I lay awake all night, watching her sleep.
In the early hours of the morning, when the light turned from gray to gold, her face glowed like a Caravaggio portrait. I thought that out of all the sights I had ever seen, Nessa was the most beautiful.
I knew I didn’t deserve to have her in my bed. Nessa is a pearl, and I’m just the mud at the bottom of the ocean. She’s flawless and pure, talented and smart, while I’m an uneducated criminal. A monster who’s done horrible things.
But strangely, I may be the best person to truly appreciate her. Because I’ve seen the ugliest parts of the world. I know how rare her goodness is.
In that moment, watching her sleep, I realized that I love her.
Love is the one thing you can’t steal. You can’t create it, either. It either exists or it doesn’t. And if it exists, you can’t take it by force.
If I coerce Nessa into marrying me, I’ll never know if she loves me. She’ll never know, either.
I have to give her the chance to make her choice. Free and unencumbered.
If she loves me, she’ll come back.
But I don’t expect her to.
As I watch the car drive away, I doubt I’ll ever see her again.
She’ll go home to her mother and father, sister and brother. They’ll wrap her up in their arms, tears will be shed, joy shared. She’ll be happy and relieved. And what happened here between us will start to feel like madness to her. It will be like a fever dream—real in the moment, but fading away in the light of day.
I know I’ve lost her.
My emptiness is swallowing me whole.
I don’t care that my brothers are angry. I don’t care what the Russians will do. I don’t care about anything at all.
I walk down to the main level of the house, and out to the back garden.
It’s not much of a garden at the moment. All the leaves have fallen and moldered away. There’s only black, bare branches against a slate-gray sky. Rose bushes that are nothing but thorns. Silent fountains, drained of water.
Everything looks dead in winter. Chicago winters are cold and brutal—just as bad as Poland. Maybe I’d be a different man, if I’d lived in warmer places. Or maybe fate decrees that black souls be born in frozen climes.
I hear boots scuffing over dry ground.
Jonas stands beside me, his face somber.
“Alone again,” he says.
“Not alone,” I reply, dully.
There are still four people living in the house, besides myself. I command a dozen more soldiers, and many more employees. I have a small army at my disposal. I’m only as “alone” as I was before Nessa came. Which is to say, completely.
“Have you spoken to Kristoff yet?” Jonas asks.
“No.”
“How do you think he’ll take the change in plans?”
I look at Jonas, eyes narrowed and voice cold.
“That’s not your concern,” I tell him. “I’ll handle the Russians like I handle everything else.”
“Of course you will. That’s why you’re the Boss,” Jonas says. He smiles. Jonas always smiles, no matter his mood. He has smiles of anger, smiles of mockery, and smiles of deceit. This one is difficult to read. It almost looks sad.
Jonas lets out a long whistle, like a sigh. Then he claps his left hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight.
“And that’s why I love you, brother.”
We’ve known each other a long time. Long enough for me to know when he’s lying.
The knife cuts through the air between us, driving straight toward my liver.
Jonas is fast, but I’m faster. I twist away, just enough that his knife slices into my side instead, right below the ribs.
It’s a shallow wound, one that burns but doesn’t debilitate.
It’s the next one that really gets me.
Another blade comes whistling at me from behind, plunging into my back. It sinks hilt-deep into my right shoulder blade.
I twist out of Jonas’ grip, turning around to face my attacker. Andrei, that treacherous fuck. I could have guessed. Whatever Jonas does, he follows. He’s not smart enough to come up with any plans on his own. Right next to him are Simon and Franciszek, two more of my “loyal” soldiers.
Their knives swing at me from all directions. I dodge Simon’s, knocking his arm to the side and striking him hard across the jaw with my fist. But while I’m doing this, Franciszek buries his blade in my belly.
Being stabbed hurts worse than being shot. A bullet is small and quick. A knife is huge. It tears through you, embedding in your body like a flaming brand. You go into shock. You start sweating like crazy, and your knees want to stiffen and collapse beneath you. Your brain demands for you to lay down, to lessen the loss of blood. If I do that, I’m dead.
Jonas wrenches Andrei’s knife out of my back, intending to stab me again. It hurts worse coming out then it did going in. I almost black out from that alone.
I know exactly what’s happening to me. This is the Braterstwo version of a “vote of non-confidence.” It has a long tradition, going back to Caesar. The assassination is done this way so that no man will know whose knife struck the killing blow. No single man is the traitor—the death belongs to the group.
They’re rushing at me all at once, knives raised. I can’t fight them all.
Then a voice screams, “STOP!”
It’s Klara. She’s running across the lawn, waving her arms like she’s trying to scare off a flock of crows.
“Get back in the house,” Jonas snarls at her.
“What are you doing?” she cries. “This isn’t right!”
“Ignore her,” Jonas says to the others.
“No!”
Klara has pulled a pistol out of her apron pocket. With shaking hands, she points it at Jonas.
“All of you stop,” she says.
I can tell she’s terrified. She can barely keep the gun steady, even with both hands. Someone’s taught her how to hold it though, and how to aim it. I’m guessing that was Marcel.
“Deal with her,” Jonas mutters to Simon.
Simon starts stalking toward her, fists clenched.
“Stay back!” she cries.
When he keeps coming, she pulls the trigger. The shot goes wide, hitting him in the shoulder. Roaring like a bull, Simon charges at her.
I take the opportunity to jump at Franciszek, wrenching his knife out of his hand. When Andrei swings at me, I block his knife, taking a slash across the forearm, then I cut him across the belly. He stumbles back, clasping his hand over the wound. Blood seeps through his fingers.
Jonas and Franciszek charge me from opposite sides. I take another cut down the arm from Jonas, and Franciszek knocks me to the ground. I’m not as fast as usual—I’ve lost too much blood. My right arm is going numb.
I hear two more shots—I hope that was Klara putting Simon down, and not Simon wrenching the gun out of her hands and turning it on her instead. I’m tussling around with Franciszek, both of us wrestling for control of his knife. Jonas is coming around the other side, trying to stab me the next time I’m on top.
Then I hear a roar of rage and Klara’s gasp of surprise.
“Marcel!” she cries.
Jonas stabs me again, right above the collarbone.
I hear four shots that sound like Marcel’s SIG Sauer.