The green six is trapped behind Jonas’s thirteen. I hit a bank shot to come at it from behind, sending the six rolling neatly into the side pocket. Jonas scowls.
“Why don’t we kill the dons!” he says aggressively. “They shot Zajac. We should kill Enzo and Fergus.”
“What good would that do?” I say. “Their successors are already in place.”
I sink the eight ball without even looking. Marcel snickers, and Jonas grips his pool cue so hard his arm shakes. He looks like he wants to snap it in two.
“What then?” he demands. “What’s the next step?”
“Callum,” I say. “We took him once. We can take him again.”
“You lost him last time,” Jonas says, fixing me with his dark stare.
I walk over to him, leaning my pool cue against the table. We face off, nose to nose.
“That’s right,” I say softly. “You were there, too, brother. If I remember correctly, you were the one in charge of his wife. Little Aida Gallo, the Italian wench. She made a proper fool out of you. Almost took the whole warehouse down. You still have the scar from that Molotov cocktail she chucked at your head, don’t you?”
I know very well that Jonas has a nice long burn down his back. She ruined one of his favorite tattoos, and he’s been sore about it ever since. Both literally and figuratively.
“We should take them both,” Jonas growls. “Callum and Aida.”
“Now you’re thinking.” I nod. “I hear the arranged marriage has become a love match. He’ll do anything for her.”
“Not if I snap her fucking neck,” Jonas says.
“I don’t want to blackmail those Irish fucks,” Andrei says bitterly. “I want blood for blood.”
“That’s right,” Marcel says quietly. “They killed Tymon. At the very least, we kill one from each family—a Griffin and a Gallo.”
“Better to kill the son than the father,” Jonas says. “Callum Griffin is the only son they’ve got. He’s the heir—unless his wife is pregnant. Callum should die.”
There are murmurs all around as Andrei and Marcel voice their agreement.
I haven’t agreed or disagreed. It’s what I always planned.
But I’m distracted by the choking sound outside the door.
Something between a gasp and a sob.
I stride over to the door and wrench it open, expecting to see Klara outside.
Instead, I see the hysterical face of Nessa Griffin.
I seize her by the wrist before she can turn and flee. I drag her into the billiards room, while she kicks and fights.
“No!” she screams. “You can’t kill my brother! I won’t let you!”
“Everyone out,” I bark at my men.
They hesitate, their faces frozen in confusion.
“OUT!” I roar.
They scatter, closing the doors behind them.
I throw Nessa down on the carpet at my feet.
She leaps right back up again, flailing her arms in her mad attempts to hit me, scratch me, tear me to pieces.
“I won’t let you!” she screams. “I swear to god, I’ll kill every one of you!”
After my initial surprise at seeing her, when Klara should have locked her in her room for the night, I’m starting to realize something completely different.
We were speaking in Polish.
Yet Nessa understood every word we said.
“Co robisz, szpiegując mnie,” I hiss.
“I’ll spy on you all I like!” Nessa shouts. She claps her hand over her mouth, realizing that she’s given herself away.
“Kto nauczył cię polskiego?” I say furiously. I already know the answer. It had to be Klara.
Nessa throws me off, standing as tall and dignified as possible, considering that her hair is a tangled mess, her face is still puffy with tears, and she’s wearing a nightgown.
“Nikt nie nauczył mnie polskiego,” she says haughtily. I learned it myself, in the library. I have a lot of time on my hands.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been struck dumb before.
Her pronunciation is shit, and her grammar is mediocre. But she really has learned a shocking amount.
That tricky little devil. I didn’t give a damn about her sneaking around because I didn’t think she could understand our conversations. Not that it matters—she can’t do anything with the information. She’s still my prisoner.
But . . . I’m impressed. Nessa is smarter than I guessed, and more daring.
Still, she’s got another thing coming if she thinks she’s going to boss me around in my own house, in front of my own men. She doesn’t give orders here. I do. I’m the master. She’s the captive.
“What are you going to do about it?” I growl, staring down into her face. “You think you can threaten me? Try to attack me? I could break every bone in your body without even trying.”
She shakes her head, more tears streaming down her face. When she cries, her eyes look greener than ever. Each tear is like a refracting lens, clinging to those black lashes, magnifying every freckle on her cheek.
“I know you’re stronger than me,” she hisses. “I know I’m nothing and nobody. But I love my brother. Can you understand that? I love him more than anyone in the world. Did you ever feel that way, before you got so cold and angry? Did you love somebody once? I know you did. I know about Anna.”
Now I really do want to hit her.
How fucking dare she say that name.
She doesn’t know anything, anything at all.
She thinks she can poke in my brain, trying to drag out the things I’ve successfully hidden.
She wants to make me as weak and emotional as her.
I seize her by the front of her nightgown and speak directly into her face.
“Don’t you ever say her name again.”
Nessa raises her hand and I think she’s going to try to slap me.
Instead she rests her hand on top of mine, her slim little fingers clinging to my clenched fist.
She looks up into my eyes.
“Mikolaj, please,” she begs. “My brother is a good man. I know this is a war and you’re on opposite sides. I know he hurt you. But if you kill him, you won’t be hurting him back. You’ll be hurting me. And I never wronged you.”
She’s talking about fairness, justice.
There is no fucking justice in this world.
There are only debts that have to be paid.
But there’s more than one kind of currency.
Nessa is standing in front of me—slender, delicate, trembling like a leaf. Tangles of light-brown hair in a cloud around her face and shoulders. Big, tear-soaked eyes, and soft pink lips.
She’s touching my hand. She’s never touched me voluntarily before.
My hand feels like it’s on fire. It’s sending heat and warmth throughout my body. It’s making every part of me throb like flesh that was frozen and is coming back to life.
“Convince me, Nessa,” I say. “Convince me that I should spare your brother.”
She looks up at me, uncomprehending at first.
Then realization dawns in her eyes.
I’m still holding the front of her nightgown. I feel her heart pounding against my clenched fingers.
I let go of her, waiting to see what she’ll do.