“I . . . alright,” she says.
“You promise me?”
She looks up at me with those clear green eyes, without a hint of a lie in them.
“I promise, Mikolaj,” she says.
I lead her up the steps to the lobby. I’ve already bribed the usher. He sneaks us up a back staircase, all the way to the top box, usually reserved for major donors to the theater.
As soon as Nessa sees the performers on the stage, brightly lit and directly below us, she gasps and claps her hands over her mouth.
“It’s my show!” she cries.
It’s the last night that Lake City Ballet will be performing Bliss. We’ve missed half the show, but Nessa doesn’t seem to care. Her eyes are glued to the stage, darting back and forth to follow each of the dancers in turn. She doesn’t sit down in the comfortable recliners arranged in front of the glass—instead, she stands right against the window, trying to get as close as she can to see every last detail.
“My friend Marnie made that set,” she tells me. “She hand-painted every one of those sunflowers. It took her weeks and weeks. She came in at night and listened to all the Jack Reacher books while she did it. Isabel sewed that dress. It’s made from a curtain from the last show we did. And those two dancers there, they’re brothers. I went to school with the younger one . . .”
She tells me everything, so excited that she forgets the discomfort and humiliation she endured tonight. As the music pours through the speakers, I can see her keeping time with her fingertips against the glass. I can see how much she’d love to dance around the room, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the stage.
As the next song begins, she claps her hands together and says, “Oh, this is my favorite! I did this one!”
Four dancers cross the stage, dressed as butterflies: a Monarch, a Morpho, a Swallowtail, and a Rumanzovia. They swirl around together in formation, then break apart, then come back together again. Sometimes they’re synchronized, sometimes they create intricate cascading patterns. It’s a complicated dance, but light and joyful. I don’t know what any of the moves are called. I only know that what I’m watching is lovely.
“You choreographed this dance?” I ask Nessa.
I already know she did. I see her fingerprints on it, like the bits and pieces of her work I’ve seen at my house.
“Yes!” Nessa says happily. “Look how well it turned out!”
I had only intended to stay a short while, but I can’t drag Nessa away. We watch all the way to the end, Nessa’s face and hands pressed up against the glass.
When the show finishes, the audience cheers and an athletic man with graying hair bounds up on the stage to take his bows.
“Is that the director?” I ask Nessa casually.
“Yes,” she says. “That’s Jackson.”
“Let’s get going,” I tell her. “Before everyone comes out.”
I can’t risk anybody spotting Nessa as the crowd comes streaming out.
On the drive home we’re quiet—Nessa because she’s swimming in the happiness of seeing her show live, seeing what she imagined brought to life on the stage.
Me, because I’m realizing more and more how brilliant this girl is. She channeled a portion of her own spirit, her own bliss, and she brought it to life for everyone else to see. She made me feel it. Me, who never feels happiness, let alone pure joy.
When we pull up to the house, Nessa gets out and waits for me, thinking we’ll go inside together.
Instead, I tell Jonas to wait. Then I say to Marcel, “Take her up to her room. Make sure she has everything she needs.”
“Where are you going?” Nessa asks me, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“A quick errand,” I tell her.
She gets up on tiptoe and kisses me softly on the cheek.
“Thank you, Miko,” she says. “Seeing that show was the best gift you could give me.”
I can feel Marcel’s eyes on me, and Jonas’s too.
I nod stiffly.
“Goodnight, Nessa.”
I get back in the car.
“Where to?” Jonas asks.
“Back to the Yard,” I say.
We cruise through the silent streets. I’m sitting in the passenger seat now, right next to Jonas. I can see the tension in his shoulders, in his hands gripping the wheel.
“We’re taking her on field trips now?” he says.
“I’ll take her to fucking Mars if I feel like it,” I reply.
Jonas is silent a moment, then he says, “Miko, you’re my brother. Not just in the Braterstwo, but in all things. You saved my life in Warsaw. I told you I would never forget it, and I haven’t. We’ve done a hundred jobs together. Came to this country together. Built an empire together. Promise me that you won’t destroy it all, because you’ve had your head turned by a pretty girl.”
My first impulse is to bite his head off for daring to question me. But I hear the sincerity in his words. Jonas truly has been a brother to me. We’ve suffered, learned, and triumphed by each other’s sides. It’s a bond that only soldiers know.
“It’s a heavy weight, taking Zajac’s place,” I tell him. “We owe a debt to our father. I don’t want to sacrifice my brothers to pay it.”
“I’m not afraid of the Italians or the Irish,” Jonas says. “We’re stronger than both. Especially with the Russians on our side.”
“Words are not results,” I say.
It’s something Zajac always told us.
“You don’t believe in your own family anymore?” Jonas says. His voice is low and angry.
“I want to choose the battle I can win.”
I could marry Nessa Griffin. She could bear my child. And I could take a piece of the empire without stepping over the bodies of everyone she loves. Without sacrificing the lives of my brothers. Because no matter what Jonas says, if we continue our assault on the Griffins and the Gallos, we won’t win the war without casualties. Assuming we win at all.
We’ve reached the theater once more. I tell Jonas to wait out front. We watch the straggling train of dancers and theater employees that come through the doors, as the show wraps up. Then, finally, Jackson Wright emerges, flanked by a plump, curly-haired woman and a tall, scrawny man.
They walk down the street together, laughing and talking over the success of the evening, before turning left into the Whiskey Pub.
“Wait here,” I tell Jonas.
I follow Jackson into the pub. I take a seat at a high top, and I watch him order a Guinness. He sits and chats with his friends for ten, twenty minutes. I already dislike him, even from a distance of twenty feet. I see his pompous expression, the way he dominates the conversation, talking over the plump lady whenever she tries to speak.
Eventually the Guinness works its magic. Jackson heads toward the bathroom at the back of the bar.
It’s a single stall. Perfect for my purposes.
As Jackson enters, before he can close the door behind him, I push my way inside.
“Hey!” he says, in an irritated tone. “It’s occupied, obviously.”
I shut the door, dead-bolting it from the inside.
Jackson looks at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, eyebrows raised.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but not my gender and not my type, I’m afraid.”