Riona snorts, like she’s above petty considerations like bulging biceps and six-pack abs.
My parents haven’t exactly warmed up to Miko, but they’re beginning to realize that what I feel for him is much more than a passing infatuation. Every day the bond between us grows stronger. I miss his house—the stone walls, the creaking roof, the dim light, the overgrown garden. The smell of dust, and oil paint, and Mikolaj himself. I miss wandering around that labyrinth, continually drawn toward the man at the center. The one who pulls me in like a magnet.
I know he’s lonely there without me. Now that Jonas and Andrei are gone, it’s just Miko, Marcel, and Klara. And even those two might be moving to their own apartment sometime soon.
Mikolaj keeps himself busy with work. Building his businesses, expanding his empire without directly clashing with my family or Aida’s. We’re all coexisting . . . for now.
The only hanging thread is the Russians. The afternoon of the library opening, we were all waiting: Miko’s men, the Gallos, and my father’s men, too. Dante was up on the roof of a neighboring building, rifle at the ready, keeping watch for any sign of Kristoff, or any of his men.
But there was nothing. Not a Bratva to be seen. The event went perfectly.
Maybe they gave up, knowing they were outgunned and outmatched.
After all, it’s a big city. Plenty of crime to go around.
31
Miko
It’s the night of Nessa’s ballet.
I’ve been waiting for this almost as eagerly as Nessa herself. Maybe more so, because I’m simply excited to see it, while Nessa has become increasingly anxious the closer it’s gotten.
I’m not worried. I already know it’ll be brilliant.
It’s being performed at the Harris theater. That fuckwad Jackson Wright is directing it. I had planned to visit him a few more times if he gave Nessa any shit—just casually, of course. As a gentle reminder. No broken bones required, unless he annoyed me. But it proved to be unnecessary. He got sucked into the project almost as much as Nessa herself.
Nessa got tickets for all her friends and family, deliberately seating me right next to her parents. It’s not the most comfortable position, but I have to take whatever opportunities I can to get to know them. I don’t expect that they’ll ever like me. They might not even stop hating me. They have to accept me, however, because I’m not letting go of Nessa.
Truthfully, my patience is running thin. I thought I could take my time—but I overestimated my own resolve.
I want her back. I want her fully. I want her as my bride.
I’m sitting right next to Fergus Griffin. He’s a tall, trim, intelligent-looking man, well-dressed, with handsome gray streaks in his hair and cultured manners. To the untrained eye, he looks like a wealthy Chicago businessman. I see him for what he really is—a chameleon who takes on the appearance that best suits his purposes. I have no doubt that when he was breaking knees as an enforcer, he looked like walking retribution. When he rose through the ranks of the Irish mafia, I’m sure he dressed like a gangster. Now he behaves like he’s lived all his life in the upper crust.
It’s difficult to tell who he really is, underneath all that. I can guess a few things: he must be intelligent and strategic, with a core of steel. You don’t get to the top any other way.
But he can’t be your average criminal sociopath. Because he made Nessa. He raised her. That gentle heart and creative mind of hers must have come from somewhere.
Maybe from Imogen Griffin. She’s sitting on her husband’s opposite side. I feel her looking at me, with those cool blue eyes she passed down to her son.
“Are you a patron of the arts?” she asks me, acerbically.
“No,” I say.
After a moment of chilly silence, I add, “I do like dancing.”
“You do?” Her frosty expression melts by the tiniest degree.
“Yes. My sister and I did folk dancing when we were young,” I take a breath, trying to think how normal people speak when they make conversation. “We won a prize once, for the Polonaise. We hated dancing together because we always quarreled—Anna wanted to lead. She was better than me. I should have let her. We probably only won because we looked so alike, like a matched set. The judges thought it was cute.”
The words come out faster, once I get in the flow of it. It helps that Imogen and Nessa look a little alike. It helps ease the awkwardness.
Imogen smiles.
“I danced ballroom with my brother Angus,” she says. “We thought it was so embarrassing being paired up together. We never won any prizes.”
“You needed a better partner,” Fergus says.
“I hope you’re not talking about yourself,” Imogen laughs. She tells me, “He broke my foot at our wedding. Stepped right on my toes.”
Fergus scowls. “I had a lot on my mind.”
“And you were drunk.”
“Mildly inebriated.”
“Completely sloshed.”
They share an amused glance, then they remember that I’m sitting right next to them, and they hate me.
“Anyway,” Fergus says. “Nessa’s talent comes from her mother.”
I hear the pride in his voice. They love Nessa—that much is clear.
Before I can say anything else, the lights dim and the curtain rises.
The set is stunning, epic in size and scale. It looks like a bright, verdant forest. The music is light and joyful, too. Three girls come out dressed in green, blue, and pink—Nessa, Marnie, and Serena.
I notice that Serena Breglio has kept the brown hair the Russians gave her. I guess she decided she liked it. I don’t know how much Nessa has told her about why she was abducted and then abruptly released again. I do know that Serena is one of Nessa’s best friends, and that hasn’t changed. So in a fit of guilt, I anonymously paid off the balance of Serena’s student loans. It was forty-eight thousand. Less than I make in a week, but a fuck-load of shifts at the coffee shop where Serena works to supplement her meager dancer’s salary.
A few months ago I would have said she was lucky we didn’t cut her throat and toss her in a ditch. Now I’m Father Christmas. That’s how soft I’ve gotten.
The three girls are dancing in a formation that Nessa tells me is called a “pas de trois.” Their dresses are soft, not stiff like a tutu. Every time they twirl around, the skirt bells out in a shape like flower petals.
I’ve watched very little ballet, but the dances Nessa choreographs are mesmerizing. There’s so much movement and interaction, patterns that shift and evolve, with barely any repetition.
Nessa’s parents are fascinated, right from the start. They lean forward, eyes locked on the stage. I can see from their surprised expressions that even they didn’t realize how beautiful Nessa’s work can be.
Toward the end of the dance, Nessa separates from the other two girls. They exit the stage on the left, while Nessa crosses in the opposite direction, wandering as if lost.
As she moves across the stage, the lighting changes. The forest that looked bright and welcoming now becomes dense and dark. The music alters too, switching from cheerful to eerie.
Nessa comes to a castle. After some hesitation, she walks inside.