Stolen Heir: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 2)
Stolen Heir: Chapter 13

MIKO

As much as I’ve loved leaving the Griffins in torturous suspense, it’s time to move on to the second phase of mental fuckery I have in store for them.

This part of the plan serves two purposes: first, I get the pleasure of extorting some cash from their coffers. And second, I can secure an alliance with a mutual enemy.

Kolya Kristoff is the head of the Chicago Bratva. The Russian Mafia isn’t nearly as powerful in the Midwest as they are on the west coast. In fact, they just lost a substantial portion of their assets when their previous boss got his ass thrown in prison on a twelve-year sentence. The Chicago PD snatched up eight million dollars of high-quality Russian weaponry, including compact SPP-1 pistols, which can shoot underwater, and Vityaz-SNs, the most modern version of the classic Kalashnikov.

I know this, because one of those crates of beautifully-oiled guns belonged to me, smuggled into Chicago but not yet handed over to my men.

The Bratva found themselves with no guns, no boss, and very little cash to pay back the clients who had already made down payments.

The Bratva owes me money. And a lot of other people, too.

They need cash. I need men.

We can help each other.

In a deliciously ironic twist, it’s the Griffins and the Gallos who will pay the fee to secure the alliance against themselves.

They’ll pay it in the form of a ransom of fourteen million dollars.

I picked that number because it’s the amount the Griffins and the Gallos should be able to scrounge up without tedious delays. It will sting, but not bankrupt them. They’ll be willing to pay it, and it seems a fitting price for Nessa.

I include the stolen lock of hair inside the ransom note.

I’m certain her parents will recognize that distinctive light-brown shade, and the softness of her natural, undyed hair. I think I could recognize it myself, wherever I might encounter it.

I rub it between my fingers and thumb before I drop it into the envelope. It feels like a silk tassel, as if it’s very much still alive and growing, even though it’s been separated from its source.

The note is clear in its instructions, and includes a threat:

To prove we have Nessa, we’ve cut off a piece of her hair. If you fail to provide the ransom, the next package you receive will contain one of her fingers, then the rest of the hand. The last box will hold her head.

I wish I could see their faces as they agonize over that prospect.

It’s fun to write, less fun to do. I enjoy torturing the Griffins and the Gallos, but I don’t relish the idea of cutting bits and pieces off of Nessa.

I doubt I’ll have to follow through.

The two families have been hunting for Nessa all across the city. They’ve paid thousands of dollars to informants, while beating and threatening many more. They raided two of my safe houses and got in a brawl with the bouncers at my club.

But they’ve found absolutely fucking nothing.

Because I’m not stupid enough to let some rat or some low-level soldier replace out about my plans.

They suspect me, but they don’t even know for certain that I’m the one who took Nessa.

Which is why involving the Russians in the ransom will muddy the waters all the more.

I give the Griffins twenty-four hours to get the ransom together.

I provide a burner phone along with the ransom letter, so I can tell them the drop point at the last minute. I have no interest in trying to contend with Dante Gallo’s sniper rifle, or a dozen of their men sequestered at ambush points, if I were stupid enough to give them advance notice of the location.

Still, I expect them to break the rules. They are gangsters, after all. If I scratch their cultured surface, I’ll replace the grit underneath. They’re just as willing as I am to do whatever it takes to get what they want. Or at least, they think they are.

Jonas makes the call, because he has no accent.

I can hear the tinny echo of Fergus Griffin responding. He’s maintaining his politeness—he won’t allow his temper to endanger his daughter. But I hear the rage simmering below the surface.

“Where do you want us to bring the money?” he says, tightly.

“Graceland Cemetery,” Jonas replies. “That’s a thirteen-minute drive. I’ll give you fifteen, to be generous. Send two men in one car. Bring the phone. The Clark Street gate will be unlocked.”

We’re already waiting in the cemetery. I’ve got six of my men stationed at vantage points. Kolya Kristoff has brought four of his own.

Less than two minutes later, Andrei texts me to say that a black Lincoln Town Car has left the lakeside mansion, with loyal lapdog Jack Du Pont driving and Callum Griffin in the passenger seat. As I expected, Marcel texts me a moment later, telling me that Dante and Nero Gallo have left their old townhouse. They’re driving separate cars, presumably with several of their men along for the ride.

So predictable.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve narrowed the funnel by unlocking a single cemetery gate. During the fall and winter months, the cemetery closes at 4:00 p.m. We’ve had plenty of time to capture the only two rent-a-cops patrolling the grounds, and to set up our own men all around.

The Russians have even brought our hostage. She’s bound hand and foot, dressed in the same clothes Nessa wore the day that we kidnapped her—hoodie, jeans, and even her sneakers. A black cloth bag covers her head, with the ends of her brown hair protruding underneath.

I look her over with a practiced eye.

“It’s good,” I say to Kolya.

Kolya grins, showing white teeth with pointed incisors. He’s darker than the average Russian, with long, narrow eyes below straight, thick brows. Mongolian ancestry, probably. Some of the most ruthless Bratva are Tartars. He’s young and confident—I doubt the Chicago Bratva will continue to flounder under his leadership. Which means that he and I may soon be at odds again.

But for now, we’re allies. Happy to join forces against our common enemies.

“Where do you want her?” Kolya asks.

I point to the small temple at the edge of the lake. It looks like a miniature Parthenon. You can see all the way inside it, through the gaps in the stone pillars.

“Put her in there,” I say.

I’ve chosen the cemetery for strategic reasons. It has only one proper entrance point, with high walls all around. It’s 119 acres of winding paths through dense trees and stone monuments, large and crowded enough that it would be difficult for anyone to replace us without specific directions.

Then, of course, there’s the omnipresent reminder of death. The unspoken threat that the Griffins had better cooperate, if they don’t want their youngest member to remain in the cemetery permanently.

Kolya will be the one collecting the ransom. He’s agreed to this because he doesn’t want the money out of his hands for a moment. It’s his payment, in return for joining his forces to mine.

I’ve agreed to it because I’m only too happy to shift the Griffins’ focus from my men to Kolya’s. If anyone gets shot, I want it to be a Russian.

I fall back to a separate vantage point, back among the trees. We’ve all got ear-pieces. I can see and hear the exchange from here.

I don’t give a shit that I’m walking over buried bodies in the dead of night. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, ghosts or spirits. The dead are no danger because they don’t exist anymore. I’m concerned only with the living. Only they can get in my way.

Still, I’m not such a philistine that I can’t recognize how beautiful this place is. Massive, ancient oaks. Stone monuments built by some of the finest sculptors in Chicago.

There’s one grave in particular that catches my eye, because its statue is entirely enclosed in glass, like Snow White’s coffin. I draw closer to it, wanting to make out the figure in the dark.

Inside the upright glass box sits a stone girl, life-sized. She’s wearing a dress, a sun hat dangling down her back by its strings. She’s barefoot, holding an umbrella.

The inscription reads:

Inez Clark

1873-1880

Killed by Lightning,

While Playing in the Rain

I wonder if the glass box is meant to protect her statue from further storms.

I understand the sentiment. Too bad it’s pointless. Once you’ve lost someone you love, there’s no protecting them anymore.

My lookouts keep watch at every corner of the cemetery. They inform me when Callum Griffin arrives at the main gate, and when the Gallo brothers drive up Kenmore Avenue a moment later, obviously intending to sneak over the back wall.

I signal to Jonas to call the burner phone. He’ll direct Callum to the lake at the northeast end of the cemetery.

“Bring the money,” Jonas orders. “You’d better fucking run. You’ve only got three minutes.”

Keeping the time tight is essential. I want this finished before the Gallos replace their way inside. And I want Callum too hectic and winded to think clearly.

The lake is the most open part of the cemetery. The half-moon shines brightly down on the water, illuminating the sole figure of Kolya Kristoff. He’s smoking a cigarette, exhaling the smoke upward to the sky, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He barely looks up as Callum Griffin and Jack Du Pont come jogging down the path, each carrying two very heavy duffle-bags in either hand. Even from where I’m standing under a willow tree, I can see the sweat running down their faces.

Callum nods to Jack. They drop the bags in front of Kolya’s feet with a heavy thud. Kolya’s white teeth flash again as he grins at the sound.

He nods to one of his men. The Russian kneels down, unzipping the bags and checking their contents.

“Clean bills, no trackers, I assume,” Kolya says.

“I’m not the fucking FBI,” Callum replies disdainfully.

I can hear them clearly through my earpiece, Kolya a little louder than Callum.

Kolya’s man rummages through the bags, holding up a standard-pressed gold bar for his boss’s approval.

“That’s not cash,” Kolya remarks, eyebrow raised.

“You only gave us twenty-four hours,” Callum says. “That’s what I had on hand. Besides, a million in bills weighs seventeen pounds. You expect us to carry in in two hundred and thirty-eight pounds?”

“Eh, you’re big boys, you can handle it,” Kolya sneers.

“It’s all there,” Callum barks impatiently. “Where’s my sister?”

“Right behind you,” Kolya says, in his drawling tone.

Callum turns, spotting the slim ballerina figure of the girl in the temple, bag still fixed over her head.

“There better not be one fucking scratch on her,” he threatens.

“She is in exactly the same condition as when I took her,” Kolya promises.

“When you took her?” Callum hisses, “Don’t you mean when Mikolaj did? Where is he, anyway? I didn’t take you for an errand boy, Kristoff.”

Kolya shrugs, taking one last long pull off his cigarette. He flicks the butt into the lake, sending ripples running outward from the bank across the still water.

“This is the problem with you Irish,” he says softly. “Surrounded by enemies and not afraid to make more. You should learn to be friendly.”

“You don’t make friends with termites when they burrow into your foundation,” Callum says coldly.

My earpiece crackles as Andrei mutters, “Gallos are coming.”

“Time to go,” I say to Kolya.

He’s frowning, spoiling for a fight with Callum. And he doesn’t like taking orders from me.

But he wants the money. So he nods to his men, who pick up the duffle-bags.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Kolya says to Callum.

“You’re goddamned right we will,” Callum snarls back.

The Russians take the ransom and jog off toward the main gate.

Callum nods to Jack Du Pont, silently ordering him to follow the Russians. Callum turns the opposite direction, running toward the temple.

Quietly, I tell Marcel, “Jack Du Pont is headed your way. Let the Russians pass. Then cut his throat.”

I watch Callum dash through the tall grass at the edge of the water, sprinting up to the temple.

I hear him as he calls out, “Nessa! I’m here! Are you okay?”

I hear the hoarseness in his voice and see his shoulders slump in relief as the girl turns blindly toward him, hands still bound behind her back.

Dante and Nero Gallo arrive just in time to witness the reunion. Dante’s got his rifle up on his shoulder. Nero’s close behind, covering his back. They push their way through the trees on the opposite side of the temple.

We all watch as Callum pulls the black cloth bag off the girl’s head.

Exposing the terrified face of Serena Breglio.

Her newly-dyed hair is limp around her shoulders. The Russians fucked that up—the brown is dark and muddy, but she was too far away for Callum to notice.

The Russians snatched her this afternoon, right outside her apartment on Magnolia Avenue. I gave them Nessa’s clothes, which fit her perfectly. Ballet dancers all have that same slim physique.

Mascara tracks run down her cheeks from hours of tears. Serena tries to say something to Callum, around the gag.

Callum’s face is a mask of fury and disappointment. If he were a star, he’d go supernova.

He abandons the girl in the temple, not even bothering to untie her. Dante Gallo does it instead.

Callum is sprinting off toward the main gate, trying to chase after the Russians.

I lift my rifle, watching the Gallo brothers through the sight.

I’ve got Dante right in my crosshairs. He’s crouched over Serena, pulling the gag out of her mouth. His back is to me. I could put a bullet in the base of his neck, severing the spinal cord. He’s the one who pulled the trigger on Tymon. I could end him right now.

But I’ve got other plans for Dante.

I lower my rifle. I skirt the lake and follow after Callum Griffin instead.

I hear his howl as he discovers the body of his driver. They went to school together, or so I’m told. Marcel cut his throat, leaving Jack Du Pont to bleed out, slumped up against a cross-shaped tombstone.

I guess Callum will be driving himself around from now on.

“You comin’, boss?” Andrei says in my ear.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m on my way.”