“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.