can be used to much greater effect.
Jonas misses his next shot. I sink the one, the four, and the five in quick succession while I reply.
“We’re not killing her,” I say flatly. “She’s the best leverage we have at the moment. Why do you think the Griffins and the Gallos haven’t attacked us directly?”
“They did!” Marcel says. “They raided the Russian’s warehouse, and they torched Exotica.”
I snort, sinking the three ball as well.
“You think that was the best they could do? It was fucking weak. Why do you think they haven’t firebombed this house?”
Jonas and Andrei exchange glances, in which no information is shared, because they’re both equally stupid.
“Because they know she might be in here,” Marcel says.
“That’s right.” I sink the two and the seven with one split shot. “As long as they can’t be certain where she is—here or with the Russians—all they can do is throw a few grenades. They can’t rain down napalm on our heads. Nessa is our insurance, for now.”
The green six is trapped behind Jonas’s thirteen. I hit a bank shot to come at it from behind, sending the six rolling neatly into the side pocket. Jonas scowls.
“Why don’t we kill the dons!” he says aggressively. “They shot Zajac. We should kill Enzo and Fergus.”
“What good would that do?” I say. “Their successors are already in place.”
I sink the eight ball without even looking. Marcel snickers, and Jonas grips his pool cue so hard his arm shakes. He looks like he wants to snap it in two.
“What then?” he demands. “What’s the next step?”
“Callum,” I say. “We took him once. We can take him again.”
“You lost him last time,” Jonas says, fixing me with his dark stare.
I walk over to him, leaning my pool cue against the table. We face off, nose to nose.
“That’s right,” I say softly. “You were there, too, brother. If I remember correctly, you were the one in charge of his wife. Little Aida Gallo, the Italian wench. She made a proper fool out of you. Almost took the whole warehouse down. You still have the scar from that Molotov cocktail she chucked at your head, don’t you?”
I know very well that Jonas has a nice long burn down his back. She ruined one of his favorite tattoos, and he’s been sore about it ever since. Both literally and figuratively.
“We should take them both,” Jonas growls. “Callum and Aida.”
“Now you’re thinking.” I nod. “I hear the arranged marriage has become a love match. He’ll do anything for her.”
“Not if I snap her fucking neck,” Jonas says.
“I don’t want to blackmail those Irish fucks,” Andrei says bitterly. “I want blood for blood.”
“That’s right,” Marcel says quietly. “They killed Tymon. At the very least, we kill one from each family—a Griffin and a Gallo.”
“Better to kill the son than the father,” Jonas says. “Callum Griffin is the only son they’ve got. He’s the heir—unless his wife is pregnant. Callum should die.”
There are murmurs all around as Andrei and Marcel voice their agreement.
I haven’t agreed or disagreed. It’s what I always planned.
But I’m distracted by the choking sound outside the door.
Something between a gasp and a sob.
I stride over to the door and wrench it open, expecting to see Klara outside.
Instead, I see the hysterical face of Nessa Griffin.
I seize her by the wrist before she can turn and flee. I drag her into the billiards room, while she kicks and fights.
“No!” she screams. “You can’t kill my brother! I won’t let you!”
“Everyone out,” I bark at my men.
They hesitate, their faces frozen in confusion.
“OUT!” I roar.
They scatter, closing the doors behind them.
I throw Nessa down on the carpet at my feet.
She leaps right back up again, flailing her arms in her mad attempts to hit me, scratch me, tear me to pieces.
“I won’t let you!” she screams. “I swear to god, I’ll kill every one of you!”
After my initial surprise at seeing her, when Klara should have locked her in her room for the night, I’m starting to realize something completely different.
We were speaking in Polish.
Yet Nessa understood every word we said.
“Co robisz, szpiegując mnie,” I hiss.
“I’ll spy on you all I like!” Nessa shouts. She claps her hand over her mouth, realizing that she’s given herself away.
“Kto nauczył cię polskiego?” I say furiously. I already know the answer. It had to be Klara.
Nessa throws me off, standing as tall and dignified as possible, considering that her hair is a tangled mess, her face is still puffy with tears, and she’s