Delaney Pearl Quinn has been a federal prosecutor for the District of Massachusetts for seven years. She comes to a basement bar in the South End every Tuesday afternoon at three in her court suit, straight from court, in case anything important happens.
She has never, in three and a half years, looked properly at the man in the corner of the booth at the back.
Dmitri "Mitya" Volkonsky is the cousin of the Pakhan of the Volkonsky bratva. He fell in love with one Delaney Pearl Quinn of Quincy on the second Tuesday afternoon at three in November in 2016. He has been in the booth at the back of Coven every single Tuesday afternoon since — five hundred and forty-eight Tuesdays — and has not, in any honest sense, told her.
So he commits a federal offence on purpose. A wire fraud. An offshore account in a Caribbean tax haven. Carefully planted, six months in advance, to land US v. Volkonsky, D. P. on her calendar on a Tuesday morning in March 2020.
He walks into her courtroom in a dark grey suit, between two US Marshals.
He winks.
What follows: an emergency recusal call from a Pakhan. A booth confrontation at quarter past five. A kitchen confession in Charlestown. A judge calling him an absolute fucking idiot from the bench. Fourteen months in a federal correctional facility in central Pennsylvania. Three hundred and ninety-two letters in each direction. One proposal at a Charlestown kerb in July 2021. One wedding at the front of Coven in September.
Forbidden Bratva romance. Slow-burn earned. Grand gesture. Closes The Volkonsky Four with a Galina-POV epilogue at the long table on Beacon Hill, with all four couples and all five children.
She has never, in three and a half years, looked properly at the man in the corner of the booth at the back.
Dmitri "Mitya" Volkonsky is the cousin of the Pakhan of the Volkonsky bratva. He fell in love with one Delaney Pearl Quinn of Quincy on the second Tuesday afternoon at three in November in 2016. He has been in the booth at the back of Coven every single Tuesday afternoon since — five hundred and forty-eight Tuesdays — and has not, in any honest sense, told her.
So he commits a federal offence on purpose. A wire fraud. An offshore account in a Caribbean tax haven. Carefully planted, six months in advance, to land US v. Volkonsky, D. P. on her calendar on a Tuesday morning in March 2020.
He walks into her courtroom in a dark grey suit, between two US Marshals.
He winks.
What follows: an emergency recusal call from a Pakhan. A booth confrontation at quarter past five. A kitchen confession in Charlestown. A judge calling him an absolute fucking idiot from the bench. Fourteen months in a federal correctional facility in central Pennsylvania. Three hundred and ninety-two letters in each direction. One proposal at a Charlestown kerb in July 2021. One wedding at the front of Coven in September.
Forbidden Bratva romance. Slow-burn earned. Grand gesture. Closes The Volkonsky Four with a Galina-POV epilogue at the long table on Beacon Hill, with all four couples and all five children.
Used availability for Cora J Riley's Filthy Mine