Page 67 of Mob Bride

Her supervisor, Phil Hammond—tucking that name away for later—comes back on the line.

“That is not how it’s going to work. You’re going to come back into the office, and you are going to debrief us on everything.”

“I would happily do that if I thought I’d live long enough to get there, but I don’t. So, until I’m confident I’ll survive to get there to tell you everything, you’ll have to give me some more time. You trusted me to get into the Polish mob’s world. Now I need you to trust me to get back out.”

“Fine. But I expect daily check-ins from you, since your tracker isn’t on.”

“I know. I had to leave it behind. I took it off to shower because it was irritating my wrist. I couldn’t put it back on without Tymoteusz wondering why I needed a piece of jewelry—at least one that didn’t come from Bartlomiej. That would have made him inspect it. There’s too great a chance he would have found out it’s a tracker. Then I’d be dead.”

“The phone you’re on doesn’t have location services on either.”

“Obviously.” She snaps the word before taking a calming breath. “If you could track me, then so could they. That would defeat the point of the safe house, wouldn’t it? Just give me some time to make my way to you. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“And you’ll tell us about this new CI you have.

“I have to go. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

“Agent—”

“I have to go.”

Carrie ends the call, looking up at me. She’s biting her lower lip, and I can tell she’s struggling to keep it together. I know she’s in work mode, so she doesn’t want to come across as someone who’s too emotional. I will disabuse her of that idea.

“It’s okay to let me know how you’re feeling. It’s okay to be scared. I’m terrified.”

She looks at me as though I’m lying.

“Cailín, just because I don’t show my emotions doesn’t mean I don’t feel them deeply. I’ve been conditioned not to show them. It took a lot of training over a lot of years to hide what I think and feel so easily.”

She’s slow to nod, but she does.

“Carrie—”

I stumble over my words. I want to admit a bit more about my life, so I don’t come across as so closed off and secretive, but I don’t know what I should tell her.

“Carrie, obviously none of us were born with the skills we have. We started with little things when we were eight years old like learning how to pick locks, learning how to pickpocket. By the time we were ten, we were committing minor crimes like that. Not because we needed any of those items we took, but to prove to my grandfather we could. There’s a fecked-up family tradition among all four families.”

Her brow furrows, and I can only imagine what she going to make of what I tell her next.

“We grew up playing peewee and little league sports together. Our parents were the ones who brought snacks to our games. During the week when our dads were rivals, business was business. But on Saturdays and Sundays, when we had games, it was family time. Wives and children were present, so they put aside their animosities and cheered on whichever team their kids played for. And that often-meant cheering on their rival’s children, too. But when we all turned twelve, our birthday gift was a pocketknife. We’ve all carried one since then.”

She can’t hide her shock. It only gets worse.

“When we were fourteen, fifteen, we started helping our dads and the other guys prep for missions. Sometimes we went, but we were far from the action where we couldn’t get hurt. My grandfather and Uncle Donovan pressed for us to do more when we were younger, but my parents and aunts and uncles wouldn’t allow it. Uncle Donovan tried to take us on a mission without our dads one time when we were fifteen. He was my mom’s brother. My mom’s Breda. Dillan’s mom is Siobhan, and Cormac and Seamus’s mom is Saoirse. They terrified their brother more than any other danger he could have ever faced.”

It makes my lips twitch when I think about my mom and aunts, who’re all pretty tall at about five-eight, terrifying Uncle Don, who was like me at six-three-and-a-half.

“They locked themselves in his office one day when they found out what he planned for us. He came out pale as a ghost, clearly shaken. No one ever suggested any of us go on missions where Grandda and Uncle Don expected us to fight like men before we turned sixteen. My mom wanted to prove a point—one I’m not supposed to know about, and neither are my brothers or cousins, but we all do. She put a hit on one of Uncle Don’s men just so Uncle Don knew she could. The guy was in the hospital for weeks as a reminder that Uncle Don might’ve led the mobback then, but his sisters led the family. And family comes ahead of everything.”

That’s probably one of my proudest family memories. I’m keeping that part to myself. I’m already sharing plenty of fucked-up shite. I don’t want Carrie to believe I’m as fucked-up as the things I’ve done.

She waits patiently for me to continue. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“But by the time I was ready for college, I’d done things I can never describe to you. Things that would make you look at me the same way you must Jacek.”

“No, Shane, never that. Jacek does these things because he enjoys them. He’s Bartlomiej’s chief enforcer because he takes pride in his work, and he enjoys watching people suffer. I don’t believe that’s you. Maybe you feel vindicated or maybe even—I don’t know—satisfied by a job well done.”

She offers me a half smile. Neither of us misses the irony of a law enforcement officer understanding my need to murder people.

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