wild show of aggression … and the contrasting savage appreciation on Cormac’s. It seems there’s a rift there. Interesting.
I shrug. “Do what you have to do.”
“Just pick them up,” Rafferty murmurs. “Stupid reason to lose the use of your leg, lad.”
I nod at Jerry. “Lower that peashooter and then I’ll pick them up.”
“On your fucking life!”
“Just put the gun down,” Rafferty sighs. “We have business to take care of.”
Jerry looks at Cormac, who nods almost imperceptibly, looking slightly bothered by how Rafferty took control there. But he doesn’t mention it.
I kneel down and study the news articles. As I expected, they’re stories from the past few days. A Russian Orthodox church in my territory was burned down, resulting in several injuries, some of them women and children. A Russian-owned corner store was shot up, killing the owner and his wife. A Russian food stand was blown up with a bomb, injuring a passing mother and her toddler.
When I stand up, I try to hide the rage that moves through me like lava.
I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself, I’ll never shoot his video, when a thought occurs to me. A plan starts to form.
Then, in a rush, the plan solidifies.
This is an opportunity to get a message out to Egor, but I’ll have to be subtle. And even getting them to allow me to speak, in my own words, is going to take some convincing … and acting.
So, I let go of my anger, letting it flood my face, biting down as I stare bitterly at Cormac.
“You fucking animal,” I rasp, voice trembling. “What the hell is the matter with you? Civilians, women, children?”
Rafferty flinches. He’s clearly not on board with this wanton violence. But that doesn’t matter. He isn’t in charge.
“War’s war,” Cormac says easily. “If Egor would learn his place, none of this would be happening.”
I clench my fists. “This has to stop!” I yell.
Cormac’s loving this, the fool. “You can make it stop, Russian. Let us cuff you and shoot the video.”
I’ve just realized something. The reason they’re not just shooting me with the rubber bullets, beating me, and cuffing me, is because Jamie isn’t done with her project yet. From behind the scenes, she’s protecting me. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I’ve never needed protection before. I don’t like this note of gratitude I feel.
I don’t need anybody. I’m the most powerful man in the Bratva. And when I’m free, these men will realize what a stupid fucking mistake they’ve made by crossing me.
“Egor won’t stop if you just make me hold a sign or read from a script,” I say bitterly. “I have an agreement with all my men. If we’re ever taken hostage and the kidnappers try and use a video like that, we’ve agreed to ignore it.”
“Liar,” Jerry snarls.
I sigh. “It’s the truth,” I lie. “If I’m going to convince him, it will have to be in my own words. You can beat me, parade me, whatever your twisted mind can come up with, but it will not stop Egor.”
Cormac looks closely at me, trying to figure out if I’m tricking him. “You’ll give him some sort of message,” he growls.
“You’ll be standing right there,” I argue. “What could I possibly say? You know me, Cormac. You know my reputation. I hate getting innocents involved in this shit. I know what to say to make Egor back down.”
“He’s a Russian, boss,” Jerry snaps. “Don’t listen to anything he says—”
“Quiet,” Cormac says.
At once, Jerry clamps his mouth shut.
“We need the aggression to stop,” Cormac says, in an aside to Rafferty.
The chubby man nods. “We do.”
“Hmm.” Cormac strokes his chin. “You could be lying about this agreement, Russian. Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t care if you believe me,” I say. “I’m just telling you how it is, Cormac.”
He looks at me for a long time, and then nods, wordlessly spinning and pacing from the room. The other men follow, Jerry slamming the door behind them.
With them gone, I start thinking of ways to give Egor a message. But what message? We need to lull the Irish into a false sense of security, make them think the attacks have stopped … and then hit them harder than ever, giving Egor a chance to rescue me so I can take my vengeance on these motherfuckers.
If the attacks stop, Cormac will think he’s safe, which will make him reckless. But how am I going to work that into the conversation? Egor, my friend, stop the attacks for a couple of weeks so that, when we do finally attack, we can do some real damage? Somehow, I don’t think that will pass the Irishman’s censorship.
A while later, Cormac and the men return. Now, Ronan is carrying a camera already attached to a tripod. Jerry walks in after him with a small metal chair in one hand and his pistol in the other. He carries it to the middle of the room, being careful to keep the pistol on me at all times, and then nods at the chair.
“Sit.”
I only do as he says because I don’t want to miss this chance. I sit down and, holding my arms behind my back, allow them to cuff me. Ronan has set up the camera by the time Jerry scurries to the other side of the room. Both Ronan and Jerry aim their guns at me. I suppose Rafferty had more important business to take care of, because he isn’t here.
I almost laugh when Ronan gives a thumbs-up to show that the video is recording. It looks so out of place. Cormac grins like an excited kid on Christmas morning.
“Egor,” I say, addressing the camera somberly. I speak in a slightly different tone of voice than that which I’d usually take with him. I hope this lets him know to be on the lookout for double meanings. “I know you’re fighting because you think you’re protecting the Bratva, my brother, and that is noble. But you’re putting innocent Russian lives at risk. You’re putting children’s lives at risk.”
This is meaningless preamble. I have to hide the message or it will be too obvious.
“The Irish have beaten us,” I say, which is another hint. I’d never say this to Egor, to anybody, but Cormac’s arrogance doesn’t let him see that. A glint comes into his eyes. He is so full of himself. I press on, “We fought a good fight, my friend, but it’s over. Timofey and Cormac have won. Timofey is just Cormac’s lapdog, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all over.”
Cormac has no business running an organization the size of the Irish Mafia. He is too caught up in his own legend, believing the bullshit he tells the men. He is so blinded by his opinion of himself, he can’t see that I would never say this, not if I meant it, not if I wasn’t just trying to let Egor know to be ready for what I’m about to say next.
“We have a holiday in the motherland, Russia Day, that marks the day our country separated itself from the Soviet Union. It’s a sign of independence, a sign of respect—the strength required to submit. As you know, many Russians resent this holiday, but it was necessary, my friend … as is your separation from this aggression.” It got a little muddled there, but, thankfully, Cormac doesn’t seem to care. “Just like our government saved the motherland on Russia Day, you have to save the Bratva.”
This is the most important part of the message. Egor has told me more times than I can count that he sees me and the Bratva as one and the same. He said as much in the club before the attack, before Timofey’s betrayal. So, surely, the message is clear: stop your attacks until Jun
e 12—Russia Day—and then, when they’re not suspecting it, save the Bratva … Mount your rescue attempt.
I move on, filling several more minutes with more ‘pleading’ to mask the Russia Day message and then, finally, I finish.
“Please,” I say. “Hear this message, brother. Hear this message.”
When I finish, I almost expect Cormac to clap like a director, he looks so riveted. He has been waiting a long time to see me grovel, I know, and now he thinks he’s gotten his wish.
“Not so tough now, eh, Russian?” he says eventually, grinning as Ronan packs away the camera. “Those men still loyal to you, shit, they’re gonna go running to Timofey when they see what a bitch you’ve become. Maybe I won’t kill you after Jamie’s done with her little hobby. No, maybe I’ll keep you alive as my pet! Ha!”
I bow my head, as though ashamed, as they uncuff me.
When they’re gone, I finally let myself smile as I go over the video. Surely Egor will get the message? Either way, I have to be ready, just in case. I try to work out the date, but things have gotten jumbled in here—in more ways than one—and I can’t.
I will, though, and then I will be ready for June 12.
And I’ll make these bastards bleed.
A thought rises up in me, sharp and unbidden.
What if Jamie is caught in the crossfire of the rescue? What if, by accident, one of my men—or Cormac’s—kills her? I find myself clenching my fists at the thought, a fierce protective urge taking hold of me, as though she’s more than just the Irish princess.
As though—shit—as though I might care about her.
Which is ridiculous.
When I bust out of here and bring Cormac’s Family to its knees, I won’t even remember her.
But even as I tell myself that, I know it’s a lie. I’ll never be able to forget Jamie O’Gallagher.
13
Jamie
A weird moment in my life: I’ve been in my downtown studio for about twenty minutes now and all I’ve done is stare at the photograph I took of Andrei after we had sex. This isn’t completely unprecedented. When I was working on “Companions,” I’d often stare at a photo, trying to figure out some problem with it, some knot to unravel and perfect. The key difference is, when I was staring at Parrot Pete, I wasn’t so horny I could just scream.
But it’s more than lust, too, which is maybe why I’ve kept my distance. All my life, Dad has told me to stay away from Russians, Italians, Albanians, Mexicans—basically any Family that isn’t Irish. He’s warned me that Russian men, in particular, are animals.
When I was little, I believed him. All the stories of savage Russian men torturing and abusing women were ingrained in my mind. When I got older, sure, I outgrew it a little, but do we ever really outgrow things from our childhood? So that’s just another reason why these—what?—these feelings for Andrei are messing me up big time.
I can’t feel anything for a man, that’s number one.
Any man.
Because that could lead to abuse and sleepless nights and emotional pain like a gunshot to the chest. I learned that lesson; I don’t intend to forget it anytime soon.
So men—bad.
But a Russian man? That’s doubly bad.
I stare at the photo, moving my fingers over it, stroking his rippled muscles. He looks deadly in the Minotaur mask, a force to be reckoned with. A force that could, maybe, finally get me free from Dad’s clutches? I laugh at the idea. What the fuck am I thinking?
I may or may not have had a couple of glasses of wine, something I’ve been known to do at the studio. Maybe that’s why I almost leap out of my skin when the buzzer goes, reminding me that I agreed to meet Molly here. I had completely spaced out on that.
I walk down the corridor, past the dark room, past the small lounge area—nothing fancy, just a couple of couches and a coffee table—to the side door. Molly must have come straight from work, because she’s city-chic while I’m dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. The contrast makes us both laugh as we silently acknowledge it. I swear, I could have an entire conversation with Molly just with eye signals. I guess that’s what you get when you’ve known someone since you were little kids.
“You reek of wine. I love it,” Molly laughs, dropping down on the couch with a huff. “Be a good little servant and get me some, will you?”
“Would you prefer that in a glass, or in the bottle smashed directly over your head?”
She smiles. “Dealer’s choice.”
I get the wine and we settle on the couches. The radio is playing pop music quietly, the lights low and the mood ambient. Molly shrugs off her work jacket and kicks her heels off, reclining.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Long-ish,” she says, taking a large sip of wine. “This lovely couple wanted to make their son’s bar mitzvah one to remember, so, when he asked for a bunch of retro arcade games at the after party, of course they said yes. What they didn’t mention was that the function room was on the fourth floor of the hotel … and the elevators just so happened to be broken. Some sort of building-wide mix-up, apparently. Everybody was furious about it. I feel sorry for the poor staff. Anyway, so I’ve been plying movers all day with lemonade and cookies to keep their morale up as they lugged, like, ten heavy-ass arcade machines up the narrow staircase.”
I chuckle. “So, fun day, then?”
“And that was only the beginning!” she laughs. She knocks her wine back and holds the glass out, pinky up. When I flip her the bird, she pouts and pours it herself. “What about you?” She nods at the wall, where I have pinned the same photo of Andrei—the first one I took—with different editing tweaks. “Obsessed, much?”
“Just going through my normal process,” I mutter guiltily.
“Hmm,” Molly says, grinning. “But don’t you normally get a few photos before you start doing that. At least twenty or so?”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m trying something out. Why are you suddenly so interested, huh?”
She winks. “Why are you suddenly so defensive … huh?”
“I’m not defensive,” I say. One might describe my tone—not unfairly—as defensive.
“Listen, sweet pea,” Molly says, “if you are falling head over heels for Andrei, I’m not gonna tell you it isn’t weird. You know, what with him being your dad’s prisoner and everything. But, like, I get it.”
“Ha, ha,” I say. “You’re so not funny. So, how was the bar mitzvah, after the machine fiasco, I mean?”
She rolls her eyes, indicating that she caught that not-so-slick change of subject but is going to let it slide … for now.
Freeing her ponytail, she says, “It was okay, except it turns out the mother was either an alcoholic or was so overcome with emotion, she decided to get blackout drunk. I really didn’t believe it when she tore off her shirt and started dancing on the tables, chest puppies popping all over the place.”
“You’re kidding!”
Molly smiles at me victoriously. “Obviously, I’m kidding! I had you going, though, right?”
“Nope,” I lie, laughing. “Who’s looking at your ‘chest puppies’ these days? Any men on the horizon?”
“Urgh, men. I deleted my Tinder account. Have I mentioned that yet?”
“Wow, this is big news.”
She grins ruefully. “Every time I take the convo outside Tinder, it’s apparently an invitation for them to send me unsolicited dick pics. I mean, does that work, ever? In the entire history of the human race, has a man sent a woman a dick pic she didn’t ask for, and the woman’s been like: mmm, yeah baby, let me get some of that. What the fuck?”
I’m laughing hard, almost snorting wine. “It is weird,” I agree when I calm down. “I’m just glad I’ve never made a Tinder account. Jeez. But how else are you going to arrange your one-night-stands?” I tease.
She raises her glass. “The old-fashioned way!” she declares. “Stand at a bar in a short skirt until some smooth asshole demands that I let him buy me a dr
ink. You know, keep it old school.”
“Are there really no nice guys on Tinder, then?” I ask.
“Nice guys.” She shivers at the phrase. “The nice guys are the worst, Jamie. An asshole might send you a dick pic and ask for a boob shot in return, but a nice guy’ll make a fake Facebook account and troll your profile until he finds a photo of you with your favorite flowers, and then somehow figure out where you’re holding your next event, and send the flowers there.”
“Why do I have the feeling that you’re speaking from experience here?”
It feels good to laugh and talk nonsense with Molly, drinking wine until we have to open another bottle. But, somehow, when we’re both a little tipsy, the conversation steers back to Andrei and my apparently obvious feelings for him. Obvious enough, anyway, to Molly who can read me like a … well, like a sign that says I Want To Fuck Andrei Bakhtin and Maybe More.
Weaving slightly from side to side—okay, maybe we’re going from Tipsy Town to Drunk Avenue double-time—Molly leans forward and says, “If you want to feel something, feel something! You don’t have to be guilty about it.”
“Feel something,” I repeat bitterly. “Yeah, because that worked out so well last time. Do you remember the movie date?” Of course she doesn’t remember. She wasn’t there. But I’ve told her about it enough times. “I’m standing outside waiting for him, and he’s late—he’s the late one—and then, when we finally get in there and we’ve missed the start of the movie, he just starts pinching my leg. That sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? Pinching my leg. Like, how badly could that hurt?
“But it hurt really bad, Molly. He did it really hard. And the worst part was, I just sat there, not even making a noise. I was scared if I made a noise, I’d ruin the movie for him. How fucked up is that? That’s what happened the last time I felt something!”
Molly flinches, clearly upset like she always is when I talk about my ex-boyfriend.
But then her face hardens. “That sucks. Hell, sucks is about the biggest understatement in the universe. I get that. But what the fuck are you supposed to do, Jamie? Spend the rest of your life living in misery because of this asshole?”
