“He’s dealt with.”
“You can’t just leave him here.”
“I can,” she says. “And I will.”
I suck in a breath, trying to choose careful words. “The floor is heated. He’ll start to turn in just a few hours.”
“You’re right,” she says. The stiffness in my shoulders starts to ease. She still understands logic. But then she says, “Turn off the heat. In fact, turn on the air con. I want it cold in here. And dark too. But not too dark for the cameras. I want that gobshite knowing that everything he does, everything he says is being recorded…for posterity.”
This is madness. It’s twisted in a way that might well lash back at us.
But I’ll do it for the woman I love. I’ll do it all for Kate.
I kill the heater in the floor and drop the air temperature to sixty. Kate nods approval before she precedes me up the stairs.
37
KATE
For the first time in our lives together, I wake before Cole does. I lie facing him, breathing shallowly. The nightstand lamp behind me casts dark shadows on his face, where the bruising from Trap Prince’s beatdown is fading to spectacular shades of green and yellow.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can. In the spacious closet, I pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. Feet bare, I head downstairs to the kitchen.
Nilsson, of course, is waiting. Having worked his magic with the coffee maker, he offers me a full cup. “Thank you,” I say, almost accustomed to being waited on.
“My pleasure, Kate.” He hesitates, as he always does, before he says my name. I wonder if I’ll ever fully break him from the habit of calling memadam.
“I’ll get the Land Rover back to you later this morning,” I say. I have to make sure I’ve left no evidence behind.
“I already took the liberty of swapping vehicles,” he says. “Mine was overdue for its regular detailing. I scheduled the service for this morning.”
I have no idea how often Nilsson has his car detailed, but I suspect whoever he trusts with the job is thorough enough to eliminate all traces of DNA from the scene. “Thank you,” I say, after a fortifying sip of coffee.
After Nilsson gives me the slightest of bows, I take an apple from the fridge and head down the hall to my office. With everything that’s happened, I have only one regret: Tarasov only had access to the Viktor code for around forty-eight hours. I wish he’d had much more time to dig his own grave.
Sitting in the chair at my desk, I fire up my computer to review Tarasov’s use of the code. The first thing I see, though, is an email from Carlotta Mirabelli.
From: kdbookonline.com
To: kdbookonline.com
Re: Important Communications Platform
SparkChat is a cesspool—too many misogynistic creeps. I’ve recently been spending a lot of time on CampFire. Check it out and if you like what you see, we can build a house for Ariadne’s Daughters.
I’ve heard about the platform. People gather publicly around various campfires, based on common interests. Private conversations can be held in houses. CampFire is supposed to encourage longer posts than SparkChat and deeper connections. I write back to Carlotta and tell her I’ll check it out.
Before I do that, though, I need to review the reports Viktor generated from Tarasov’s use. The bratva brigadier was a busy little criminal. Not surprisingly, he went after Banque Wagner, our last major mark as Red Cap Raiders. But he pursued more personal targets as well—his District Attorney’s office in Baltimore, his local office of the FBI, and FBI headquarters.
I dig deeper into those. Tarasov combed through federal documents, looking for transcripts and recordings. From his search terms, the truth rapidly becomes clear. The feds had evidence of Tarasov assaulting little girls. They planned to lock him up for the rest of his miserable life—until he agreed to give up his father, along with the entire leadership of the Baltimore bratva.
Tarasov thought he was using Viktor to erase those files. He thought he was clearing his history. Erasing his past.
He was never so wrong in his life.
There’s one more system he used Viktor to access: The records of the Canton Crew. He couldn’t wait until he put a ring on Breagha’s finger, until Da—or Mam, because she’s calling the shots now for my clan—gave him clean access to Lynch clan records.
Viktor worked like a charm. The software spun out lies so realistic I need to study them twice to make sure my family’s secrets remain safe.