I’m so confused. One minute I think the Beast is going to kill me, and the next he’s buying me gifts. I don’t know which is worse.
Klara gestures for me to put one of the outfits on.
God, I really don’t want to.
“Tutaj,” she says, picking one out for me.
It’s a backless lavender leotard, with knitted gray legwarmers and a matching crop-top. It’s really lovely. And just the right size.
I pull it on, appreciating the fine, stretchy material, how new and well-fitting it all is.
Klara stands back, smiling with satisfaction.
“Thank you,” I tell her again, more sincerely this time.
“Oczywiście,” she says. Of course.
She’s brought me breakfast—oatmeal, strawberries, and Greek yogurt. Coffee and tea as well. When I’m done eating, I head straight to my studio to get back to work.
I’ve never felt so compelled to work on a project before. Far from ruining it with his interruption, Mikolaj has given me more ideas than ever. I don’t want to say that he inspired me, but he certainly stirred up some emotions that I can pour into my work. Fear, confusion, angst, and maybe . . . a little arousal.
I’m not attracted to him. I’m absolutely not. He’s a monster, and not in the way of a normal gangster. My family might be criminals, but they’re not violent, not unless they have to be. We do what we do to get ahead in the world, not to hurt people. Mikolaj takes pleasure in making me suffer. He’s bitter and vengeful. He wants to kill everyone I love.
I could never be attracted to a man like that.
What happened last night was just the result of being locked up for weeks at a time. It was some sort of twisted Stockholm Syndrome.
When I get a boyfriend someday—when I have time, when I meet somebody nice—he’ll be sweet and complimentary. He’ll bring me flowers and hold the door for me. He won’t scare the wits out of me and attack me with a kiss that makes me feel like I’m being eaten alive.
That’s what I’m thinking as I put the record back on the turntable and set the needle in place.
But as soon as that eerie, gothic music starts up again, my mind starts drifting off in a different direction.
I picture a girl, wandering in the forest. She comes to a castle. She opens the door and creeps inside.
She’s very, very hungry. So when she finds a dining room with the table all set, she sits down to eat.
But she’s not alone at the table.
She’s sitting across from a creature.
A creature with dark, patterned skin. Sharp teeth and claws. And pale eyes, like chips of arctic ice . . .
He’s a wolf and a man all at once. And he’s horribly hungry. But not for anything on the table . . .
I work all morning, and straight through lunch. Klara sets a tray down inside my new studio. I forget to look at it until the chicken soup is stone cold.
After lunch, I spend some time studying my copy of Lalka, then I plan to take a walk around the garden. As I cross the main level of the house, I hear the unmistakable sound of Mikolaj’s voice.
It sends a current through my body.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m slowing down to listen. He’s walking down the hallway toward me, but he hasn’t spotted me yet. It’s Mikolaj and the dark-haired one with the pleasant smile—Marcel.
I’m understanding more and more of what they say. In fact, their next sentences are so simple that understand them perfectly:
“Rosjanie są szczęśliwi,” Marcel says. The Russians are happy.
“Oczywiście że są,” Mikolaj replies. “Dwie rzeczy sprawiają, że Rosjanie są szczęśliwi. Pieniądze i wódka.” Of course they are. Two things make Russians happy—money and vodka.
Mikolaj spots me and stops short. His eyes sweep over my new clothes. I think I see the hint of a smile on his lips. I dislike it immensely.
“Finished your work for the day?” he says politely.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Now let me guess . . . a walk in the garden.”
I’m annoyed that he thinks I’m so predictable. He thinks he knows me.
I’d like to ask him what money he gave the Russians, just to see the look on his face. I want to show him he doesn’t know everything inside my head.
But that would be very foolish. Learning their language in secret is one of the only weapons I have. I can’t squander it like that. I have to use it at the right moment, when it counts.
So I force a smile onto my face. I say, “That’s right.”
Then, as the two men are about to pass me, I add, “Thank you for the new clothes, Mikolaj.”
I see the flicker of surprise on Marcel’s face. He’s just as shocked as I was that my captor is buying me presents.
The Beast doesn’t give a damn what either of us thinks.
He just shrugs and says, “Your old ones were filthy.”
Then he sweeps past me, like I don’t even exist.
Good. I don’t care if he ignores me.
Just as long as he keeps his hands to himself.
17
Miko
It’s a strange thing, studying the men you wish to kill.
You watch them, follow them, learn all about them.
In some ways you become closer to them than their own family.
You learn things about them that not even their family knows. You see their gambling habits, their mistresses, their illegitimate children, their love for feeding the pigeons in Lincoln Park.
Dante Gallo isn’t easy to follow, or to learn about.
As the oldest child in the Gallo family, he’s had the longest time to learn from Enzo Gallo. He’s a classic eldest son—a leader. Disciplined. Responsible.
He’s also wary as a cat. He seems to sense when anything is out of place, when anybody has eyes on him. Must be his military training. They say he served six years in Iraq—unusual for a mafioso. They’re not patriots. Their loyalty is to their family, not their country.
Maybe Enzo wanted him to become the perfect soldier. Or maybe it was a youthful rebellion on Dante’s part. All I know is that it makes it damn hard to find his weak points.
He follows no set schedule. He rarely goes anywhere alone. And as far as I can tell, he’s completely lacking in vices.
Of course, that can’t actually be true. Nobody is that regimented.
He certainly has a soft spot for his siblings. If he’s not working, he’s catering to them. He does the lion’s share of the labor running his father’s businesses. He manages to keep Nero Gallo out of serious trouble—a Sisyphean task that seems as varied as it is unending, since Nero seems equal parts creative and deranged. In one week, Nero gets in a knife fight outside Prysm, crashes his vintage Bel Air on Grand Avenue, and seduces the wife of an extremely nasty Vietnamese gangster. Dante smooths over every one of these indiscretions, while visiting his youngest brother at school and his sister Aida at the Alderman’s office.
What a busy boy, our Dante.
He barely has time to drink a pint at a pub. He doesn’t seem to have a girlfriend, a boyfriend, or a favorite whore.
His only hobby is the shooting range. He goes there three times a week to practice the marksmanship that apparently accounted for sixty-seven kills from Fallujah to Mosul.