little arousal.
I’m not attracted to him. I’m absolutely not. He’s a monster, and not in the way of a normal gangster. My family might be criminals, but they’re not violent, not unless they have to be. We do what we do to get ahead in the world, not to hurt people. Mikolaj takes pleasure in making me suffer. He’s bitter and vengeful. He wants to kill everyone I love.
I could never be attracted to a man like that.
What happened last night was just the result of being locked up for weeks at a time. It was some sort of twisted Stockholm Syndrome.
When I get a boyfriend someday—when I have time, when I meet somebody nice—he’ll be sweet and complimentary. He’ll bring me flowers and hold the door for me. He won’t scare the wits out of me and attack me with a kiss that makes me feel like I’m being eaten alive.
That’s what I’m thinking as I put the record back on the turntable and set the needle in place.
But as soon as that eerie, gothic music starts up again, my mind starts drifting off in a different direction.
I picture a girl, wandering in the forest. She comes to a castle. She opens the door and creeps inside.
She’s very, very hungry. So when she finds a dining room with the table all set, she sits down to eat.
But she’s not alone at the table.
She’s sitting across from a creature.
A creature with dark, patterned skin. Sharp teeth and claws. And pale eyes, like chips of arctic ice . . .
He’s a wolf and a man all at once. And he’s horribly hungry. But not for anything on the table . . .
I work all morning, and straight through lunch. Klara sets a tray down inside my new studio. I forget to look at it until the chicken soup is stone cold.
After lunch, I spend some time studying my copy of Lalka, then I plan to take a walk around the garden. As I cross the main level of the house, I hear the unmistakable sound of Mikolaj’s voice.
It sends a current through my body.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m slowing down to listen. He’s walking down the hallway toward me, but he hasn’t spotted me yet. It’s Mikolaj and the dark-haired one with the pleasant smile—Marcel.
I’m understanding more and more of what they say. In fact, their next sentences are so simple that understand them perfectly:
“Rosjanie są szczęśliwi,” Marcel says. The Russians are happy.
“Oczywiście że są,” Mikolaj replies. “Dwie rzeczy sprawiają, że Rosjanie są szczęśliwi. Pieniądze i wódka.” Of course they are. Two things make Russians happy—money and vodka.
Mikolaj spots me and stops short. His eyes sweep over my new clothes. I think I see the hint of a smile on his lips. I dislike it immensely.
“Finished your work for the day?” he says politely.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Now let me guess . . . a walk in the garden.”
I’m annoyed that he thinks I’m so predictable. He thinks he knows me.
I’d like to ask him what money he gave the Russians, just to see the look on his face. I want to show him he doesn’t know everything inside my head.
But that would be very foolish. Learning their language in secret is one of the only weapons I have. I can’t squander it like that. I have to use it at the right moment, when it counts.
So I force a smile onto my face. I say, “That’s right.”
Then, as the two men are about to pass me, I add, “Thank you for the new clothes, Mikolaj.”
I see the flicker of surprise on Marcel’s face. He’s just as shocked as I was that my captor is buying me presents.
The Beast doesn’t give a damn what either of us thinks.
He just shrugs and says, “Your old ones were filthy.”
Then he sweeps past me, like I don’t even exist.
Good. I don’t care if he ignores me.
Just as long as he keeps his hands to himself.
17
Miko
It’s a strange thing, studying the men you wish to kill.
You watch them, follow them, learn all about them.
In some ways you become closer to them than their own family.
You learn things about them that not even their family knows. You see their gambling habits, their mistresses, their illegitimate children, their love for feeding the pigeons in Lincoln Park.
Dante Gallo isn’t easy to follow, or to learn about.
As the oldest child in the Gallo family, he’s had the longest time to learn from Enzo Gallo. He’s a classic eldest son—a