“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I turn away from the windows, continuing my exploration of Isolde’s apartment. Her front door opens into the living room. If you turn right, you’ll find a hallway with a bathroom in between the two bedrooms. To the left of the living room is the kitchen, partially enclosed.
“You never went to Fujimori’s,” Ciaran notes. “So color me fucking surprised when we hear about a suited and booted Tristan Trevino hanging out there.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
The kitchen is clean, but not sterile. There’s a cookie jar sitting on the counter. I lift the lid and find a single joint. Figures. Ren and Isolde are nothing but a pair of potheads.
I set the lid back down gently, creeping around in the quiet.
“All of Dublin,” Ciaran replies.
What he really means is his uncle. The same O’Connell bastard Boris Akatov once ran out of New York. But there’s one Irishman the Russians haven’t managed to get rid of yet.
What’s the deal between your dad and Boris?
I’d love to know the fucking answer, but that’s not how these types of conversations go. Plus bringing up Cain Murray to his younger son is always risky. I’ve got a limited number of questions, and I’m not wasting them on bullshit gossip. Though I know Ren might think differently about that type ofinformation.
But speaking of information.
“What else is Dublin talking about?”
Ciaran makes a noise like he might be drinking his morning cup of coffee. “What exactly do you think they should be talking about?”
“You know a guy named Cade?”
“Yeah, he’s out in London. What the fuck you want with him?”
“For starters I want to know who the fuck he is.” I’m loath to admit when I don’t know something—or someone. It’s why I’m glad I have Ciaran to call. Not only are we friendly, but he won’t tell anyone I’ve called.
He’s also one of the only people I know overseas.
Isolde hired me the day after she and Ren had been accosted by a gunman. Considering bodies were piling up around Ren, it made sense to think she was the target. But when I dug around, finding the idiot triggerman who got tackled by Roman Zimin, the truth came out.
Someone had put a hit out on Isolde.
It wasn’t until tonight that I actually got a name.
Part of the reason it took so long is that the triggerman from Ren’s building had disappeared quickly, too quickly, after he failed to take out his target.
Cade isn’t a name I’ve ever heard in this city, and I’ve made it my job to know every shadowy corner here.
But the pieces start to fit together. Isolde turns up here a little more than three years ago, leaving England behind. The chances are high that Cade’s also British, something Ciaran has just confirmed.
“I’ve got a client,” I tell him truthfully. Ciaran and I have always had an understanding. We don’t bullshit one another when we call each other up like this.
“And they’ve made an enemy out of Cade?”
His voice lifts slightly, the disbelief strong enough to send shivers across my skin.
I pull my phone away from my ear slightly. The shower is still running.
“Based on your reaction you either think I’m fucked or my client is?”
Ciaran is silent as I study Isolde’s fridge. The stainless steel is covered in magnets and scraps of paper, one of which declares itself as ‘Isolde’s New York Bucket List’.
She’s crossed off going to Times Square and Chinatown. A ticket to the Radio Rockettes is held up by a magnet, proof she’s ticked it off her list.
