“Constantin, I know you and I aren’t best friends—” Constantin snorted loudly and Wolfe rolled his eyes “—but we both care about Sebastian.” He put his hand on Constantin’s shoulder, who looked at it like it was a cockroach. “Put your ass-cutting blade away. I’m not going to let anything happen to him.”
Constantin regarded him for a moment before he nodded tightly. “All right. I’m trusting you. Do not make me regret it.” He left, trudging down the stairs with heavy footfalls.
Wolfe ducked (literally, the doorways were short) back into the bedroom in time to hear Christopher say to Sebastian, “Are you okay with Wolfe being… bisexual? You know, since you two are dating?”
In unison:
“We’re not dating!” from Wolfe.
“You’re bisexual?” from Sebastian.
“Am I watching a soap opera?” from Kevin, pulling on his pants in the corner.
At that moment Melissa and Scarlett emerged from the walk-in closet. They were both dressed in full-length formal gowns, Mel’s a conservative black satin number accented with diamonds in her ears, and Scarlett’s an off-the-shoulder lace dress that was as red as her name, color-coordinated with her lipstick and a ruby pendant. They each carried little clutch purses, and Wolfe imagined Scarlett’s gun was most likely strapped to her thigh, accessible through the slit in the side of her skirt.
“You boys ready?” Melissa asked. She looked at each of their faces—which ranged from confused to stupefied—before glancing at Scarlett. “I feel like we missed something.”
Scarlett shrugged, touching her up-do and offering an arm to Kevin. “Probably nothing important. Let’s go!”
~***~
The club Lacey knew was on Warrenton Street, which was less of a street and more of a scythe-shaped cut-through for Stuart Street and Charles Street South before it blended with Tremont. Warrenton was true to its namesake, an extremely narrow tunnel between tall buildings that resembled a rabbit warren. Incidentally, the street also ran directly behind the Courtyard Marriott where David and Diana had a room. Jake didn’t know that, and even if he had, it wasn’t like he would care; David wasn’t his father, and there was nobody who was going to stop him from getting his next Rapture hit.
He’d hung out at Lacey’s for the remainder of the day, and then she’d given him some of her ex-boyfriend’s clothes to wear—leather pants and a patterned long-sleeved shirt to hide most of the scars. With his hair gelled into a spikey style and eyeliner ringing his green irises, it was doubtful anyone would recognize him as Jake Wolfe, and that was good enough for him.
A line started at the club’s awning and ran to Stuart Street, but he and Lacey got there early enough that they were two-thirds of the way to the doors when they opened. The street wasn’t what one would call well-lit, so it took ten minutes of holding Lacey’s sweaty hand and pretending to be straight before Jake got close enough to the club to read the name embossed in golden script on the burgundy awning: Balançoire. He didn’t remember much from high school French, but he knew Balançoire meant Swing.
Jake was reasonably sure it wasn’t a swing-dancing club, which left a swingers’ club as the alternative—a place where couples met to “switch spouses” and have sex with other like-minded individuals in a non-judgmental environment. He only knew what a swingers’ club was because one had been a bone of contention (pun intended) in a divorce case that Misha’s boss had taken to court.
Jake nudged Lacey with his elbow. “Who owns this place?”
Lacey swayed a little on her high heels, using her free hand to yank down the hem of her blue mini-dress. “Uh, duh? That French bitch who owns the wine shops?”
They moved up in line and were almost to the doors, but Jake no longer cared. He turned toward Lacey and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You mean Joanne Lavinge?” He kept his voice low, aware that a few people had turned to inspect the “couple” having an argument. He heard some cars turn down Warrenton from Stuart but didn’t take his eyes off Lacey’s mulish, confused face. “She owns the club?”
“Yeah, she does—Christ, what’s your deal?” Lacey tried and failed to get out of Jake’s grip; despite the broken bones and scarring, he had an artist’s hands and they were strong. Her gaze drifted over his shoulder, eyes widening. “Hey, what are those guys doing?”
Jake turned and his blood ran cold at the sight of a dozen or so rough-looking guys with automatic rifles piling out of cars parked haphazardly in the middle of the road. A few of them had shaved heads or exposed biceps, and Jake glimpsed tattoos of a large four-leaf clover. That was the insignia of the Mahoney Mob, Boston’s biggest Irish gang—much to the chagrin of Uncle Bobby and the boys from Winter Hill.
“Nothin’ you need to worry about, sweetheart,” said a guy in a windbreaker, a cigarette dangling from his lip and an AK-47 in his hands. He lifted the gun and riddled the bouncer with bullets in a frightening cacophony of sound that sent a lot of people running. The stragglers weren’t so lucky. “Now, be nice hostages and get inside. We need to get Ms. Lavinge down here as soon as possible.”
~***~
From a black Mercedes sedan parked near the curve where Warrenton Street met Charles Street South, Constantin saw the invasion of the Mahoney Mob unfold in his rearview mirror. He’d taken to keeping tabs on Lacey Stahl, for reasons he couldn’t justify. She was the approximate age of his daughter, but she wasn’t his daughter; she was a drug addict who’d kick him in the balls if she found out the chief bodyguard for the guy who’d had her kidnapped was following her around.
Much like Lacey’s Rapture addiction, this was a habit Constantin couldn’t shake. Whenever he wasn’t out with Sebastian or trying to sleep through blood-soaked dreams of Nicolae Ceaușescu’s ruthless regime, he was tailing Lacey to different bars and shops. She liked expensive clothes and even more expensive liquor, and he’d seen her down vials of Rapture on more than one occasion. He figured if he couldn’t reset her life to the point before she caught Anton’s eye, he could at least make sure she got home safely each night.
Constantin was already out of the car when the Mahoney thug he belatedly recognized as Neal Joyce shot the bouncer outside Lavinge’s club. The gunshot didn’t surprise him, but the shine of copper hair he saw move under the club’s outside lights did. Because of course Lacey wasn’t at a swingers’ club by herself, oh no—she was with Jake Wolfe. That didn’t make sense at first, because Constantin knew Jake was gay (he had, after all, slept with Sebastian), but if he and Lacey both wanted a Rapture fix this was a no-brainer way to get it.
“Rahat,” he cursed under his breath, drawing his Ruger and hitting the sidewalk in a crouch, crab-walking closer behind a line of parallel parked cars. Most of the gangsters had their backs to him, so once he was close enough he risked sticking a hand above the hood of a Prius in a wave and prayed silently that Jake was half as observant as his brother.
As Constantin watched, Jake made sure he and Lacey wound up as one of the last couples to get herded inside. By then there was only one Mahoney mobster left outside, lazily waving his AK at the shuffling hostages. Constantin nodded at Jake and aimed the Ruger over the hood, and right before he and Lacey were going to walk inside Jake spun on his heel and slammed a hard right hook across the last goon’s jaw, making him stumble and fall to the ground. His fellow Mahoneys shouted curses but were trapped by the bodies of their hostages and couldn’t get to Jake and Lacey before they scampered away.
They joined Constantin behind the Prius but there was no time for conversation before they made a bent-over run to the Mercedes, gunfire chasing them.
~***~
The Four Seasons was one of Boston’s best-known and most expensive hotels, a sprawling monolith of brick and steel that took up half a block of Boylston Street in Back Bay and had spectacular views of the Public Garden. The night of the Delaney Veterans Center’s annual charity gala also saw the end of the unseasonable heatwave shrouding the city, which was a blessing for everyone involved.
When Wolfe exited the limousine ahead of Christopher and Melissa he was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t start sweating. He squinted against the camera flashes from the media gathered outside the doors to the hotel and turned to look at the street before waving for the others to get out. He felt naked without his gun, but the venue had a strict no-weapons policy except for their own armed security guards.
Sebastian emerged first and offered his arm to both Melissa and Scarlett so they didn’t get tangled in the skirts of their dresses. Christopher got out next, waving to the reporters before taking Melissa’s hand. Kevin tumbled out and Scarlett put her hand on his elbow, and Wolfe only hesitated for a split second before he grabbed Sebastian’s hand.
Wolfe’s phone vibrated in his pocket, but he waited until they were through the metal detectors to glance at the screen.
One text message from his mother: we need to talk about your father
“Shit,” he muttered. David must’ve revealed himself to Angela, but why now? And why hadn’t he told Wolfe before he did it? Since leaving his mom on read was never a good idea, Wolfe typed a quick I’m sorry before putting his phone away.
“Is everything okay?” Sebastian asked lowly. He’d stopped walking when Wolfe slowed down to check his phone, tugging them out of the flow of incoming guests. That allowed Christopher to mingle further ahead as they made their way into the ballroom. “You seem tense.”
“It’s my dad,” Wolfe said, and Sebastian made a noise of understanding, because to say they both had issues with their fathers would be an understatement. Wolfe looked at Sebastian’s face but only briefly, his eyes scanning the room for potential threats. Several people had brought veterans as guests, but he had the craziest amount of ribbons and medals—except for one man who was half-turned in their direction, a head shorter than Wolfe but built like a brick shithouse. “Flynn? Son of a bitch, is that you?”
Former Sergeant Flynn Walker laughed at the shocked look on Wolfe’s face, coming over to shake hands and give him a slap on the back. Flynn was in his late forties but one wouldn’t know it by looking at him, all barrel chest and brown eyes flecked with gold. His dark hair had gone salt-and-pepper around the temples and in his neatly-trimmed beard, but any lines in his face gave him character and there was plenty of muscle definition visible under his Army dress uniform. Where Wolfe wore the blue and green shield of the 75th Ranger Regiment on his jacket, Flynn carried the red arrowhead and dagger of Delta Force.
Wolfe returned the brief embrace before introducing Sebastian. “This is Flynn Walker, the only bastard crazy enough to get out of the Army alive and join up again after a stint with the CIA. What are you even doing here, man?” He paused, noticing the woman with Flynn for the first time. “And who are you?”
“Charlotte Tran,” she answered, shaking his hand firmly. She was around Scarlett’s height and age, with long black hair parted to the side in a smooth braid and dark angular eyes that were offset by the ochre of her skin and the burgundy of her lipstick. She wore a plum gown with a beaded bodice; her right arm was tattooed with an intricate gold and red dragon, the head resting on the wing of her shoulder and the tail curling around her wrist. Various other tattoos were scattered over both of her arms and her décolletage. “Please, call me Lottie. We’re here for the open bar and to bid on sports memorabilia—if you know Flynn, then you know he loves the Bruins.”
“Only because the Dallas Stars are shit,” Wolfe said, absently echoing a statement from Flynn back when they’d run into each other in the Sandbox. Part of him didn’t buy Lottie’s excuse for a second—the part that remembered Flynn had spent his ten years separated from the Army working for the CIA. “Where’s Devereux? I thought you two were attached at the hip.”
“Oh, you know Dev,” Flynn replied, waving a hand dismissively. His Texas drawl was barely detectable on a normal day, and nonexistent when he was working, so he and Lottie definitely weren’t at the gala for fun. “He’s always got a crazy project in the works, said he couldn’t make it. Plus he hates shit like this.”
Before Wolfe could agree with that sentiment, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A waitress dressed in an unflattering black suit worn by the catering company’s staff was walking from the bar toward the back of the ballroom. Her hair was collected in a bun at the back of her head, but it shone a familiar shade of red under the yellowed light of the chandeliers.
“Excuse me,” Wolfe said to Flynn and Lottie, and lower, to Sebastian, “I’ll be right back.”
He followed the redheaded waitress, trying to be subtle as he pushed his way through the crowd.
~***~
Flynn and Lottie moved on after Wolfe left, and Sebastian contemplated what they were really doing at the gala as he grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Some kind of espionage, no doubt, but what kind? He took a sip and raised his eyebrows at the quality; he didn’t know much about the Delaney Veterans Center, but evidently they were plying their donors with fantastic alcohol.
Sebastian walked the perimeters of the party, checking out the items up for auction and bidding on an autographed poster of Tom Brady that he thought Wolfe might like. The room was massive but warm with all the bodies in it, the scent of pricey perfumes and body odor mingling with shrimp puffs and some kind of foie gras that Sebastian wouldn’t touched if he were paid. He kept an eye out for Scarlett and the others, but Christopher had no doubt surrounded himself with potential supporters, which made it hard to find them.
He stopped at the bar to deposit his empty champagne flute, and froze when he heard his father’s all-too familiar voice behind him: “Sebastian? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Thinking nothing but a litany of Romanian curses, Sebastian turned around to face Anton. “Father,” he greeted, inclining his head. “You’re looking quite svelte this evening. Did you find a tailor to replace Otis?”
Anton got in his space immediately, standing close enough that their noses were only an inch apart. “Do not get smart with me, boy,” he growled, one hand coming up to fist in the lapel of Sebastian’s tuxedo jacket. “I asked you a question—and where is Constantin?”
“Not here,” Sebastian spat, and before he knew what he was doing he was batting his father’s arm away. “And get your hands off me.”
Anton’s face twisted, skin going puce. “You little—”
Sebastian never got to find out what little thing he was because before Anton could finish the thought there was a commotion near the front of the ballroom. The windows there faced Boylston, and right before their glass was dissolved by a hail of bullets, Sebastian caught a glimpse of the same black van that had terrorized Stela three nights earlier.
~***~
Scarlett was in the middle of taking a bite of mango and bacon bruschetta when the gunfire started. She threw down her delicious bread and pushed Christopher and Melissa until they bent double and ran them behind one of the buffet tables. Pulling her handgun from the holster strapped to her thigh, she hip-checked Kevin to the floor to get him clear. Then she climbed on an abandoned cocktail table to look for Wolfe’s ridiculous shoulder-to-waist ratio in the scrambling clusters of guests. Some of the ones in uniform were having PTSD episodes, while others were trying to herd those without combat experience away from the blown-in windows.
She spun a full three-sixty and didn’t see Wolfe, but the added height allowed her to spot the dozen guys with black balaclavas over their heads trooping into the ballroom, some carrying sawed-off shotguns, others wielding battered M16s. Their tattooed bodies fanned out through the crowd, looking for someone—this was a different MO from the shooting at Stela, and Scarlett didn’t like the implication of it one bit. She gripped the skirt of her dress near the split in the fabric and yanked up hard, ripping the seam and giving her mobility, then kicked off her pumps and grabbed them up, flipping them so the spiked heels faced outward.
“Need an assist?” a voice asked from below her, and she glanced down
at a woman in a purple dress who had torn her skirt too, red-bottomed Louboutins gripped in her fists. She grinned at Scarlett, dark eyes shining with adrenaline. “Lottie Tran, nice to meet you.”
Scarlett grinned back, sensing a kindred spirit. “You wanna go kick some ass?”
~***~
Wolfe experienced a strong sense of déjà vu as he chased Laine Parker through the Four Seasons, flashing back to the other night and his impromptu dead-sprint down Brookline Avenue. This was a much less crowded run and Wolfe was able to catch up to Laine, grabbing her shoulder when they reached the middle of the street behind the hotel. “Laine, I know it’s you! Why are you doing this?”
Laine whipped around much faster than Wolfe anticipated and spin-kicked him in the chest, knocking him back a few steps. She stared at him with wide, haunted eyes, her scarred face ghoulish in the pale moonlight. “I… I don’t know.”
Before Wolfe could react to that, the unmistakable rapid-fire purr of a minigun firing on Boylston had him half-turning back toward the Four Seasons. God-fucking-dammit, Bobby, he thought.
Then he jumped out of the way as a beat-up Oldsmobile careened down the street, a young man with an enraged expression on his face behind the wheel. Wolfe half expected the driver to point a gun at him, but all he did was glare and put the pedal to the floor once Laine dove in the backseat. He had no hope of catching them, so Wolfe memorized the license plate even though he was certain the car was stolen.
He booked it back to the hotel, rushing through the kitchen and into the ballroom, which was a disaster of broken glass, trampled food, and ripped garments. Only a few people were inside—Lottie and Scarlett, along with Anton and a couple of his bodyguards. The rest of the guests must’ve stampeded out when the shooting started, probably through one of the side doors or the emergency exits.
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