Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,89
Dante Gallo?”
“He’s in my trunk right now,” Marcel said. “I intercepted his transfer this afternoon. Shot the cop and took the prisoner. I was gonna throw him in the river with his cuffs on, for Zajac. But I thought you might like to do the honors instead.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Jonas said, with the tone of a king accepting a tribute from a lord.
“Where do you want me to bring him?” Marcel said.
That’s how we found out exactly where Jonas would be that night. Becoming boss hasn’t made him any less sloppy. He’s lazy and overconfident.
Marcel goes into Jungle first, through the front door, dragging along Dante Gallo, who had consented to have his wrists cuffed in front of him once more and a bag put over his head.
His brothers didn’t like that at all.
“That’s how it’s got to be,” Marcel told them, sharply. “Jonas isn’t a complete idiot.”
While Marcel goes in the front, Nero and I sneak in the back door. Jonas hasn’t changed the locks. Why would he? Only a ghost has the other key.
Sebastian stays outside, acting as our lookout.
Nero and I creep through the back offices, past the storeroom. We split up, Nero flanking to the left and me to the right.
As I enter the main space of the club, I see my men spread out amongst the booths, helping themselves to all the top-shelf liquors. There’re about fifteen soldiers in total. Out of those fifteen, I know for certain that three betrayed me: Andrei, Franciszek, and Jonas. Simon too, but he’s dead.
I can’t be certain where the loyalties of the other men lie.
All I know is they’re enjoying the largesse of their new leader. Aleksy and Andrei look tipsy, while Olie is fully on his way to drunk. Nobody is keeping watch. Nobody is fully sober. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.
Jonas is drinking straight from a bottle of Redbreast. His slicked-back hair is disarrayed and his eyes look red. He roars with pleasure when he sees Marcel shoving Dante Gallo into the center of the group.
“There you are, my brother! And with such a gift!”
Marcel pulls the bag off Dante’s head. Dante looks stoically around at the group, not flinching while they all jeer at the sight of him.
“Here’s the man who shot Zajac!” Jonas shouts. “From a distance. Like a fucking coward.”
He’s speaking in English so both the men and Dante himself will understand. Jonas lurches over to Dante, until they’re nose to nose. He’s breathing whiskey fumes right into Dante’s face. They’re both burly men, but while Jonas has the soft bulk of a bear, Dante is as hard as a full-grown steer. His arms flex against the cuffs, looking like he might snap the steel without even trying.
“Take these cuffs off and we’ll see who’s the coward,” Dante says to Jonas, in his low, even voice.
“I have a better idea,” Jonas says. “You killed the Butcher. So I’m going to kill you the way the Butcher would have done—piece by tiny piece. I’m going to cut off your ears, your nose, your fingers, your feet. I’ll take you apart, one pound of flesh at a time. And only then, when you’re a sightless, soundless lump . . . only then will I let you die.”
Jonas’ black eyes are glittering. His smile looks more than cruel—it’s almost demented. Power is going to his head, amping up all of his worst characteristics.
Jonas pulls his knife from his belt—the same one he stabbed me with earlier this morning. He holds it up in the dim light, so the razor-edge of the blade gleams. He’s cleaned my blood off, at least.
I hear the rustle of Nero Gallo tensing up, over on my left side. He’s getting ready to move. He won’t stay put while his brother suffers.
Neither will I.
“What do you say?” Jonas shouts to the men. “Which piece of Dante Gallo should I cut off first?”
“You should finish one job before you start another,” I say, striding out into the light.
There’s an audible stir amongst my men. I see them glancing rapidly between Jonas and myself. The ones that are the most drunk look baffled, like they must be delirious.
Jonas whirls around, his face twisted up in shock and irritation.
“Mikolaj,” he snarls.
“In the flesh.”
“Or what’s left of you,” he sneers. “You aren’t looking very well, brother.”
“Still twice the boss you’ll ever be, Jonas,” I say.
His eyes darken and he switches his grip on the knife handle, from upward to downward. From tool to weapon.
“You’re not a