Stolen Heir: Chapter 21

The next morning, everything is as usual.

When I come down to the main floor, I can hear Nessa practicing up in her studio, with a new record playing on the turntable. She must have finished choreographing one dance and started the next.

The house looks the same as always. My face looked the same in the mirror, after I showered and dressed.

And yet, I feel completely different.

For one thing, I’m actually hungry.

I go into the kitchen, where Klara is clearing up the remains of the breakfast she made for Nessa.

She looks startled to see me, since I usually only have coffee in the morning.

“Is there any bacon left?” I ask her.

“Oh!” she says, bustling around with the fry pans. “Just two pieces—but give me a moment, I’ll make more!”

“No need,” I tell her. “I’ll eat this.”

I grab the bacon out of the pan, eating it where I stand, leaning up against the island. It’s crispy and salty and slightly burned. It tastes phenomenal.

“I can make more!” Klara says, flustered. “It will only take a minute. That’s probably cold.”

“It’s perfect,” I say, snitching the last sausage from the pan, too.

Klara looks alarmed, either from the fact that I’ve come into the kitchen, which I never do, or the fact that I’m in a cheerful mood, which also never happens.

“Is Nessa in her studio?” I say to Klara, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” she says cautiously.

“She likes to work. I hear her in there constantly.”

“That’s right.”

Klara probably respects that. She has a highly-developed work ethic herself, doing the job of at least three people with all the cooking and cleaning and errands she runs for us.

I pay her well. But she drives a twenty-year-old Kia and carries a canvas tote as a purse. She sends all her money back to Poland, to her parents and grandparents. Jonas shares those same grandparents. He doesn’t send anything back, despite making a lot more than Klara.

“You’ve taken good care of our little prisoner,” I say to Klara.

She sets the pans to soak in the sink, running the water and not looking up at me.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

“You two have grown close.”

She squirts dish soap onto the frypans. Her hand trembles slightly, and some of the soap lands on the faucet. She wipes it off hastily with the sponge.

“She’s a good girl,” Klara says. “She has a kind heart.”

There’s a note of reproach in her voice.

“Did you know she learned to speak Polish?” I say.

Klara stiffens and her eyes fly guiltily to my face.

“I didn’t mean to teach her anything!” Klara gulps. “She picked it up so quick—I thought she’d learn the word for ‘spoon’ or ‘cup’, just as entertainment. The next thing I knew she was saying sentences . . .”

Klara’s explanation comes tumbling out, her cheeks flaming with anxiety. She doesn’t have to convince me—I’ve seen for myself have clever Nessa is, and how perceptive. She looks like an innocent little faun, but her mind is always working a thousand miles a minute.

“Please don’t be angry with her,” Klara adds. “It wasn’t her fault.”

I thought Klara was pleading for herself, not wanting to be punished. Now I realize it’s Nessa she’s worried about.

This is worse than I thought. They’ve become friends. Close friends.

I should fire Klara. Or, at the very least, keep her away from Nessa.

But who would I trust to guard her? Fucking nobody. Nessa could worm her way into the heart of a rabid badger.

So I stare silently at Klara until she stops speaking, biting her lip and wiping her wet hands convulsively on her apron.

“I’m concerned where your loyalties lie,” I say to Klara.

She tugs on her apron with her chapped hands.

“I would never betray the Braterstwo,” she says.

“Nessa Griffin is not a pet. She’s an asset—a very valuable asset.”

“I know,” Klara whispers.

“If you had some idea of setting her free—”

“I would never!”

“Just remember that I know where all your family lives in Boleslawiec. Your mother, your uncle, your little nieces, your grandparents . . .They aren’t safe, just because they’re connected to Jonas, too. Jonas would put a bullet in your mother’s skull if I told him to.”

“I know,” Klara breathes. “I know he would.”

“Just remember that. You’re raising a lamb for the slaughter. However sweet that lamb might be.”

Klara nods, eyes cast down to the floor.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and leave the kitchen.

It was a good speech I gave her. I wonder if it was actually for Klara, or if I was trying to convince myself.

I keep thinking about last night. It felt like a dream. Yet it was more real than my usual daily life. I keep thinking of the taste of Nessa’s pussy in my mouth, the feel of her skin against mine. I could go upstairs this minute and take it again . . .

No. Not happening. I’ve got to prepare for my meeting with Kristoff tonight.

I spend the bulk of the day with my men, planning our final assault on the Griffins. By this point, we have a clear picture of Callum and Aida’s schedule. The Alderman and his wife will be going to the opening of a new library in Sheffield in six days’ time . It’s the perfect opportunity to take them both.

We’ll execute Tymon’s idea over again, but this time with proper planning. We’ll leverage Aida against her husband, draining his remaining accounts at Hyde Park Bank and Madison Capital.

Meanwhile, we’ll make a deal with the Gallos. They can sign over the Oak Street tower in exchange for the safe return of Aida, and the evidence against Dante Gallo disappearing. I’ll let Dante walk free. Then the second his feet touch the pavement, I’ll shoot him in the fucking face.

That’s the plan as it stands. I’ll present it to Kristoff tonight.

I’d rather not bring Nessa along with me, but Kristoff is insistent.

While Klara gets Nessa ready, I dress myself, pulling on a thin gray cashmere sweater, slacks, and loafers.

I don’t wear suits like most gangsters. They think it makes them look like businessmen. I think it’s a fucking farce. Suit jackets are good for concealing a gun, but otherwise bulky and constricting. I’m not a businessman—I’m a predator. And I’m not going to shackle myself for fashion. I don’t ever want to catch a bullet because I couldn’t get out of the way in time.

It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I wait at the bottom of the stairs, looking up to the east wing.

At last, Nessa appears at the top, posed against the window like a painting in a frame.

She’s wearing a white chiffon gown with weightless layers that float around her like wings. Her hair is piled up on top of her head, with teardrop diamonds hanging from her ears. Her slender arms and shoulders are bare, glowing in the evening light.

As she descends the staircase, I’m rooted to the spot, staring up at her. Instead of walking down the stairs, I see her walking down an aisle toward me. Instead of an evening gown, I see her in a white wedding dress. I see what Nessa would look like if she were my bride.

It’s like a vision. Time slows, sound fades away, and all I can see is this girl—a little shy, a little nervous, but radiating a sort of joy that can never be snuffed out of her. Because it doesn’t come from circumstance or situation. It comes from the goodness inside of her.

Nessa reaches the bottom of the stairs.

I blink, and the vision is gone.

She’s not my bride, she’s my prisoner. I’m taking her to a negotiating table where Kristoff and I will decide how to divide the carcass of her family’s empire.

She glances up at me, warm and expectant, thinking I’ll tell her how beautiful she looks.

Instead, I keep my face stern.

“Let’s go,” I say. “We’re going to be late.”

She follows me out to the car.

I have the Land Rover pulled up in front of the door, waiting for us.

Nessa pauses as she steps out on the front steps. The sun is going down. It sends sheets of color across the blank canvas of her dress. Her skin glows gold, and her eyes are brighter than ever.

I get into the car, trying not to look at her.

Jonas takes her hand so she can gather up her skirt and climb in without dirtying the dress. I’m irritated that he’s touching her. I’m irritated that she’s allowing it.

Once Nessa and I are seated in the back, with Jonas and Marcel in the front, we head out. The car speeds down the winding drive, then out through the gates. Nessa sits up a little taller, forehead pressed against the window so she can look out.

It’s been a long time since she was in a car. A long time since she saw anything besides the house and grounds. I can see her excitement at the streets and buildings, the people on the sidewalks, the vendors on the corners.

The windows are heavily tinted. Nobody can see in. Still, I feel anxious taking her out of the house. It’s like releasing a songbird from its cage—if anything goes wrong, she’ll fly away.

We drive a short way south to Lincoln Park, where Kolya Kristoff has his house. It’s a sprawling compound, newly built and wildly modern. The main house looks like a lot of glass boxes stacked on top of each other. It seems like a terrible set-up, from a security standpoint. But Kristoff is flamboyant like that. He likes to show off, from his Maserati to his Zegna suits.

The interior is just as impractical. There’s an artificial river running through the entryway floor, beneath a chandelier made of rotating orbs, like a solar system.

When Kristoff comes to greet us, he’s wearing a velvet smoking jacket and tasseled loafers. I want to cancel the alliance right now, just based off the fact that I don’t want to do business with someone who thinks he’s Hugh Hefner reincarnated.

I’m edgy and irritable, and we haven’t even started.

It doesn’t help that the first thing Kristoff does is walk around Nessa like she’s a sculpture on a plinth, his eyes roaming over every inch of her.

“My god, what a specimen,” he says. “What have you been doing to her, Mikolaj? You kidnapped a girl and turned her into a goddess.”

Nessa’s eyes dart between us, her cheeks tinged with that hint of pink that I know so well. She doesn’t like this kind of attention, and she’s looking to me for protection.

“She’s the same as she always was,” I snap.

I wish Klara hadn’t dolled her up so much. I told her to make Nessa presentable, not to turn her into Princess Grace.

“I thought we Russians had the most beautiful women.” Kristoff grins. “I guess I haven’t sampled enough variety . . .”

Nessa is edging closer to me, away from Kristoff.

“Do the Irish train them, though?” Kristoff says, raising his dark eyebrows. “Russian girls learn to suck cock better than a porn star. They can blow you in the time it takes a kettle to boil. What do you say, Mikolaj . . . how does she compare?”

If Kristoff keeps talking, I’m going to rip his vocal cords out of his throat and strangle him with them.

Nessa looks close to tears. My stomach is clenched up to the size of a walnut.

There’s no good answer here. If I tell Kristoff I haven’t fucked her, he won’t believe me. If he knew the truth, it would be even worse. Nothing could be more dangerous to Nessa than the Bratva boss knowing that he has the beautiful, virginal daughter of his rival in his house.

“She wouldn’t interest you,” I say shortly. “No skills at all.”

Nessa turns those big green eyes on me, stricken and hurt.

I can’t look at her. I can’t even give her the smallest sign of sympathy.

Instead, I say, “Let’s get to it, already. I haven’t got all night.”

“Of course,” Kristoff grins.

He leads us into his formal dining room, where the table is piled with food. Kristoff sits on one side of the table, along with three of his top lieutenants. I sit on the other, with Nessa right beside me and Jonas and Marcel on either end.

Nessa is pale and silent, unwilling to touch her food.

“What’s wrong?” Kristoff says. “You don’t like pelmeni?”

“You know dancers,” I tell him. “They don’t eat.”

Nessa reminds me of Persephone, kidnapped by Hades and forced to reign as queen of the dead. Persephone tried so hard not to eat Hades’ food, so that one day she could return to the sunlit realms.

But Nessa has already eaten my food. Just like Persephone, who grew so hungry that she lost her resolve, consuming six tiny pomegranate seeds.

Kristoff looks offended. Russians are very sensitive about their dishes. Luckily, Jonas and Marcel are shoveling enough food into their mouths to make up for it.

“Davayte pristupim k delu,” I say. Let’s get down to business.

Kristoff is surprised I’m speaking Russian. I know it perfectly well, but I usually refuse to speak it to him. English is our lingua franca. However, I don’t want Nessa to have to sit through a lengthy discussion of how we’re going to destroy her family. It’s bad enough that she’s got me on one side and Jonas on the other, with Kristoff leering at her from across the table. The least I can do is keep her ignorant of coming events.

She’s too smart to be ignorant, however. As we go over our plans, with some argument and plenty of debate, she catches the subject without understanding the details. Her expression grows more and more miserable, and her shoulders more slumped.

Finally, Kristoff and I have agreed. We’ll attack Callum Griffin at the library opening, and take Aida at the same time. It’s a small event. His security will be sparse.

With that decided, Kristoff leans back in his chair, sipping his wine.

“And what do you intend to do with her?” he says, jerking his head toward Nessa.

“She stays with me for the present.”

“You ought to put a baby in her belly,” Kristoff says. “They killed your father. She can give you a son.”

Nessa casts a quick glance in my direction. She knows we’re talking about her.

I can’t say I haven’t thought about it.

The Griffins and the Gallos made their alliance by marriage. I could do the same.

But I’m not looking for an alliance. I never have been. I’m looking for total and complete domination. I don’t want to share the city. I want to own it. I don’t want recompense—I want revenge.

“To victory,” Kristoff says, raising his glass one last time.

“Nostrovia,” I say, clinking my glass against his.

When we’re ready to leave, Kristoff walks us back to the entryway. He shakes my hand slowly, to seal our agreement.

Then he spies the monitor on Nessa’s ankle.

“You should put a collar around her neck,” he says. “I’d love to have a little kitten like that crawling around after me . . .”

He reaches out to touch Nessa’s face.

Before I can think, I’ve caught his hand, my fingers locked around his wrist.

Kristoff’s men jump to attention, two flanking me and one with his hand on his gun. Jonas and Marcel likewise tense up, eyeing the Russian soldiers and readying themselves for a fight. The air is thick with anticipation, so silent that you can hear the river running.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Be careful,” Kristoff says softly. “Remember who is your friend in this room, and who is your enemy.”

“Remember what belongs to me, if you want to remain friends,” I reply.

I let go of his wrist.

He steps back, and his soldiers relax. Jonas and Marcel do the same—externally, at least. I’m sure their hearts are still racing as rapidly as mine.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say, stiffly.

“The first of many, I hope,” Kristoff replies.

His eyes are cold. He looks at Nessa—not with lust this time, but with resentment.

“Spokoynoy nochi malen’kaya shlyukha,” he says. Goodnight, little whore.

I almost hit him in the mouth. My fist is clenched, and my arm is flexed to do it. I stop myself just in time.

If I attack Kristoff in his house, I doubt a single one of us will make it out alive. And that includes Nessa.

She doesn’t understand the insult, but she knows the tone. She turns away from Kristoff, without giving him the satisfaction of a response.

As we drive away from his house, Nessa stares out the window. She’s lost all the excitement from earlier in the night. She no longer seems to register the last of the falling leaves, or the city lights. She looks tired. And defeated.

“I won’t let him touch you,” I promise Nessa.

She glances at me for a moment, then sighs and stares out the window again without answering.

She’s right to ignore me. She knows that the Bratva and the Braterstwo have much worse plans for her family than anything Kristoff might do to her personally.

As we drive up Halstead Street, I say to Jonas, impulsively, “Turn here.”

“Right here?”

“Yes.”

He jerks the wheel hard to the left and we turn in the opposite direction of my house, heading south instead. We drive down to the waterfront, Jonas following my terse commands.

“Pull up here,” I tell him. “Wait in the car.”

Jonas parks in front of the Yard. I go inside for a minute, returning shortly for Nessa.

“What are we doing?” she says, bewildered.

“I want you to see something,” I tell her. “But you have to promise not to make a scene or try to run away.”

I’m pretty sure her ankle monitor is broken. If she gives me the slip, I’m fucked. But if she makes me a promise, I think she’ll keep it.

“I . . . alright,” she says.

“You promise me?”

She looks up at me with those clear green eyes, without a hint of a lie in them.

“I promise, Mikolaj,” she says.

I lead her up the steps to the lobby. I’ve already bribed the usher. He sneaks us up a back staircase, all the way to the top box, usually reserved for major donors to the theater.

As soon as Nessa sees the performers on the stage, brightly lit and directly below us, she gasps and claps her hands over her mouth.

“It’s my show!” she cries.

It’s the last night that Lake City Ballet will be performing Bliss. We’ve missed half the show, but Nessa doesn’t seem to care. Her eyes are glued to the stage, darting back and forth to follow each of the dancers in turn. She doesn’t sit down in the comfortable recliners arranged in front of the glass—instead, she stands right against the window, trying to get as close as she can to see every last detail.

“My friend Marnie made that set,” she tells me. “She hand-painted every one of those sunflowers. It took her weeks and weeks. She came in at night and listened to all the Jack Reacher books while she did it. Isabel sewed that dress. It’s made from a curtain from the last show we did. And those two dancers there, they’re brothers. I went to school with the younger one . . .”

She tells me everything, so excited that she forgets the discomfort and humiliation she endured tonight. As the music pours through the speakers, I can see her keeping time with her fingertips against the glass. I can see how much she’d love to dance around the room, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the stage.

As the next song begins, she claps her hands together and says, “Oh, this is my favorite! I did this one!”

Four dancers cross the stage, dressed as butterflies: a Monarch, a Morpho, a Swallowtail, and a Rumanzovia. They swirl around together in formation, then break apart, then come back together again. Sometimes they’re synchronized, sometimes they create intricate cascading patterns. It’s a complicated dance, but light and joyful. I don’t know what any of the moves are called. I only know that what I’m watching is lovely.

“You choreographed this dance?” I ask Nessa.

I already know she did. I see her fingerprints on it, like the bits and pieces of her work I’ve seen at my house.

“Yes!” Nessa says happily. “Look how well it turned out!”

I had only intended to stay a short while, but I can’t drag Nessa away. We watch all the way to the end, Nessa’s face and hands pressed up against the glass.

When the show finishes, the audience cheers and an athletic man with graying hair bounds up on the stage to take his bows.

“Is that the director?” I ask Nessa casually.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s Jackson.”

“Let’s get going,” I tell her. “Before everyone comes out.”

I can’t risk anybody spotting Nessa as the crowd comes streaming out.

On the drive home we’re quiet—Nessa because she’s swimming in the happiness of seeing her show live, seeing what she imagined brought to life on the stage.

Me, because I’m realizing more and more how brilliant this girl is. She channeled a portion of her own spirit, her own bliss, and she brought it to life for everyone else to see. She made me feel it. Me, who never feels happiness, let alone pure joy.

When we pull up to the house, Nessa gets out and waits for me, thinking we’ll go inside together.

Instead, I tell Jonas to wait. Then I say to Marcel, “Take her up to her room. Make sure she has everything she needs.”

“Where are you going?” Nessa asks me, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“A quick errand,” I tell her.

She gets up on tiptoe and kisses me softly on the cheek.

“Thank you, Miko,” she says. “Seeing that show was the best gift you could give me.”

I can feel Marcel’s eyes on me, and Jonas’s too.

I nod stiffly.

“Goodnight, Nessa.”

I get back in the car.

“Where to?” Jonas asks.

“Back to the Yard,” I say.

We cruise through the silent streets. I’m sitting in the passenger seat now, right next to Jonas. I can see the tension in his shoulders, in his hands gripping the wheel.

“We’re taking her on field trips now?” he says.

“I’ll take her to fucking Mars if I feel like it,” I reply.

Jonas is silent a moment, then he says, “Miko, you’re my brother. Not just in the Braterstwo, but in all things. You saved my life in Warsaw. I told you I would never forget it, and I haven’t. We’ve done a hundred jobs together. Came to this country together. Built an empire together. Promise me that you won’t destroy it all, because you’ve had your head turned by a pretty girl.”

My first impulse is to bite his head off for daring to question me. But I hear the sincerity in his words. Jonas truly has been a brother to me. We’ve suffered, learned, and triumphed by each other’s sides. It’s a bond that only soldiers know.

“It’s a heavy weight, taking Zajac’s place,” I tell him. “We owe a debt to our father. I don’t want to sacrifice my brothers to pay it.”

“I’m not afraid of the Italians or the Irish,” Jonas says. “We’re stronger than both. Especially with the Russians on our side.”

“Words are not results,” I say.

It’s something Zajac always told us.

“You don’t believe in your own family anymore?” Jonas says. His voice is low and angry.

“I want to choose the battle I can win.”

I could marry Nessa Griffin. She could bear my child. And I could take a piece of the empire without stepping over the bodies of everyone she loves. Without sacrificing the lives of my brothers. Because no matter what Jonas says, if we continue our assault on the Griffins and the Gallos, we won’t win the war without casualties. Assuming we win at all.

We’ve reached the theater once more. I tell Jonas to wait out front. We watch the straggling train of dancers and theater employees that come through the doors, as the show wraps up. Then, finally, Jackson Wright emerges, flanked by a plump, curly-haired woman and a tall, scrawny man.

They walk down the street together, laughing and talking over the success of the evening, before turning left into the Whiskey Pub.

“Wait here,” I tell Jonas.

I follow Jackson into the pub. I take a seat at a high top, and I watch him order a Guinness. He sits and chats with his friends for ten, twenty minutes. I already dislike him, even from a distance of twenty feet. I see his pompous expression, the way he dominates the conversation, talking over the plump lady whenever she tries to speak.

Eventually the Guinness works its magic. Jackson heads toward the bathroom at the back of the bar.

It’s a single stall. Perfect for my purposes.

As Jackson enters, before he can close the door behind him, I push my way inside.

“Hey!” he says, in an irritated tone. “It’s occupied, obviously.”

I shut the door, dead-bolting it from the inside.

Jackson looks at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, eyebrows raised.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but not my gender and not my type, I’m afraid.”

I cross the tiny room in one step, my hand closing around his throat. I lift him up and slam his head against the tile wall.

Jackson lets out a terrified squeak, scrabbling at the hand closed around his throat. His glasses have come askew, and his feet kick helplessly in the air.

“I watched your show tonight,” I say casually.

“Can’t . . . breathe . . .” he rasps, his face turning a deep burgundy.

“It’s funny . . . I recognized some of the choreography. Do you know Nessa Griffin? I saw her work in your show. But I didn’t see her credited anywhere.”

I lower him down slightly, just enough that he can support his own weight on tiptoe, but not enough for him to be comfortable. I relax my grip so he can speak.

“What are you talking about?” he sputters. “I don’t know any—”

“Wrong answer,” I say, hoisting him up again.

His fingernails claw at my hands and forearms. I could not give a shit about that. I keep choking him until he starts to pass out, then I lower him down again.

“Wakey wakey,” I say, slapping the side of his face.

“Ow! Let go of me!” Jackson shrieks, coming to again.

“Let’s try this again. You remember Nessa Griffin?”

A sullen silence. Then a resentful, “Yes.”

“You remember how you stole her work and passed it off as your own?”

“I didn’t—”

Another slam of his head against the wall and Jackson shrieks, “Alright, alright! She did some work on the show.”

“For which you failed to credit her.”

He screws up his face like I’m forcing him to eat moldy porridge. Then he says, “Yes.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

I let him down. Before he can so much as blink, I grab his left arm and twist it up behind his back. I already know from watching him drink his beer that he’s a lefty. I wrench it all the way back until he’s shrieking and sweating again.

“Stop! Stop!” he cries. “What do you expect me to do? The show’s already over!”

“You make it up to her,” I say.

“How!?”

“I’ll leave that to you to figure out.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“What?”

“Nessa’s gone! People say she’s dead.”

“Nessa is alive and well. Don’t worry about her, worry about yourself. Worry what I’ll do to you if I’m displeased with your solution.”

“Fine! Whatever you want! Just let go of me,” Jackson pants.

“I will. But first, there’s a price to pay.”

With one swift twist, I send a spiral fracture down his radius, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream. It’s gross, because snot and tears and saliva are getting all over my hand. But such is business.

I let go of Jackson. He slumps down on the floor, moaning and sniveling.

“We’ll talk soon,” I tell him.

He cringes.

As I’m heading for the door, he croaks, “Do you work for her father?”

“No,” I say. “Just a patron of the arts.”

I leave him crying in the bathroom.

When I get back to the car, I grab wet-wipes from the glove box to clean the mess off my hands. It looks like a tomcat attacked my arms.

“Everything go alright?” Jonas asks.

“Of course. He weighs less than your last girlfriend.”

Jonas snorts. “I never had a girl I’d call a friend.”

No, he hasn’t. While the bond with my brothers is strong, they’re not exactly what I’d call “good people.” Especially Jonas.

I’m not a good person, either.