Page 85 of Tamed Enemy
“It’s not giving in.”
“You just said?—”
“I’ve looked things up. We’ll file the papers. Even if the court decides them tomorrow—and it’s a fair assumption Tarasov can make that happen—nothing becomes final for thirty days. That’s how long we have to run your Big Store con.”
I shake my head. “That isn’t nearly enough time. We have to find a space. Build it out to look like a government office. Hire people and train them to manipulate Tarasov, to get him to incriminate himself. And then we need to get all that information out to the people who can actually take him down—other bratva families in the States, the right men in Moscow.”
“Thirty days,” she says with determination, as if I just need a little encouragement.
“Shannoncouldn’t do this in thirty days.” The truth is bitter on my tongue.
“But Shannon taught you everything she knew. She taught Megan too.”
Megan.
“I can’t bring her into this. For the past thirteen years, I’ve done everything in my power tokeepMegan from running cons.”
Kate’s shrug is distantly related to pity. “Needs must when the devil drives,” she says.
Nikolai Tarasov is driving all of this. I don’t have a choice.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I send a text to my wayward sister. Nothing says she’ll check the number before our month is up. Even if she gets my message, I have no reason to believe she’ll help. Pyotr Tarasov terrified her when he forcedher to my gate. Any sane person would stay lightyears away from Nikolai, his father.
Still, I have to try.
Nutmeg
I need you
I think about all the other things I could type, all the explanations, all the pleas. But that’s enough. I send it.
Kate nods. “Now we sign the divorce papers. And then we settle down to the real work.”
33
KATE
When I come down to the kitchen on Monday morning, Nilsson is waiting with a carafe of coffee and my favorite mug. “Thank you,” I say, pouring a full cup.
“My pleasure, Kate.” Nope. There’s still the slightest hitch in his voice when he says my name. He’s still fighting the instinct to saymadam.
He passes me a manilla envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your copy of the…document Mr. Wolf had me courier to the court this morning.”
The feckin’ divorce petition we signed last night. I push the envelope away. Something about it feels evil, as if the paper itself was printed by the devil.
“Kate,” Nilsson says. “It is not my place… I should not say… If I may take the liberty of saying…” He hesitates a thirdtime, apparently unaware that he’s just destroyed his record of flawless robotic efficiency at all things.
I wait, because doing anything else seems cruel.
“I am personally devastated to see it has come to this.”
Ordinarily,devastationcomes with a healthy dose of emotion. Nilsson’s voice still sounds like he’s reciting obscure Swedish legal codes. But he reaches out to pat my hand with all the awkwardness of a teenage boy at his first school dance. His fingers are colder than the granite countertop, but I manage not to flinch. He adds, “Anna and I both are.”
“Thank you,” I say. I have to clear my throat to avoid bombarding Nilsson with the type of emotion he might find unbearable—a sniff, God forbid, or even an outright sob. We’re both a lot more comfortable after I take my coffee and leave the kitchen.
