Page 18 of Mob Bride

“Hey, boss. Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to be sure.”

I’m in my car alone on the way to a meeting I’m not invited to. It’s sweltering even this early in the morning, but I have a baseball cap on and long sleeves. The red hair and freckles give me away to anyone with even a smidge of a connection to a syndicate. Three brothers married three sisters, so the only dominant genes were recessive ones. The six of us—Dillan, Seamus, Cormac, Finn, Sean, and I—have close shades of red hair somewhere between our dads’ dark strawberry blond and our moms’ russet. Our dads have blue eyes, but all of us inherited our moms’ green ones. It makes us way too recognizable.

“What’d you find out?”

“No one’s been to her place in days. She doesn’t get mail delivered there. Not even a flyer. Her designated parking space was always empty. Pittsburgh’s got public transportation, but nothing convenient enough between her place and where she supposedly works.”

“Supposedly?”

“Yeah. I checked the employee directory on the voicemail.”

I should have thought of that.

“Her name’s not listed. I slipped in and poked around when the night custodian arrived. Her name isn’t anywhere. Not ona desk. Not on a cubicle. Not on an office door. I checked the reception desk, and her name wasn’t on the directory there either. I know you told me no peeking in windows. She lives on the fourth floor, so I went to the roof across the street with my binoculars. Blinds were closed the entire time. I can get that to keep out the sun. But lights never went on at night. Boss, it’s not just that she doesn’t live there. No one lives there. My guess is she doesn’t even live out here.”

“Thanks, David.”

“Anything else? You want me to keep watching in case I’m wrong, and she comes round?”

“No. We’re good.”

“Do you think she’s okay? I don’t want to think something’s happened to Meredith’s daughter. It would devastate her.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted you to check on her. I think I know where she is. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t out near you before I get nosey somewhere else.”

“All right. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I tap the end call button on my steering wheel. I don’t have a fucking clue where Carys is. But David doesn’t need to know that. I trust him, but he had his job, and now it’s done. We don’t gossip. We don’t shoot the shite.

I have to table my thoughts because I’m at the far end of the lumberyard in Yonkers. I pull into the shadows and park. I own several cars, all of which cost more than some people’s homes. But not this one. I own the Toyota Corolla I’m in, but all of us use it when we want to blend in. It might be a late model, low end car on the outside, but we’ve had it customized. The headlights don’t flash, and the horn doesn’t beep when we lock and unlock it. The dome light won’t come on if there’s a bomb. The entireframe is reinforced against impact big and small—from bullets to bulldozers—and the windows are shatterproof.

The shirt I’m wearing has the lumberyard company logo on it, so I look like I probably have a reason to be here after hours. I have my excuse ready. I’m here to grab my proof of residency for my daughter’s school that I printed on the company machine and shouldn’t have. Whoops. I got distracted by a call and forgot I left the electric bill in the machine’s tray. I need it to register her, or she’ll lose her spot at the magnet school. If that happens, not only will my wife and daughter kill me, I’ll lose my son’s sibling privilege to get into the school next year.

Yeah. I’ve used this story a few times before. I have it down pat. I’ve practiced it with my mom a few dozen times until she said I could pass for a dad—vaguely aware of what’s going on and not interested in dealing with his wife saying she knew she should have just taken care of it herself—like everything else in their house. I’ll take my mom’s compliments any way I can get them. My dad and uncles were—are—totally hands on dads. They knew way more than any of us wanted. My mom was going off her dad; our mob boss until I was in high school. This is not when I want to reflect on that old coot.

I creep along the side wall where I know the security cameras aren’t pointing. They’re fixed lens and only focus straight in front with a forty-five-degree radius to either side.

Me

I’m in place. I’m calling you

Finn shoots me a thumbs up emoji just before I hit the call button. I drop the phone back in my pocket. If anything happens, Finn’ll know right away. I’d wear a wire, but the men know what to look for. If shite goes wrong, Finn can hang up before they take my phone. They won’t know anyone waslistening. It wouldn’t be ideal to end the call, but I might live ten minutes longer than if they found me miked or with a camera.

“What the fuck’s taking him so long?”

I recognize Bartlomiej Nowakowski’s voice. That piece of shite.

He’s sucking the Kutsenkos’ balls to keep them happy. After the shite that went down with the Albanians and the Russians, the Polish aren’t looking for the same trouble. They’re skating on cracking ice with the Italians, too. They don’t look in the Colombians’ direction, and we barely tolerate them. That’s why I want to know about the shipments he’s getting from Bogdan, the youngest of the four Kutsenko brothers.

I already looked around as I drove by. I don’t see any of Bogdan’s cars or any of their decoys. I recognized Bartlomiej’s though. He thinks having a mid-shade blue SUV makes him less noticeable. When you’re the only fucker without a black one, you stick out.

I ease inside one of the bay doors and duck behind six stacked sawdust barrels. It shields me from sight, but I can see around and between them. Bartlomiej’s standing with his hands on his hips, even more pissed than usual. Something’s going on because his brother’s keeping his distance. Normally, he’d be the one bitching about people wasting his precious time.

Twat.

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