The hum in my rib turns into a stab. I take a slow breath and let it out slower. I keep my hand where it is under the desk.
Afon is watching me, as always, but he doesn’t push. He, better than anyone alive, understands the currency of debts owedand debts repaid. Given what happened fifteen years ago, he considers my pain, in some twisted way, his responsibility.
I hate him a little for that.
I love him a lot for it, too.
“So then what happens to her?”
Afon’s head tilts. Just a fraction. “You know the answer to that, Matvei.”
I meet his eyes and say nothing.
He sighs. “She goes to prison.That’s what happens to her. Twenty-five to life, probably. Maybe less if her lawyer is decent and leans hard on the abuse angle.” He shrugs one shoulder. “She might do ten and get parole. She might do the whole thing. That’s not our problem.” His frown deepens. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
“I like to know what I’m signing up for. That’s all.”
“Mm.”
Afon remains skeptical, but he eventually sits back and the weight of his attention lifts off me by about half a degree. Not all the way, though. Never, ever all the way. Not once in fifteen years.
“Nephew,” he says, “this is the job Lukas gave you. This is the path out. You find the Vainakh head, you cut it off, then you hand in your Bratva card, such as it is, and your life is your own again.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He holds my eyes for a long, unsmiling beat. Then he pushes himself up out of the chair with the quiet grunt of a man whose knees are not what they used to be. “The wife is not a person. Not for this. For this, she is a door we walk through. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“Yeah. I got it.”
“Good man.”
He lets himself out the way he let himself in, soundless on the carpet, and the door shuts behind him.
I sit there for a long minute with my hand pressed against my side and the folder sitting open on my desk where my uncle left it. The last page is another photo of Raymond, this time helping a woman out of the car. Her face is still hidden in the shadows, but the ring on her finger is gaudy and obvious.
Under the photo, in Afon’s blocky blue pen, is a single line.
wife: Cassandra Snyder (née Madden), 29, no priors, multiple hospital admissions.
My hand goes tight on the arm of my chair.
Cassandra.
Cassandra Madden.
CassandraSnyder.
Oh, fucking hell.
Afon was right: I really did need to sit down for this one.
12
CASS
The invitations were sent out on thick, cream-colored cardstock with gold foil trim, which is Raymond’s way of signaling to the universe that he is Very Important and also has Very Good Taste.
