Page 39 of Rapunzel Is Losing It

“I’ll tell you when I’m sure you’re not a snitch.”

“Victor-”

“Places to be,” I said instead of letting him speak and got in my car.

“Hey, hold up!” Irina shouted down the driveway before I could shut my door. She barreled towards me, curls bouncing. “Give me a ride.” It was neither a question, nor did she wait for me to reply as she plopped into the passenger seat.

Luka just threw his hands up and went back inside. Guess that meant I was giving Irina a ride.

“Why are you in my car?” I asked when we passed the front gate of Petya’s estate without anyone stopping us to drag my little cousin back.

“Because Dad tracks mine.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s put a tracker on this one, too.”

“Sure, but I can just get out at a random red light and then walk or grab a cab. He won’t even know where I got out of your car.”

“He’s probably tracking your phone.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Vitya. I left it at home and I’m only using cash, so he can’t track my cards.”

I glanced over at the young woman clamoring for some freedom, dark makeup around her eyes, clad in a pair of low jeans and a crop top under her jacket.

“Date?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she breathed, looking out the window.

I wondered if Irina knew about my parents. Did she know that her father had killed his own sister - my mother - for this kind of shit? My parents had wanted their freedom. They had tried to make a run for it when I was seventeen and was already being trained by Yury to join the family business. I came back from a fight in Vegas and suddenly had ashes for parents.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked.

“Around here somewhere.” Irina opened her purse and started rummaging around in it. “Why?”

“I’ll give you my number in case you need a ride home tonight.”

She hesitated for a moment before writing my number on an old gum wrapper. “Thanks.”

“Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Please,” Irina rolled her eyes at me with a grin, “I bring the trouble.”

She hopped out of the car at a street light near the city center, and pulled up her jacket’s hood against the drizzle. Maybe I had to reevaluate my definition of winning against my uncle. Maybe I had to find a way to get Irina under the safe umbrella, too, before her father could snuff out her desire for freedom.

While I didn’t like leavingCordelia alone longer than needed, I’d been able to give her a heads-up today. I had one more errand to run.

Despite offering to pay for his time, the scraggly old shopkeeper had refused my request for an after-hours appointment, when Cordelia would have been asleep. I could have thrown my name around. Most shop owners in Boston were either in our pocket or the Italians’, but I didn’t need some Patriarca bastard coming after me, trying to make a name for himself at an antiquities shop.

The golden bell above the door startled the tiny man with thick glasses behind the counter. Apparently he didn’t get a lot of visitors. Not surprising. His website looked like it had been built in the 90s, but at least his phone number had been accurate.

“Hello there,” he croaked, “is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

“Here for the teapot,” I said, refusing pleasantries.

“Right, right. Of course.” He tapped a bony finger against his temple as if he needed to jumpstart his brain.

The shop was tiny and it was stuffed to the ceiling with clutter and dust. I was sure Cordelia would have a field dayrummaging through every cabinet, finding trinkets and hair clips and tea spoons. I’d always been fascinated with history, if only because of Petya’s obsession with everything modern, but I didn’t need to own some dusty musket to appreciate its perseverance over time.

“Here it is.” The shop owner resurfaced behind an old chest of drawers and set the white porcelain teapot out on the counter. It was shaped like an onion, decorated with swirls of gold and flowers in various shades of pink. It was as gaudy as it could get without actually being pink. She’d love it.