Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,58

20th century the Russians enveloped us in the smothering embrace of communism.

Our mafias likewise grew in tandem. They call it the Bratva, we call it the Bratestwo—in either case, it means The Brotherhood. We swear oaths to our brothers. We keep a history of our accomplishments on our skin. They wear eight-pointed stars as a badge of leadership on their shoulders. We mark our military ranks on our arms.

We’re two sides of the same coin. Our blood has mixed, our language and traditions, too.

And yet, we are not the same. We thrust our hands into the same clay, and we built something different from it. To give you a small example, consider the many “false friends” in our language—words with the same origin, that have come to convey opposite meanings. In Russian, my friend Kristoff would say “zapominat” meaning “to memorize,” while to me, “zapomniec” means “to forget.”

So while Kristoff and I may be allies in this moment, I can never forget that what he wants and what I want may run parallel, but they will never be the same. He can become my enemy again as easily as he became my friend.

He’s a dangerous enemy. Because he knows me better than most.

“I enjoyed our trick on the Irish,” Kristoff says. “I’m enjoying spending their money even more.”

“Nothing tastes as sweet as the fruits of others’ labor,” I agree.

“I think we agree on many things,” Kristoff says. “I see many similarities between us, Mikolaj. Both unexpectedly ascending to our positions at a young age. Both risen from the lowest ranks of our organization. I’m not from a wealthy or connected family, either. No royal blood in these veins.”

I grunt. I know part of Kristoff’s history—he wasn’t Bratva to begin with. Quite the opposite. He trained with the Russian military. He was an assassin, plain and simple. How he moved from military operative to underworld kingpin, I have no idea. His men trust him. But I’m not as willing to do the same.

“They say Zajac was your father,” Kristoff says. “You were his natural son?”

He’s asking if I’m Tymon’s bastard. Tymon was never married, but he did father a son on his favorite whore—that son is Jonas. People assume, because I succeeded Tymon, that I must be another bastard son.

“What’s the point of these questions?” I say impatiently.

I have no interest in trying to explain to Kristoff that Tymon and I had a bond of respect and understanding, not of blood. Jonas knew it. All the men knew it. Tymon selected the best leader from our ranks. He wanted the man with the will to lead, not the genetics.

“Just making conversation,” Kristoff says pleasantly.

“Do you know the saying, ‘Rosjanin sika z celem’? It means, ‘A Russian takes a piss with purpose.’”

Kristoff laughs, unoffended. “I think I like one of your other sayings better—‘Nie dziel skóry na niedźwiedziu.’”

It means, Don’t divide the skin while it’s still on the bear.

Kristoff wants to divide Chicago. But first we have to kill the bear.

“You want to plan the hunt,” I say.

“That’s right.”

I sigh, glancing at the dark, moonless night outside my window. Nessa is still out in the garden, refusing to come back inside. The first few drops of rain break against the glass.

“When?” I say.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Where?”

“Come to my house in Lincoln Park.”

“Fine.”

As I’m about to hang up, Kristoff adds, “Bring the girl with you.”

Nessa hasn’t left the house once since I captured her. Taking her anywhere is a risk, let alone right into the Russians’ lair.

“Why?” I say.

“I was disappointed that I didn’t get to see her in the flesh during our last operation. She’s one of our most valuable chess pieces, and she cost me a warehouse of product the other day. I’d like to see for myself the girl that has the whole city in an uproar.”

I don’t like this at all. I don’t trust Kristoff, and I don’t like the idea of him gloating over her like a prisoner of war.

This is the trouble with alliances. They demand compromises.

“I’ll bring her with me,” I say. “Understand, no one lays a hand on her. She stays right next to me, every second.”

“Of course,” Kristoff says easily.

“Do jutra,” I say, hanging up the phone. Until tomorrow.

As the rain starts coming down in earnest, I send Klara out to the garden to retrieve the little runaway.

Klara heads out through the conservatory, carrying a heavy knit blanket from the library. When she returns, Nessa is wrapped up in that blanket, pale and shivering. I can