Chapter 5 - THE CABIN IN THE TIMBER
The house stood at the end of a six-mile dirt road that had not seen a snowplow since the previous winter.
It was built of dark cedar logs, low-slung, with a steep tin roof designed to shed five feet of mountain snow. Surrounding it were sixty acres of black spruce and white pine, silent except for the wind scraping through the high branches and the occasional crack of frozen timber.
Vivien sat at the heavy oak kitchen table, a mug of black tea steaming between her palms.
Across from her sat Henri Mercier.
He was a big man, broad-shouldered despite his years, with skin like cured leather and eyes that had seen enough violence in his youth to know when a room was about to become dangerous. He was clean-shaving a wedge of salted pork with a pocketknife, laying the thin strips on a wooden board between them.
"He's coming himself," Henri said without looking up from his pork.
"I know," Vivien said.
"He won't bring a full crew. Too loud for the border. He'll bring Paulie and maybe two boys from the North End who know how to walk in the bush without breaking every twig within forty yards."
"Paulie doesn't walk in the bush," Vivien said softly, staring into her tea. "Paulie stays in the car with the heater running and sends the boys in first."
Henri grunted. He picked up a piece of pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. "You're very calm for a girl who just put a match to forty million dollars of mafia money."
"It's sixty-eight million," Vivien corrected gently. "And I didn't put a match to it. I locked it in a drawer."
"Same thing to a man like Vescari," Henri said. He set his knife down with a soft thud against the oak table. "A man like that doesn't see a difference between a woman who steals his money and a woman who holds it where he can't touch it. To him, both are treason."
Vivien looked around the small kitchen.
It was simple. Cast-iron pans hanging from forged hooks near the woodstove. A kerosene lantern sitting on the counter. A double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun leaning against the corner near the back door, its blue steel oiled and gleaming in the grey light coming through the small window.
It was the polar opposite of Vescari Tower.
There were no marble counters here. No Italian leather sectionals. No forty guests drinking ninety-dollar bourbon while Matteo put his hand on the back of a woman in a green dress.
"Why did you stay seven years, Vivien?" Henri asked softly. His voice lacked the harshness he usually used when talking about the city. "Your father was a bad man, but he wasn't a fool. He told me before he went away that you were too smart for those people."
Vivien was quiet for a long moment. She traced the rim of her stoneware mug with her thumb.
"At first," she said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the woodstove, "I stayed because I thought I was protecting what my father left behind. Matteo offered safety when everyone else was coming for our name. He was strong, Henri. You know how he is. When he walks into a room, you believe nothing bad can happen to you as long as you're standing behind him."
"And then?"
"And then I realized that the things that couldn't happen to me while standing behind him were the things other people were doing," she said, looking up, her hazel eyes clear and cold as glacial water. "The bad things were coming from him. I wasn't being protected, Henri. I was being kept in a vault so no one else could use me against him."
"And the girl last night?"
"The girl last night was just the key turning in the lock," Vivien said. "She thought she was taking something away from me. She didn't realize she was letting me out."
Outside, down at the bottom of the long driveway, a crow let out a sharp, ragged call before taking flight from the top of a spruce tree.
Henri didn't move, but his eyes shifted toward the small window facing south.
"They're at the lower gate," Henri said calmly. "Arthur just dropped the chain."
Vivien didn't flinch. She picked up her tea, took a small sip, and set the mug back down in the exact center of its ring on the table.
"How long?" she asked.
"Ten minutes if they drive fast," Henri said, reaching out his large, scarred hand and picking up the ten-gauge shotgun from the corner. "Fifteen if Paulie remembers where the mud holes are."
Vivien stood up. She reached down to the floor beside her chair, picked up the black leather case, and placed it on the table right next to Henri's wooden cutting board.
"Don't shoot Paulie," she said gently. "He has three daughters in New Jersey. Shoot the tires."
May you like
Henri chuckled—a low, dry sound that sounded like grinding stones. "You always were too soft for this family, Vivien."
"I'm not soft, uncle," Vivien said, turning toward the small hallway that led to the back bedroom. "I'm efficient. Shooting Paulie creates a feud. Shooting his tires creates a walking problem in four feet of mud."
