Page 49 of Tamed Enemy
“You know how to reach me if you need me.”
She hangs up before I do. I push back from my desk and head upstairs to find my wife. Viktor can wait until tomorrow.
18
KATE
Iwait until ten before I place my phone call to Fiona Moran. It’s a Saturday morning, and I don’t have any idea how late she usually sleeps. I want to make my best impression, though. If I wait any longer, she might conclude my reaching out is a mere afterthought.
She answers pleasantly enough: “Fiona Moran.”
“This is Kate Lynch.” I hesitate just a moment. “I’m ringing from Lone Wolf Enterprises.”
“I know who you are.” Her answer is prompt, but I can’t begin to read her tone. She’s queen of Boston’s Irish mob. I expect her to have an accent thicker than my own, but she doesn’t. I’m grateful I didn’t start this convo with the chummy Irish greeting I considered using—what’s the craic?
I clear my throat. “I’m certain you’re aware of the recent news stories about Lone Wolf.”
“About your husband.” Again, her tone is completely opaque.
“About Cole Wolf.”
“And you’re calling to tell me it’s all a pack of dirty lies,” she says.
“I’m calling to tell you that your account remains one of Lone Wolf’s highest priorities. We are ready to assist with any business matters you require. I’m prepared to work for you day or night, without delay.”
I thought about my words before I picked up my mobile. I wanted to be professional—accommodating but not desperate. I’m afraid I’ve only managed to sound like a robot or some poorly programmed AI agent.
“We very much appreciate your business,” I add.
Fiona laughs. “Jesus,” she says. “Who did Cole piss off this time?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know Trap threw him out of the Diamond Ring last month; I was one of the first people he called. But judging from the news stories flooding my phone yesterday and today, this is a hell of a lot worse than that.”
I want to tell her. She runs an Irish clan. Even if she’s never gone head-to-head against the bratva, she knows what it’s like to scrabble for territory, fighting tooth and nail over every feckin’ inch.
But Fiona Moran is my client. And Tarasov’s betrayal isn’t my story to tell.
“That doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “What matters is the fact that nothing has changed for the Old Colony Crew. Lone Wolf is still here to help you.”
It’s her turn to pause. “I understand that,” she ultimately says. “And I appreciate your calling.”
I clutch my phone a little tighter. This is a strange new world for me—making business calls, searching for the perfect words to say. It’s a million times easier to shove spanners in the works,upsetting the professional plans of others. I’m not sure how to end the call.
“Well, then,” I say. “I’ll let you get back to your weekend.”
“I’ll do that.” But before I can end the call, she says, “Kate?”
“Yes?”
“Tell Cole I haven’t forgotten our arrangement. My marker’s still good. If he needs me, he can reach out anytime.”
“I’ll tell him,” I say.
“Good. I hope you get the feckin’ gobshites that did this to him.”
The Irish slang sounds foreign on her lips, like she’s reading some complicated dish listed on a menu. I wouldn’t usegobshitesthere; I’d sayshitehawks, but that’s purely a matter of choice. But I say, “I hope so too.”
