Stolen Heir: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 2)
Stolen Heir: Chapter 9

MIKO

The girl is terrified. She’s shaking so hard that her teeth click together. She scrambles wildly behind her for the door handle. When she replaces it at last, she tries to wrench it open to flee out into the back garden. But the door is locked. She’s got nowhere to go, unless she wants to fling herself through solid glass.

I can see her pulse jumping in her throat, below the thin, delicate skin. I can almost taste the adrenaline in her breath. Her fear is like salt on a dish—it only makes this moment more delicious.

I expect her to start crying. This girl obviously has no spine. She’s weak, babyish. The spoiled princess of American royalty. She’ll beg me not to hurt her. And I’ll store each and every plea in my mind, so I can relay them to her family, when I kill them.

Instead, she takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. She closes her eyes for a moment, her lips parting as she lets out a long sigh. Then those big green eyes open again, looking right up into my face, wide and frightened, but resolute.

“I didn’t kill your father,” she says. “But I know how people like you think. There’s no reasoning with you. I’m not going to cower and beg—you’d probably just enjoy it. So do what you have to do.”

She lifts her chin, her cheeks flushed pink.

She thinks she’s brave.

She thinks she could stay strong if I wanted to torture her. If I wanted to break her bones, one by one.

I’ve made grown men scream for their mothers.

I can only imagine what I could make her do, given enough time.

Sure enough, as soon as I lift my right hand, she flinches away, scared of a blow to the face.

But I have no intention of hitting her. Not yet.

Instead, I rest my fingertips against that soft pink cheek, lightly dusted with freckles. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to resist digging my fingers deep into her flesh.

I stroke my thumb across her lips. I can feel them trembling.

“If only it were that easy, my little ballerina,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen, a shiver running all the way down her slim frame. It scares her that I know that much about her. I know what she does and what she loves.

This girl has no idea how easy she is to read. She’s never learned to put up walls, to protect herself. She’s as vulnerable as a bed of tulips. I intend to stomp through her garden, ripping the blossoms from the ground one by one.

“I didn’t bring you here to kill you quickly,” I tell her. “Your suffering will be long and slow. You will be the blade I use to cut your family again and again and again. Only when they’re weak, and desperate, and full of misery, only then will I allow them to die. And you can watch it all, little ballerina. Because this is a tragedy—and the swan princess only perishes in the final act.”

Tears fill her eyes, slipping silently down her cheeks. Her lips tremble with disgust.

She looks at me and she sees a monster out of a nightmare.

And she’s absolutely right.

In the time I worked for Zajac, I did unspeakable things. I’ve blackmailed, stolen, beaten, tortured, and murdered people. I did it all without conscience or remorse.

All that was good inside of me died ten years ago. The last shred of the boy I used to be was tied to Zajac—he was the only family I had left. Now he’s gone, and there’s no humanity inside of me at all. I feel nothing anymore, except need. I need money. Power. And above all, revenge.

There’s no good or bad, no right or wrong. Only my goals, and the things that stand in the way of those goals.

Nessa shakes her head slowly, making the tears flow down all the faster.

“I’m not going to help you hurt the people I love,” she tells me. “No matter what you do to me.”

“You won’t have a choice,” I say, a smile curving the corners of my mouth. “I told you. This is a tragedy—your fate is already set.”

Her body stiffens, and for a moment I see that spark of rebellion flare up in those wide eyes. I think she might pluck up the courage to try to hit me.

But she isn’t quite that foolish.

Instead, she says, “This isn’t fate. You’re just an evil man, trying to play god.”

She lets go of the doorknob and stands up straight, though it brings us even closer together.

“You don’t know what kind of story we’re in, any more than I do,” she says.

I could strangle her right now. That would extinguish the defiance in her eyes. That would show her that whatever sort of story this may be, it isn’t one with a happy ending.

But then I’d deny myself the bitter pleasures I’ve been waiting for all these months.

So instead I say, “If you’re so determined to write the narrative, why don’t you tell me who I should kill first? Your mother? Your father? What about Aida Gallo? After all, it’s her brother who shot Tymon . . .”

With each family member I name, her body jerks like I’ve hit her. I think I know the one that will hurt her most . . .

“Or what about the new Alderman?” I say. “That’s where the conflict started—with your big brother Callum. He thought he was too good to work with us. Now he’s got a nice office at City Hall. It’s so easy to replace him there. Or I could just go to his apartment on Erie Street . . .”

“No!” Nessa cries, unable to stop herself.

God, this is too easy. It’s barely any fun at all.

“Here are the rules, for the present,” I tell her. “If you try to escape, I’ll punish you. If you try to hurt yourself, I’ll punish you. If you refuse any of my orders . . .well, you get the idea. Now quit your sniveling and get back to your room.”

Nessa looks pale and sick.

She was defiant when she thought it was only her life on the line. But when I named her brother and sister-in-law, it became real to her. It stripped away her resistance in an instant.

I’m starting to regret picking her for this little game.

I don’t think she’s going to put up much of a fight.

Sure enough, as soon as I step back to give her space to pass, she meekly runs back in the direction of her room. Without even a final retort to salvage her dignity.

I pull out my phone so I can access the cameras mounted in every corner of this house.

I watch her climb the stairs, then run back down the long hallway to the guest suite at the end of the east wing. She pushes her door closed then collapses on the ancient four-poster bed, sobbing into her pillow.

I sit back down on the bench so I can watch her cry. She cries for an hour, before finally falling back asleep.

I don’t feel guilt or pleasure watching her.

I don’t feel anything at all.