If I don’t have Dante or Nero beside me, I need another ally.
The obvious choice is the Griffins. Even with my father dead, our alliance still stands—particularly since the current heir of both our empires is Miles Griffin, Callum and Aida’s son.
The problem is that the Griffins are trying to move into full legitimacy. Callum is running for mayor of the whole damn city. The last thing he wants is to be embroiled in a bloody battle with the Russians.
But there is someone else I can turn to. Somebody with his own grudge against the Russians. Someone likely to feel Alexei Yenin’s wrath turned onto him next, after I’m killed . . .
I drive my battered truck out to the edge of the city, and then down the long, winding drive to the secluded mansion of Mikolaj Wilk.
It’s a spooky-looking place, even in broad daylight. It’s surrounded by so many thick and overgrown trees that the sunlight can barely penetrate down to the driveway. It’s a gothic manor house, dark and sprawling, with a large glass conservatory on one end, and endless towers, gables, and chimneys along its length.
I park next to the empty, leaf-filled fountain, then walk slowly toward the front door, so Mikolaj’s men have plenty of time to get a good look at me via the security cameras. The Polish Mafia is vicious and insular, and Mikolaj himself is hardly social. He and Nessa tend to stay locked up in their house, with very few visitors.
I knock on the door, expecting it to be opened by one of the braterstwo.
Instead, I’m greeted by Nessa Griffin herself.
She pulls the door open, her cheeks flushed pink and her light-brown hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head. She’s wearing a leotard and tights, and an extremely battered pair of ballet shoes. She’s sweating slightly, probably not just from the run down to the door.
“Sebastian!” she cries, her face alight with pleasure and surprise. Then the smile falters on her face. “I’m so, so sorry about your father . . .” she says.
“Thank you,” I say.
She hesitates, like she wants to do something, but isn’t sure what. Then, impulsively, she throws her arms around me and hugs me tight.
It’s a nice hug—warm and genuine. I always liked Nessa. I’ve never met someone so completely and truly kind.
The only thing that makes me stiffen in her arms is the knowledge that her husband is both dangerous, and intensely obsessed with his wife. I’d rather not start my interaction with Mikolaj with the sight of me embracing his beloved.
So I give her a pat on the back to let her know I appreciate the gesture, and Nessa lets go of me. Looking up into my face she says, perceptively, “Are you here to see Miko?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“I’ll go and get him. Come inside!”
She pulls the door wider, inviting me in. She leads me to a dark and gloomy formal sitting room with several sofas, a writing desk, and a cavernous fireplace.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Nessa says kindly. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No,” I say. “No thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She runs out of the room in those scuffed and torn ballet slippers. Nessa is a choreographer, so I assume she goes through plenty of shoes while working on her arrangements. She must have a studio somewhere in this place.
Sure enough, after a few minutes I hear music resuming on the upper floor—distant and scratchy, like an old phonograph. Accompanying that, the sound of lightly thumping feet.
A moment later, Mikolaj comes into the sitting room. He moves almost silently. He’s tall and slim, fair-haired and sharp-featured. He’s tattooed across every inch of his skin—the intricate designs run down his arms to the backs of his hands, and even his fingers. They rise up his neck all the way to his chin, like a high collar. Only his face is unmarked.
I’ve only ever seen him smile looking at Nessa. But I know he’s brilliant, and utterly ruthless. He took on my family and the Griffins simultaneously, and caused a fuck of a lot of trouble until he was ensnared by the gentle heart of the youngest Irish princess.
“Good morning,” Mikolaj says politely in his slight accent. He grew up in the slums of Warsaw, and you can still hear it in his voice. Dante said that Miko almost exclusively speaks Polish with his men, and even with Nessa, who learned it during her captivity in his house.
“Good morning,” I say.
Mikolaj moves to the bar beneath the dusty, leaded-glass windows to pour himself a drink of scotch. Without asking, he pours one for me, too.
I take it from him.
Mikolaj raises the glass and says, “To Enzo.”
I raise my glass in return, my throat too thick to speak.
We both drink.
Mikolaj sits on the sofa across from mine, setting his glass down on the side table.
“My condolences,” he says.
“Thank you.”
It occurs to me that out of all the people I know, Mikolaj might understand the pain I’m feeling the best. After all, he too lost his adoptive father, a man he loved and respected.
I don’t know if that will motivate him to help me, however—considering that it was Dante who shot Tymon Zajac.
“What can I do for you, Sebastian?” he says.
I had considered many ways that I could broach my request. I turned it over and over in my head, during the long drive over here.
In the end, I decided to be blunt and completely honest. I knew Mikolaj would see through anything else.
“I want to kill Alexei Yenin,” I say. “Also his son Adrian. His lieutenant Rodion. And as many of the rest of his men as I can. I want revenge for what they did to my father, and to Nero, and to my friends Giovanni and Brody. I want justice for the blood oath he broke.”
Mikolaj listens, motionless and expressionless. He doesn’t answer, waiting for me to continue.
“Yenin is a mutual enemy of ours. He’s a grudge-holder and an oath-breaker. He probably blames you for the death of Kolya Kristoff as much as he blames my family. He probably blames the Griffins even more. I believe he’ll try to attack you and the Griffins in turn, once he’s eradicated my family.”
Mikolaj takes another sip of his drink while he considers. He swirls the glass gently, so the amber liquid spins around.
“It was me who broke my agreement with the Russians,” he says. “When I fell in love with Nessa.”
“That’s what I mean,” I say. “Alexei Yenin is not forgiving.”
“Neither am I,” Mikolaj says coldly. “The Bratva made a deal with my lieutenants, behind my back. They convinced some of my men to betray me.”
He considers his drink again, though I know he’s actually considering my proposal. He sets the glass down on the end table with a sharp click.
“I met Alexei Yenin once,” he says. “In Moscow. I was there with Tymon Zajac. Yenin barely looked at me, and to Tymon he was arrogant and rude. I’m not surprised he broke the blood oath—he has no respect for tradition. And no honor, either. You know that he worked for the KGB, hunting Bratva? Only to become a pakhan himself. They ought to have cut his hands off and gouged his eyes out of his head before tattooing those stars on his shoulders.”
His voice is icy, without a hint of emotion. He rises from the sofa, and I do the same. Mikolaj holds out his slim, tattooed hand to me.
“I will help you get your revenge. I want all of Yenin’s territory added to my own. That’s my price.”
I shake his hand immediately, with no desire to bargain. His offer is more than generous.
“I think we’ll work well together,” I say.
Mikolaj gives me a thin smile.
“If we don’t, we’ll probably both end up dead,” he says.
