Home > Stolen Heir(23)

Stolen Heir(23)
Author: Sophie Lark

I want to spend the rest of the day out here, drowning in the scent of the flowers and the droning of the bees.

But first I want to grab a book out of the library, so I can read outdoors.

So I head back inside, still barefoot because I abandoned my socks on the lawn.

I take a wrong turn by the kitchen and have to double back, looking for the large library on the ground floor. As I’m passing by the billiards room, I hear the low, clipped voice of the Beast. He’s talking to Jonas, speaking in Polish. They’re sprinkling in words and phrases in English, as people will do when a sentence is easier to say in one language than another.

“Jak długo będziesz czekać?” Jonas says.

“Tak długo, jak mi się podoba,” the Beast replies lazily.

“Mogą śledzić cię tutaj.”

“The fuck they will!” Mikolaj snaps, in English. He lets out a torrent of Polish in which he is clearly telling Jonas off.

I creep closer to the doorway. I can’t understand most of what they’re saying, but Mikolaj sounds so pissed that I’m almost certain he’s talking about my family.

“Dobrze szefie,” Jonas says, chastened. “Przykro mi.”

I know what that means. Okay, boss. My apologies.

Then Jonas says, “What about the Russians? Oni chcą spotkania.”

The Beast starts to answer. He says a couple of sentences in Polish, then pauses abruptly.

In English, he says, “I’m not familiar with Irish customs, but I think listening in doorways is considered rude worldwide.”

It feels like the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Both Mikolaj and Jonas stand silent in the billiards room. They’re waiting for me to answer, or to show myself.

I’d like to fade into the wallpaper instead. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

I swallow hard, and step into the doorway where they can see me.

“You know I can tell exactly where you are in the house at all times,” the Beast says, fixing me with his malevolent stare.

Right. This damned ankle monitor. I hate how it’s always clattering around on my foot, digging into me when I try to sleep.

Jonas seems caught between his desire to smirk at me, and his discomfort at the dressing-down he just got from Mikolaj. His smug nature wins out. Cocking an eyebrow, he says, “Only been out of your room a few hours, and you’re already getting in trouble. I told Miko we shouldn’t let you out.”

Mikolaj throws Jonas a sharp look, both annoyed at the intimation that his subordinate can “tell him” anything, and irritated by the use of the nickname.

I wonder how he’d like my name for him.

Who am I kidding? He’d probably love it.

“What are you hoping to hear?” the Beast says mockingly. “The codes to my bank accounts? The password to the security system? I could tell you every secret I know, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

I can feel my cheeks flushing pink.

He’s right. I’m completely powerless. That’s why he’s letting me wander around his house.

“I’m surprised your parents didn’t train you,” Mikolaj says, drawing closer to me. He looks down at me, his face twisted with disdain. “They should have raised a wolf, not a little lamb. It almost seems cruel.”

Even though I know it’s intentional, and even though I’m fighting against it, his words burrow into my brain like barbs.

My brother Callum knows how to fight, how to shoot a gun. He was taught to be a leader, a planner, an executor.

I was sent to dance classes and tennis lessons.

Why didn’t my parents consider what might happen if I ever left the safety of their arms? They brought me into a dark and dangerous world, and then they armed me with books, dresses, ballet slippers . . .

It does seem intentional. And neglectful.

Of course, they never expected me to be kidnapped by a sociopath bent on revenge.

But maybe they should have.

“I wish you could fight back, moja mała baletnica.” My little ballerina. “This would be so much more fun.”

Mikolaj looks down into my frightened face.

He cocks his head, like a wolf trying to understand a mouse.

He smells like a wolf would smell. Like the musk on a real fur coat. Like bare branches in the snow. Like bulrushes and bergamot.

He looks at me until I shrink under his gaze. Then he grows bored and turns away from me.

Without thinking, I cry out, “I don’t think your father was much of a model! Cutting off his own son’s finger!”

Mikolaj whips around again, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

Now I’m sure that I’m right.

“The Butcher cut off your pinky,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to get revenge on his behalf, if that’s how he treated you.”

In three steps, Mikolaj has crossed the space between us. I can’t back up fast enough. My back hits the wall and he’s right in front of me, close enough to bite me, breathing down in my face.

“You think he should have coddled me and spoiled me?” he says, pinning me against the wall with his fury. “He taught me every lesson worth knowing. He never spared me.”

He holds up his hand so I can see the long, flexible fingers—perfectly shaped, except for that pinky.

“This was my very first lesson. It taught me that there’s always a price to pay. Your family needs to learn that. And so do you, baletnica.”

Like a magic trick, a steel blade appears in his hand, taken from his pocket faster than I can blink. It slashes past my face, too quick for me to even put up my hands to protect myself.

I don’t feel any pain.

I open my eyes. Mikolaj steps back, a long strip of my hair wrapped around his hand. He’s cut it right off.

I shriek, trying to feel where he took it from.

I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s deeply upsetting seeing those familiar light-brown strands draped over his palm. It feels like he stole a much more vital piece of me than hair.

I turn and run away, sprinting back upstairs. Jonas and Mikolaj’s laughter rings in my ears.

I run into my room and slam the door shut. As if Mikolaj cared to follow me. As if I could keep him out.

 

 

13

 

 

Miko

 

 

As much as I’ve loved leaving the Griffins in torturous suspense, it’s time to move on to the second phase of mental fuckery I have in store for them.

This part of the plan serves two purposes: first, I get the pleasure of extorting some cash from their coffers. And second, I can secure an alliance with a mutual enemy.

Kolya Kristoff is the head of the Chicago Bratva. The Russian Mafia isn’t nearly as powerful in the Midwest as they are on the west coast. In fact, they just lost a substantial portion of their assets when their previous boss got his ass thrown in prison on a twelve-year sentence. The Chicago PD snatched up eight million dollars of high-quality Russian weaponry, including compact SPP-1 pistols, which can shoot underwater, and Vityaz-SNs, the most modern version of the classic Kalashnikov.

I know this, because one of those crates of beautifully-oiled guns belonged to me, smuggled into Chicago but not yet handed over to my men.

The Bratva found themselves with no guns, no boss, and very little cash to pay back the clients who had already made down payments.

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