Stolen Heir: Chapter 10

I spend the next four days locked in that room.

What at first seemed like a huge space, soon begins to feel horribly claustrophobic.

The only time my door opens is when the housemaid brings me a tray of food three times a day. She’s about thirty years old with dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. She wears an old-fashioned maid’s uniform, complete with thick, dark tights, a long skirt, and an apron. She gives me a polite nod when she drops off the new tray and picks up the old one.

I try to talk to her, but I don’t think she speaks English. Or maybe she’s just been instructed not to answer me. Once or twice she gives me a sympathetic look, particularly as I become more disheveled and irate, but I’m under no illusions that she’s going to help me. Why should she risk her job for a stranger?

I spend a lot of time looking out the window. The windows are six feet high, tall and rectangular, with arched tops. The beveled glass is striped with strips of lead, and they don’t open. Even if they did, it’s three very tall stories down to the ground.

The windows are set in stone walls more than a foot thick. It’s like being locked in the tower of a castle.

I have my own bathroom, at least, so I can pee and shower and brush my teeth.

The first time I walked in there and saw a toothbrush, floss, hairbrush, and comb lined up next to the sink, all brand new and untouched, it gave me a shiver of dread. My abduction was planned out ahead of time. I can only imagine what other plots are spinning around in my captor’s deranged mind.

I still don’t even know his name.

I was so horrified when we met that I didn’t even ask him.

In my mind, I’ve been calling him the Beast. Because that’s what he is to me—a rabid dog that lost its master. Now he’s trying to bite anyone he can reach.

I don’t eat any of the food on the trays.

At first, it’s because my stomach is churning with stress, and I don’t have any appetite.

By the second day, it’s become a form of protest.

I have no intention of playing along with the Beast’s psychopathic plot. I won’t be his little pet locked up in this room. If he thinks he’s going to keep me here for weeks or months, only to kill me in the end, I’d rather starve right now just to ruin his plans.

I still drink water out of the bathroom sink—I don’t have quite enough nerve to face the torture of dehydration. But I’m pretty confident I can go a long time without eating. Calorie restriction and ballet go hand-in-hand. I know what it’s like to feel hungry, and I’m used to ignoring it.

It makes me tired. But that’s fine. I don’t have anything to do in this damned room anyway. There are no books. No paper in the writing desk. The only way to spend my time is window-gazing.

I have no barre, but I can still practice pliés, tendus, dégagés, rond de jambe a terre, frappés, adages, and even grand battement. I don’t dare practice any serious jumps or cross-floor exercises, because of the ancient rugs on the floor. I don’t want to trip and sprain an ankle.

The rest of the time I sit in the window seat, looking down at the walled garden. I see fountains and statues down there. Gazebos and pretty bench seats. It’s all overgrown—apparently the Beast doesn’t pay for a gardener. But the asters are blooming, and the snapdragons, and Russian sage. The purple blooms are brilliant against the red leaves. The longer I’m trapped inside, the more desperate I am to sit down there, smelling the flowers and the grass, instead of being locked in this dim and dusty room.

By the fourth day, the maid tries to encourage me to eat. She gestures at the tray of tomato soup and bacon sandwiches, saying something in Polish.

I shake my head.

“No thanks,” I say. “I’m not hungry.”

I want to ask her for some books, but the stubborn part of me won’t ask my captors for anything. Instead, I try to remember the best parts of all my favorite novels, especially the ones I loved when I was little. The walled garden reminds me of the one in The Secret Garden. I think about Mary Lennox. She was only a child, and she already had an iron will. She wouldn’t cave in over a bowl of soup, no matter how good it smelled. She’d throw it against the wall.

On the fifth day, the maid doesn’t bring me any breakfast or lunch. Instead, she comes in the afternoon carrying a green silk dress in a garment bag. She starts filling the huge claw-foot tub with hot water, gesturing for me to get undressed.

“Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

I’ve been putting on my same dirty clothes after every shower, refusing to wear anything out of the wardrobe.

The maid sighs and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a burly, black-haired man at her side.

I recognize him. He’s the asshole who pretended like he was going to fix my car, then jabbed me in the arm instead. The thought of him putting those big, meaty, hairy hands on me while I was unconscious makes my skin crawl.

I don’t like his smile when he sees me again. His teeth are too square and too white. He looks like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Get undressed,” he orders.

“Why?” I say.

“Because the boss says so,” he grunts.

When someone tells me to do something, I feel this impulse to obey. That’s what I’m used to doing, at home and at the dance studio. I follow orders.

But not here. Not with these people.

I wrap my arms tight around my body and shake my head.

“Unlike you, I don’t answer to your boss,” I say.

The maid shoots me a warning look. I can tell from the distance she keeps between herself and the black-haired man that she doesn’t like this guy. She’s trying to tell me not to mess with him, that the veneer of civility only runs so deep.

I could have guessed that for myself. As much as I disliked the Beast, he at least appeared intelligent. This guy looks like a goon through and through, with his caveman brow and his bad-tempered scowl. Stupid people are not creative. They always resort to violence.

“Here’s the thing,” the goon says, frowning at me. “Klara here is supposed to help you bathe and get dressed. If you won’t let her do that, then it’ll be up to me to strip you naked and soap you down with my bare hands. And I won’t be as gentle about it as Klara. So it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

The idea of this overgrown ape attacking me with a bar of soap is more than I can stand.

“Fine!” I snap. “I’ll take a bath. But only if you leave.”

“You don’t get to set terms,” the ape laughs, shaking his oversized head at me. “I’m supposed to supervise.”

God, I want to puke, just from the smug expression on his face. He’s not watching me get in that tub, not voluntarily anyway. What would Mary Lennox do?

“If you try to make me put that dress on, I’ll rip it to shreds,” I tell him calmly.

“We’ve got lots of dresses,” the ape says, as if he doesn’t care.

I see the flicker of annoyance on his face, though. His instructions were to make me wear that dress, not just any dress.

“Go away, and Klara can help me get ready,” I insist.

The smug smile fades off his face. Instead of an ape, he looks like a sulky toddler.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “You better hurry up, though.”

With that attempt to salvage his dignity, he goes back out into the hall.

Klara looks relieved that the confrontation ended that easily. She gestures toward the bathtub, which is now full almost to the brim with steaming water. She’s scented it with some kind of oil—almond or coconut.

At least I know her name now.

“Klara?” I say.

She nods.

“Nessa,” I touch my own chest.

She nods again. She already knew that.

“What’s his name?” I point toward the door where the ape just disappeared.

She hesitates a moment, then says, “Jonas.”

“Jonas is a dick.” I mutter.

Klara doesn’t answer, but I think I see the tiniest of smiles tugging at her lips. If she understands me, then she definitely agrees.

“What about your boss?” I ask her. “What’s his name?”

An even longer pause, in which I don’t think she’s going to answer. Then, at last, Klara whispers, “Mikolaj.”

She says it like the name of the devil. Like she wants to cross herself afterward.

It’s obvious she’s a lot more afraid of him than she is of Jonas.

She points to the bath again and says, “Wejdź proszę.” I don’t know a single word of Polish, but I’m assuming that means “Get in, please,” or “Hurry, please.”

“Alright,” I say.

I strip off my sweatshirt and jeans, which were getting kind of gross, and then unhook my bra and step out of my panties, too.

Klara looks at my naked body. Like most Europeans, she’s not embarrassed by nudity.

“Piękna figura,” she says.

I’m assuming “figura” means “figure.” Hopefully “Piękna” means “pretty” and not “gangly” or “horrifying.”

I’ve always liked languages. My parents taught me Gaeilge as a child, and I took French and Latin in school. Unfortunately, Polish is a Slavic language, so it doesn’t share many words. I’m curious if I can get Klara to talk to me, to see if I can catch the gist of it.

I know she’s not supposed to talk to me. But she is supposed to get me dressed. The more I pester her, the more she relents so that I’ll cooperate with the bathing and the hair-washing. Soon I’ve learned the words for “soap” (mydło), “shampoo” (szampon), “washcloth” (myjka), “bathtub” (wanna), “dress” (suknia), and “window” (okno).

Despite herself, Klara seems impressed that I can remember it all. It becomes a game, one that she’s enjoying almost as much as I am. She’s smiling by the end, showing a row of pretty white teeth, and even laughing at my poor pronunciation when I try to repeat the words back to her.

I doubt she gets much in the way of pleasant interaction with Jonas and the others. The only people I’ve seen around this place are hulking, surly, tattooed men. And of course, the Beast, who’s apparently called Mikolaj, though I find it hard to imagine him having an actual mother and father who would give him a real human name.

He claims the Butcher is his father.

I suppose that’s possible. After all, my father is a gangster. But I don’t trust anything Mikolaj says. Lying comes easier than breathing to men like him.

Klara insists on not only washing me, but shaving every inch of me below the eyebrows. I consider putting up a fight about this, but I go along with it, if only because she’s finally talking to me and I don’t want that to stop. I do make her tell me the words for “razor” and “shaving cream,” and also “towel” as she dries me off.

Once I’ve got the towel wrapped firmly round my body, she sits me down in a chair and starts brushing my hair.

My hair has gotten too long lately. Since I wear it up in a bun or a ponytail every day, I hadn’t really noticed. It’s almost down to the small of my back, thick and wavy and taking forever to dry as Klara tirelessly works the blow dryer and the paddle brush.

She’s good at that, as she seems to be at everything.

“Did you used to work at a salon?” I ask her.

She quirks an eyebrow at me, not understanding the question.

“Salon? Spa?” I say, pointing between her and the blow dryer.

After a moment, her pretty face lights up in understanding, but she shakes her head.

“Nie,” she says. No.

When she’s finished with the hair, Klara does my makeup, then helps me step into the green dress and a pair of strappy gold sandals. The material of the dress is so thin and light that I still feel naked after she zips it up. And, indeed, I am naked underneath, the clinging material not allowing for so much as a thong.

Klara puts gold earrings into my ears, then steps back to admire the effect.

It’s only then that I stop to wonder what, exactly, I’m getting dressed up for. I was so caught up in the bizarre process that I forgot to wonder about the purpose of it all.

“Where am I going?” I ask her.

Klara shakes her head, either not understanding, or not being permitted to say.

Finally, I’m ready to step foot outside my room, for the first time in nearly a week.

I can’t help my excitement. This is how pathetically constricted my sense of freedom has become. Stepping out into the rest of the house is like traveling to China.

I hate that I’m escorted by Jonas, sulking over the fact that he didn’t get to watch me take a bath. He tries to grab my arm and I shake him off, snapping, “I can walk just fine on my own!”

He snarls at me and I shrink back, like a kitten that takes a swipe at a big dog, then immediately regrets it.

Still, it worked. He lets me walk down the hallway on my own, stalking ahead so fast that I can barely keep up in the spindly sandals.

Why in the hell did they dress me up like this? Where am I going?

I can only hope they didn’t go to all this trouble just to make a pretty corpse out of me.

It’s evening again. The house is lit by electric lights, but they’re all so faint and yellowed that it might as well be candlelight.

I’ve yet to see the interior of the mansion in full daylight. It might not be much brighter than it is now. The narrow windows and thick stone walls don’t allow much sunlight to intrude, particularly when the house seems to be set in the middle of a tiny forest.

I don’t even know if we’re still in the city. God, we could be in a whole different country for all I know. I don’t think so, however. The Irish Mob, the Italian Mafia, the Polish Braterstwo, the Russian Bratva—they’re all warring for control of Chicago, as they have been for generations. Sprinkle in a hundred other gangs and cohorts, locally grown and foreign, with fortunes rising and falling, and the balance of power bending and shifting . . .

Nobody leaves. Nobody gives up the fight.

The Beast wants his revenge, and he wants the city, too. He wouldn’t take me too far away. Because then he’d be too far from Chicago himself.

I bet we’re still within an hour of the city. Maybe inside of Chicago itself. There’s plenty of old mansions—I could be in any of them.

And if I am still in Chicago . . . then my family will find me. I’m sure of it. They’ll never stop hunting. They’ll bring me home.

That thought is like a butterfly, fluttering inside of my chest.

It buoys me up as Jonas silently leads me through the double doors of a grand dining room.

A long table fills the space, the kind that could feast a king and his entire court. Nobody sits at the dozens of chairs on either side. There’s just one man seated at the head: the Beast.

All the platters of food are clustered at that end. Roasted chicken stuffed with lemon, a white filet of sole, braised vegetables, beet salad, fluffy piles of mashed potatoes dripping melted butter. Crusty brown bread, finely sliced, and a tureen of creamy mushroom soup. Goblets of dark red wine.

Two places have been laid: one for him, and one for me.

The food is untouched. Mikolaj waited for me.

He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, charcoal gray, with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows to show his tattooed forearms. His tattoos rise up his neck, intricate and dark, like a high collar. The smooth skin of his face and hands looks ghostly pale by contrast.

His expression is wolf-like—hungry and malevolent. His eyes are wolf’s eyes, blue and wintry.

They pull me in, against my will. I meet his gaze, look away, then have to look back again. We’re the only two people in the room. Jonas has left us.

“Sit,” Mikolaj says sharply.

He indicates the seat right next to him.

I’d prefer to be much further down the table.

It’s pointless to argue, however—with a snap of his fingers, he could call back his bodyguard. Jonas would shove me down in whatever chair the Beast demands. He could tie me to it. And there’s not a thing I could do to stop him.

As soon I sink down on the cushioned seat, my nostrils fill with the warm and tantalizing scent of the food. Saliva floods into my mouth. I had almost gotten over being hungry. Now I feel weak and dizzy, desperate to eat.

Mikolaj sees it.

“Go ahead,” he says.

My tongue darts out to moisten my lips.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie weakly.

Mikolaj makes an irritated sound.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “I know you haven’t eaten in days.”

I swallow hard.

“And I’m not going to,” I say. “I don’t want your food. I want to go home.”

He barks out a laugh.

“You’re not going home,” he says. “Ever.”

Oh my god.

No, I don’t believe that. I can’t believe it.

I’m not staying here, and I’m not eating his food.

I twist my hands into a knot in my lap.

“Then I guess I’ll starve,” I say softly.

The Beast spears a piece of roast beef with a set of pointed tongs. He lays it on his plate, picks up his knife and fork, and saws off a bite. Then he puts it in his mouth, staring at me while he slowly chews and swallows.

“Do you think I care if you starve?” he asks conversationally. “I want you to suffer, little ballerina. On my terms, not yours. If you continue to refuse your meals, I’ll tie you to your bed and shove a feeding tube down your throat. You won’t die until I allow it. At the perfect moment, orchestrated by me.”

I really am faint. My plan seems more foolish by the minute. What does it benefit me, to be tied to the bed? What good does it do to starve? It’s just making me weaker. Even if I had an opportunity to escape, I’d be too drained to take advantage of it.

I twist my hands, tighter and tighter.

I don’t want to give in to him. But I don’t know what else I can do. He’s put me in a trap. Every move I make only tightens the noose.

“Alright,” I say, at last. “I’ll eat.”

“Good.” He nods. “Start with some broth so you don’t throw it all up again.”

“On one condition,” I say.

He scoffs. “You don’t set conditions.”

“It’s nothing onerous.”

Mikolaj waits to hear it, perhaps out of simple curiosity.

“I’m bored in my room. I’d like to go into the library, and down to the garden. You’ve got this thing on my ankle. And cameras, and guards. I won’t try to escape.”

I don’t really expect him to agree. After all, why should he? He told me that he wants me to suffer. Why should he allow me any entertainment?

To my surprise, he considers the proposal.

“You’ll eat, and shower, and put on clean clothes every day,” he says.

“Yes.” I nod my head, too eagerly.

“Then you can go around the house and garden. Everywhere but the west wing.”

I don’t ask him what’s in the west wing. That’s probably where his own rooms are located. Or where he keeps the severed heads of his victims, mounted on the wall like hunting trophies. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

Mikolaj ladles the beef broth into my bowl, carelessly so that some of it splashes out onto the plate.

“There,” he says. “Eat.”

I spoon it into my mouth. It is, without a doubt, the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Rich, buttery, warm, expertly seasoned. I want to lift the bowl and drink it all down.

“Slow,” he warns me. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Once I’ve eaten half the soup, I take a sip of the wine. That’s delicious too, tart and fragrant. I only take the one sip, because I barely ever drink, and I definitely don’t want to lose my wits around the Beast. I’m not stupid enough to think he brought me down here just to feed me.

He’s silent until we’ve both finished eating. Almost everything on the table is still untouched. I could only handle the soup and a little bread. He ate the beef with a small serving of vegetables. No wonder he’s so lean. Maybe he doesn’t like human food. Maybe he prefers drinking warm blood.

When he’s finished, he pushes his plate to the side and leans his chin in the palm of his hand, fixing me with his icy stare.

“What do you know about your family’s business?” he asks me.

I’d been feeling warm and happy from the influx of food, but I immediately close up again, like a clam hit with a blast of cold water.

“Nothing,” I tell him, setting down my spoon. “I don’t know anything at all. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” he says. His eyes gleam with amusement. He finds this funny, for some inscrutable reason.

“Because you’d try to use it to hurt them,” I say.

He purses his lips in mock concern.

“Doesn’t it bother you that they don’t include you?” he asks me.

I press my lips together, not wanting to dignify that with a response. But I find myself blurting out, “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know your brother will inherit your father’s position. Your sister will do her level best to keep everyone out of jail. But what about you, Nessa? Where do you fit into all that? I suppose they had a marriage arranged for you, like they did for your brother. Maybe to one of the Gallos . . . they have three sons, don’t they? You and Aida could have been sisters twice over.”

His words chill my flesh worse than his gaze. How does he know so much about us?

“I don’t . . . I’m not . . . There isn’t any marriage pact,” I say, looking down at my fingers. They’re twisted so tight that they’ve gone pale and bloodless, like a pile of worms in my lap.

I shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t need any more information than he’s already got.

Mikolaj chuckles.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “You’re very pretty.”

I can feel my cheeks flaming, and I hate it. I hate that I’m shy and easily embarrassed. If Aida or Riona were here, they’d throw this wine right in his face. They wouldn’t feel frightened and confused, fighting just to keep from crying.

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood in my mouth, mingled with the remains of the wine.

I look up at his face, which is unlike any face I’ve seen before—beautiful, brittle, terrifying, cruel. His thin lips look like they were drawn in ink. His eyes burn right through me.

It’s so hard to find my voice.

“What about you?” I gulp. “Mikolaj, isn’t it? I suppose you came from Poland, looking for the American Dream? No wife to bring along to your dreary old mansion, though. Women don’t like to sleep with snakes.”

I intended to offend him, but he only gives me a cold smile.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I never lack for female company.”

I make a face. I can’t deny that he is handsome, in a stark and terrifying sort of way. But I can’t imagine wanting to get within ten feet of someone so vicious.

Unfortunately, I’m well within that radius, and soon to be closer.

Because now that we’ve eaten, Mikolaj expects further entertainment.

He leads me out of the dining room, into the adjoining space. It’s an actual ballroom, with a polished parquet floor and a vast chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. The roof is painted deep navy, with speckled spots of gold for stars. The walls are gold and the curtains dark blue velvet.

It’s the only room I’ve seen so far that I’d actually call pretty—the rest of the house is too gothic and depressing. Still, I can’t enjoy it, because music is playing, and Mikolaj apparently expects me to dance.

Before I can get away, he’s grabbed my right hand in his, catching me around the waist with his left. He pulls me in against his body with arms stronger than steel. He really is fast. And an irritatingly good dancer.

He whirls me around the empty ballroom, his strides long and smooth.

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to talk to him. But I can’t stop myself from asking, “How do you know how to dance?”

“It’s a waltz,” he says. “It hasn’t changed much in two hundred years.”

“Were you around when they invented it?” I say rudely.

Mikolaj just smiles and forces me to twirl around, dipping me back.

I recognize the song playing: it’s “Satin Birds,” by Abel Korzeniowski. Melancholy and haunting, but actually quite a beautiful song. One of my favorites, before this moment.

I don’t like to think that an animal like this actually has good taste in music.

I hate how easily our bodies move in tandem. Dancing is second nature to me. I can’t help following his lead, swift and smooth. Nor can I help the surge of pleasure that bubbles up inside of me. It’s wonderful to have so much space to move after five days of helpless captivity.

I find myself forgetting whose hand is sliding down my bare back, whose fingers are twined in mine. I forget that I’m locked in the arms of my worst enemy, that I can feel the heat radiating out of his body into mine.

Instead I close my eyes and I’m flying across the floor, spinning on the axis of his hand, dipping over the steel bar of his thigh. I want to dance so badly that I don’t care where I am or who I’m with. This is the only way to escape right now—by losing myself in this moment, recklessly, and irrevocably.

The starred ceiling whirls over my head. My heart beats faster and faster, having lost its stamina after a week of lethargy. The green silk gown flows around my body, barely touching my skin.

It’s only when his fingers trail down my throat, running down the bare flesh between my breasts, that my eyes pop open and I jerk upright, stopping dead on the spot.

I’m panting and sweating. His thigh is pressed between mine. I’m painfully aware how thin this dress really is, no sort of barrier at all between us.

I yank myself out of his arms, stumbling over the hem of the gown. The thin silk tears with a sound like a shot.

“Let go of me!” I snap.

“I thought you liked dancing,” Mikolaj says mockingly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Don’t touch me!” I say again, trying to sound as furious as I feel. My voice is naturally soft. It always comes out too gentle, even when I’m at my angriest. It makes me feel like a petulant child.

That’s how Mikolaj treats me, rolling his eyes at my sudden change of mood. He was toying with me. As soon as I stop playing along, he has no more use for me.

“Fine,” he says. “Our evening’s at an end. Go back to your room.”

God, he’s so infuriating!

I don’t want to stay here with him, but I don’t want to be sent to bed. I don’t want to be locked in there again, bored and alone. As much as I despise the Beast, this is the longest conversation I’ve had all week.

“Wait!” I say. “What about my family?”

“What about them?” he says in a bored tone.

“Are they worried about me?”

He smiles without a hint of happiness. It’s a smile of pure malice.

“They’re losing their fucking minds,” he says.

I can only imagine.

They would have noticed the very first night I failed to come home. I’m sure they tried to call my phone hundreds of times. They would have called my friends, too. Sent their men to visit Loyola and Lake City Ballet, trying to trace my steps. They probably hunted the streets for my Jeep. I wonder if they found it by the side of the road?

Did they call the police, too? We never call the police if we can help it. We make nice with the commissioner at parties, but we don’t involve cops in our business, any more than Mikolaj himself would do.

This is the only time I’ve seen him smile—thinking how terrified and anxious my family must be. It makes me want to run over and scratch his ice-chip eyes out of his head.

I can’t believe I let him dance with me. I feel my skin burning with disgust, every place that he touched me.

Still, I can’t keep myself from begging.

“Could you at least tell them I’m safe?” I ask him. “Please.”

I’m begging him with my eyes, my face, even my hands clasped in front of me.

If he has any soul, any at all, he’ll see the pain in my face.

But he has nothing inside of him.

He just laughs, shaking his head.

“Not a chance,” he says. “That would spoil all the fun.”