Home > Stolen Heir(41)

Stolen Heir(41)
Author: Sophie Lark

“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.

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