Stolen Heir: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 2)
Stolen Heir: Chapter 14

NESSA

All the men disappeared from the house today.

I don’t know where they went. But I’m getting so used to the normal creaks and moans of the old mansion, that I can tell when only that ambient sound remains, while all the footsteps and doors banging and Polish conversation and masculine chuckles are gone.

Klara is still here. I hear her vacuum cleaner running, and later I hear her singing down on the main level while she dusts. That’s how I know for certain the Beast is gone—she wouldn’t sing with him around.

They’ve stopped locking my door. I creep down to the main level to check the rest of the doors in the house. Those are locked and dead bolted, including the one through the conservatory out to the garden. I’m not getting out without a key.

It’s what I expected.

But it makes me wonder—where are the keys?

All the men must have one. Klara too, most likely.

I could sneak up on her while she’s vacuuming. Hit her over the head with a vase.

I picture myself doing it, like a character in the movie. Knowing all along I never could.

I don’t want to hurt Klara. She’s been kind to me, as kind as she’s allowed. She’s taught me quite a bit of Polish. And she protects me from Jonas. I heard her arguing with him out in the hall, one night after I went to bed. He sounded drunk, slurring his responses. She was sharp and insistent. I don’t know what he was trying to do, but she wouldn’t let him into my room. She said, “Powiem Mikolaj!” which I’m pretty sure means, “I’ll tell Mikolaj.”

If I escape while Klara is supposed to be guarding me, they might punish her. I know they cut off fingers willy-nilly around here. I can’t let that happen to Klara.

So I head back to the east wing, thinking I’ll replace a new book in the library. I’ve been ransacking both the little reading room in my wing, and also the larger library on the main floor.

Put together, there are thousands of books for me to read: fiction and non-fiction, classics and contemporary novels. Most of the books are in English, but there are French novels and German poetry, and a copy of Don Quixote in the original two-part Spanish set.

Someone here must be adding to the collection, because there are plenty of Polish translations, and also native works like Lalka and Choucas, which I read in one of my literature courses.

I’m missing all my classes at school. All my dance classes, too. It’s strange to think of my classmates walking around campus, studying and handing in assignments as usual, while I’m locked in suspended animation. It feels like I’ve been here for years, though it’s only been two weeks.

If it goes on much longer, I won’t be able to catch up. I’ll fail the whole semester.

Of course, if the Beast kills me, it won’t matter that I missed school.

I hunt through the smaller reading room, running my fingers down the dusty spines. The Age of Innocence, 1984, Catch-22, The Doll . . .

I pause. The Doll is the English translation of Lalka.

I pull it off the shelf, flipping through the pages. Then I tuck the little book under my arm and run back down to the main level, where I search the shelves for the original Polish version. There it is—the hardcover of Lalka, with its leather binding embossed in floral print. Now I have the same book in both languages.

My heart is racing from the run, and the excitement of what I’ve found. I take the books back up to my room, laying down on my bed to examine them. I set them side by side, opening each to the first chapter:

Early in 1878, when the political world was concerned with the treaty of San Stefano, the election of a new Pope, and the chances of a European war, Warsaw businessmen and the intelligentsia who frequented a certain spot in the Krakowskie Przedmieście were no less keenly interested in the future of the haberdashery firm of J. Mincel and S. Wokulski.

There it is: the same paragraph in English, and then again in Polish. I can read through sentence by sentence, comparing the two. It’s not quite as good as a language textbook, but it’s the next best thing. Pages and pages of sentences I can compare to learn vocabulary and syntax.

Polish is a damned hard language, I already know that from talking with Klara. Some of the sounds are so similar that I can barely distinguish them, like “ś” and “sz.” Not to mention its use of a case system, and the near-opposite word order, compared to English.

Still, I have all the time in the world to work on it.

I lay on my bed for most of the day, working my way through the first chapter of the book in both languages. Eventually I stop, when my eyes are aching and my head is swimming.

Just as I’m closing the books, Klara comes into my room, carrying my dinner tray. I stuff the books hastily under my pillow, in case she notices what I’m up to.

“Dobry wieczór,” I say. Good evening.

She gives me that short flash of a smile while she sets my tray down on the table.

“Dobry wieczór,” she replies, with much better pronunciation.

“Where is everyone?” I ask her, in Polish. Actually, what I say is “Gdzie mężczyźni?” or “Where men?” but let’s use the intent of the sentence, and ignore the fact that I have the verbal complexity of a caveman.

Klara understands me well enough. She gives a quick glance toward the doorway, like she thinks they might come home any second. Then she shakes her head, saying, “Nie wiem.” I don’t know.

Maybe she really doesn’t know. I doubt Mikolaj gives his maid a copy of his schedule. But Klara is smart. I bet she knows a lot more about what goes on around here than the men would expect. She just doesn’t want to tell me. Because it’s pointless. Because it will only get us in trouble.

I sit down in front of the tray, which as usual is loaded with far more food than I could actually eat. There’s grilled rosemary chicken, lemon potatoes, sautéed broccolini, fresh rolls, and then a little side plate that looks like dessert.

The meals are always fantastic. I point to the tray and say, “Ty robisz?” You make?

Klara nods. “Tak.” Yes.

Knowing that Klara went to the trouble to cook the meals makes me feel guilty for all the times I refused to eat.

“Your food is amazing,” I tell her in English. “You should be a chef.”

Klara shrugs, blushing. She hates when I compliment her.

“You remind me of Alfred,” I tell her. “You know Alfred, from Batman? He’s good at everything. Like you.”

Klara smiles her Mona Lisa smile—inscrutable but, I hope, pleased.

”Co to jest?” I ask her, pointing to the dessert plate.

It looks like a folded crepe, dusted with powdered sugar.

“Nalesniki,” she says.

I cut off a piece, though I haven’t finished my dinner yet. It does taste like a crepe, with some kind of sweet cream cheese mixture inside. Actually, it’s better than any crepe I’ve ever had—thicker, and more flavorful.

“Pyszne!” I tell her enthusiastically. Delicious!

She grins.

“Mój ulubiony,” she says. My favorite.

When I’m done eating, I look around for my bodysuit. I want to change clothes so I can practice dancing before bed.

I replace the bodysuit, washed and folded inside the chest of drawers. But I don’t see any of my other clothes—the hoodie, jeans, or sneakers.

“Gdzie są moje ubrania?” I ask Klara.

Klara flushes, not meeting my eye.

“Jest dużo ubrań,” she says, gesturing to the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. There’s plenty of clothing.

How odd. Why did she take my clothes?

Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s the bodysuit I need the most.

I wish I had proper pointe shoes. Dancing barefoot is alright, but I can’t practice everything I’d like to.

I need a better space for it, too.

Once I’ve changed clothes, I go poking around in my wing, looking for a better dance room. Nobody comes into the east wing except me and Klara. I’ve come to see it as my own space, even though Mikolaj never actually said I could use the other rooms.

After examining all the spaces, I think the art room will be best. It has the most natural light and the least furniture in the way.

I spend about an hour rearranging it to suit my purpose. I drag all the chairs and tables to one side of the room, then roll up the ancient rugs, exposing the bare wood floors. I stack the easels and the loose canvases, and put away all the spare art supplies, most of which are ruined anyway—tubes of dried paint, moldering brushes, and stubs of charcoal.

Now I’ve got plenty of space. But I’m still missing the most crucial thing of all.

I go downstairs to replace Klara. She’s in the kitchen, bleaching the countertops. She’s wearing gloves to protect her hands, but I know her skin still gets raw from all the work she does around this place. It’s not her fault that it’s still dusty and gloomy—it’s just way too much work for one person. You’d need an army to keep this place clean. Especially at the rate idiots like Jonas mess it up again.

“Klara,” I say from the doorway. “Potrzebuję muzyki.” I need music.

She straightens up, frowning a little.

I think she’s annoyed that I interrupted her, but then I realize she’s just thinking.

After a minute, she strips off her gloves and says, “Chodź ze mną.” Come with me.

I follow her out of the kitchen, through the billiards room, then up a back staircase to a part of the house I haven’t seen before. This area is plain and cramped—probably the servant’s quarters once upon a time.

Klara takes me all the way up to the attic, which runs the length of the central portion of the house. It’s a huge space, crowded with endless stacks of boxes and piles of old furniture. It also appears to house half the spiders in the state of Illinois. Sheets of old cobwebs hang from floor to ceiling. Klara pushes through them impatiently. I follow at a respectful distance, not wanting to meet an arachnid with that sort of work ethic.

Klara roots through the boxes. Hopefully she knows what she’s looking for, because we could spend a hundred years up here without coming to the end of it all. I see yellowed wedding dresses, stacks of old photographs, hand-knitted baby blankets, worn leather shoes.

There’s a whole box of gowns from the 1920s, beaded, feathered, and draped. They must be worth a fortune to the right person. They look like they should be displayed in a museum.

“Hold on,” I say to Klara. “We’ve got to look at those.”

She pauses in her search and I open up the box of gowns instead, pulling them out of their tissue wrappings.

I can’t believe how heavy and intricate the dresses are. They look hand-sewn, each one representing hundreds of hours of labor. The materials are like nothing you’d replace in a store nowadays.

“We have to try one on,” I say to Klara.

She touches the fringed skirt of one of the gowns. I can tell she replaces them as fascinating as I do, but she’s not a rule-breaker. The gowns are in this house, which means they belong to the Beast.

I don’t give a damn who they belong to. I’m putting one on.

I pull out a blue velvet gown with long, floating butterfly sleeves. The deep V in the front goes down almost to the waist, where a jeweled belt sits. I put it on over top of my bodysuit, amazed at how heavy it is. I feel like an empress. Like I should have a servant carrying my train.

Klara looks at the dress, wide-eyed. I can tell she wants to try one, too.

“Come on,” I coax her. “No one will see us.”

Biting her lip, she makes her choice. She quickly strips out of her awful maid’s uniform. If there’s any evidence that Mikolaj is a monster, it’s the fact that he makes her wear that awful thing day in and day out. It looks hot and uncomfortable.

Klara actually has a lovely figure underneath. She’s fit and strong, probably from lifting and scrubbing all damn day.

She pulls out a long black gown with silver beading on the bodice. She steps into it, and I zip up the back. Then she turns around, so I can admire the full effect.

It’s absolutely gorgeous. The gown has a near-transparent bodice, thin black mesh with silver moons and stars embroidered across the breast. The drop-waist is covered by a long, dangling silver belt, like something you’d see on a medieval gown. With her black hair and dark eyes, Klara looks like an enchantress.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “It’s so beautiful.”

I pull Klara over to a dusty old mirror leaned up against the wall. I brush it off with my hands, so she can see her reflection clearly.

Klara stares at herself, equally entranced.

“Kto to jest?” she says softly. Who is that?

“It’s you,” I laugh. “You’re magical.”

My dress is pretty, but Klara’s was made for her. Never did a piece of clothing fit someone so perfectly. It’s like the seamstress looked a hundred years into the future for her muse.

“You have to keep it,” I say to Klara. “Take it home with you. No one knows it’s up here.”

I say it in English, but Klara understands the gist. She shakes her head wildly, struggling to undo the zipper.

“Nie, nie,” she says, pulling at the back. “Zdejmij to.” Take it off.

I help her unzip it, before she tears the material.

She steps out of the dress, swiftly folding it up and stowing it back in the box.

“To nie dla mnie,” she says, shaking her head. It’s not for me.

I can tell that nothing I say will convince her.

It’s tragic to think of that dress moldering up here in the attic, with no one to use it or love it like Klara could. But I understand that she could never enjoy it, worrying that Mikolaj would replace out. Where would she wear it, anyway? As far as I can tell, she spends all her time here.

We put the dresses back in their box, and Klara pulls on her uniform once more, itchier and hotter than ever by comparison to that gorgeous gown. Then she searches through a dozen more boxes until she finally replaces the one she was looking for.

“Tam!” she says happily.

She drags out the box, thrusting it into my arms. It’s heavy. I stagger under the weight. When she lifts the lid, I see dozens of slim, long spines, in a riot of colors. It’s a box of old records.

“Is there a record player?” I ask her.

She nods. “Na dół.” Downstairs.

While I carry the records over to the old art room, Klara retrieves the turntable. She sets it up in the corner of the room, balanced on one of the little end tables I’ve shoved into the corner. The turntable is just as old as the vinyl, and even dustier. Klara has to clean it all over with a damp cloth. Even after she plugs it into the wall to prove that the platter still spins, neither one of us is certain it will play.

I pull out one of the records, removing the vinyl from its protective sleeve. Klara places it carefully on the platter and sets the needle in place. There’s an unpleasant static sound, and then, to our joy and amazement, it begins to play “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers.

We both start laughing, faces and hands filthy with dust from the attic, but our smiles as bright as ever.

“Proszę bardzo. Muzyka,” Klara says. There you go. Music.

“Dziękuję Ci, Klara,” I say. Thank you, Klara.

She smiles, shrugging her slim shoulders.

Once she leaves, I pore over the vinyl in the box. Most of it is from the 50s and 60s—not what I’d generally dance to, but miles better than silence.

However, there are also a few LPs of classical music, some by composers I’ve never heard of before. I play through a few of the records, looking for one that suits my mood.

I usually lean toward cheerful, upbeat music. I hate to admit it, but Taylor Swift has been one of my favorite singers for years.

There’s nothing like that in the box. A lot of it I don’t recognize at all.

One cover catches my eye: it’s a single white rose on a black background. The composer’s name is Egelsei.

I swap out the record, setting the needle in place.

The music is unlike anything I’ve heard before—haunting, dissonant . . . yet entrancing. It makes me think of this old mansion creaking in the night. Of Klara in her witchy gown, reflected in a dusty mirror. And of a girl, sitting at a long table lit by candlelight, facing a Beast.

It reminds me of fairytales—dark and terrifying. But also tantalizing. Full of adventure, danger, and magic.

My favorite ballets have always been the ones based off fairytales—Cinderella, The Nutcracker, The Sleeping Beauty, The Stone Flower, Swan Lake.

I’ve always wished there was a ballet of my favorite fairytale of all: Beauty and the Beast.

Why shouldn’t there be?

I could make one.

I choreographed four songs for Jackson Wright.

I could make a whole ballet if I wanted to, start to finish. One that would be dark and gothic, frightening and beautiful, just like this house. I could take all of my fear and fascination, and pour it into a dance. And it would be fucking beautiful. More real than anything I’ve made before.

Jackson said my work lacked emotion. Maybe he was right. What had I ever felt before?

I’ve felt things now. All sorts of things. I’ve felt more emotions in two weeks of captivity than in my whole life before.

I turn the volume up on the record player, and I start to choreograph my ballet.