Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,38

and then they armed me with books, dresses, ballet slippers . . .

It does seem intentional. And neglectful.

Of course, they never expected me to be kidnapped by a sociopath bent on revenge.

But maybe they should have.

“I wish you could fight back, moja mała baletnica.” My little ballerina. “This would be so much more fun.”

Mikolaj looks down into my frightened face.

He cocks his head, like a wolf trying to understand a mouse.

He smells like a wolf would smell. Like the musk on a real fur coat. Like bare branches in the snow. Like bulrushes and bergamot.

He looks at me until I shrink under his gaze. Then he grows bored and turns away from me.

Without thinking, I cry out, “I don’t think your father was much of a model! Cutting off his own son’s finger!”

Mikolaj whips around again, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

Now I’m sure that I’m right.

“The Butcher cut off your pinky,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to get revenge on his behalf, if that’s how he treated you.”

In three steps, Mikolaj has crossed the space between us. I can’t back up fast enough. My back hits the wall and he’s right in front of me, close enough to bite me, breathing down in my face.

“You think he should have coddled me and spoiled me?” he says, pinning me against the wall with his fury. “He taught me every lesson worth knowing. He never spared me.”

He holds up his hand so I can see the long, flexible fingers—perfectly shaped, except for that pinky.

“This was my very first lesson. It taught me that there’s always a price to pay. Your family needs to learn that. And so do you, baletnica.”

Like a magic trick, a steel blade appears in his hand, taken from his pocket faster than I can blink. It slashes past my face, too quick for me to even put up my hands to protect myself.

I don’t feel any pain.

I open my eyes. Mikolaj steps back, a long strip of my hair wrapped around his hand. He’s cut it right off.

I shriek, trying to feel where he took it from.

I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s deeply upsetting seeing those familiar light-brown strands draped over his palm. It feels like he stole a much more vital piece of me than hair.

I turn and run away, sprinting back upstairs. Jonas and Mikolaj’s laughter rings in my ears.

I run into my room and slam the door shut. As if Mikolaj cared to follow me. As if I could keep him out.

13

Miko

As much as I’ve loved leaving the Griffins in torturous suspense, it’s time to move on to the second phase of mental fuckery I have in store for them.

This part of the plan serves two purposes: first, I get the pleasure of extorting some cash from their coffers. And second, I can secure an alliance with a mutual enemy.

Kolya Kristoff is the head of the Chicago Bratva. The Russian Mafia isn’t nearly as powerful in the Midwest as they are on the west coast. In fact, they just lost a substantial portion of their assets when their previous boss got his ass thrown in prison on a twelve-year sentence. The Chicago PD snatched up eight million dollars of high-quality Russian weaponry, including compact SPP-1 pistols, which can shoot underwater, and Vityaz-SNs, the most modern version of the classic Kalashnikov.

I know this, because one of those crates of beautifully-oiled guns belonged to me, smuggled into Chicago but not yet handed over to my men.

The Bratva found themselves with no guns, no boss, and very little cash to pay back the clients who had already made down payments.

The Bratva owes me money. And a lot of other people, too.

They need cash. I need men.

We can help each other.

In a deliciously ironic twist, it’s the Griffins and the Gallos who will pay the fee to secure the alliance against themselves.

They’ll pay it in the form of a ransom of fourteen million dollars.

I picked that number because it’s the amount the Griffins and the Gallos should be able to scrounge up without tedious delays. It will sting, but not bankrupt them. They’ll be willing to pay it, and it seems a fitting price for Nessa.

I include the stolen lock of hair inside the ransom note.

I’m certain her parents will recognize that distinctive light-brown shade, and the softness of her natural, undyed hair. I think I could recognize it myself, wherever I might encounter it.

I rub it between my fingers