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

MIKO

It’s 3:00 in the morning and I’m driving over to Jungle, with Nero Gallo in the passenger seat next to me, and Sebastian in the back. Aida wanted to come too, but Dante wouldn’t agree to it.

“I’m a better shot than Seb,” she argued.

“I don’t give a shit,” Dante said, bluntly. “You’re not going into a firefight.”

“Because I’m a girl?” Aida said, furiously.

“No,” Dante said. “Because you’re Papa’s favorite. It’ll kill him if something happens to you.”

“Let them go,” Callum said to her, laying his hand on her arm. “We have our own plans to make.”

Aida tossed her head resentfully, but didn’t argue any further.

As we drive over to the club, Nero watches me instead of the road.

“If you turn on my brother, the first bullet out of my gun goes right between your eyes,” he tells me.

“If I wanted to kill Dante, I could have done it this afternoon,” I say.

“You could have tried,” Nero sneers. “Dante’s not so easy to kill.”

“Neither am I,” I say with a short laugh. I think I proved that today, if nothing else.

We come around Jungle on the back side.

The club is closed for the night, all the exterior lights turned off. Still, a dozen cars are parked in the back lot. I’ve been “dead” for less than a day, and Jonas is already making himself at home in my club.

Actually, I feel half-dead. I may be bandaged up, but I’m stiff and aching. I know I’m not as fast as I was before. One good punch to the guts where Franciszek got me with his knife, and I’ll be right back where I started.

No time to heal, though.

Marcel called Jonas from the Griffin’s kitchen, pretending to reconcile. Jonas picked up after only one ring.

“Marcel,” he said, his tone confident and taunting. “Having second thoughts about whose side you’re on?”

“I didn’t side with Mikolaj,” Marcel said, coldly. “I don’t give a fuck about that traitor. What I do take offense to is anybody trying to put their hands on Klara.”

“Klara interfered in our business,” Jonas said.

“I don’t give a fuck if she shot the Pope in the face,” Marcel growled into the phone. “Klara belongs to me now, do you understand?”

He looked over at Klara. Their eyes locked together. The jolt of energy that passed between them was palpable.

“Fine, alright. I don’t want to hurt Klara. She is my cousin, after all,” Jonas said, magnanimously. “But you did shoot Simon. And that’s a problem.”

“I have a peace offering,” Marcel said. “Dante Gallo. I thought you might like to skin him alive before you put a knife in his heart.”

“You have 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 boss anymore at all,” he says.

“The boss is boss until death,” I remind him. “I’m very much alive.”

There’s a stir among my men. I can see Olie, Patryk, and Bruno muttering to the others. They look the most startled to see me still alive, and the most displeased with whatever story they were told. The others are less certain.

I’ll have to put that uncertainty to rest.

I hold up my hand, a signal to Nero Gallo to stay put.

If Nero, Marcel, and I start shooting, my men will likely side with Jonas. But with the right push, they’ll come back to me. We could all get out of this in one piece. Well . . . most of us.

“You betrayed us,” Jonas spits at me.

“That’s funny, coming from the man who stabbed me in the back,” I say.

“You chose that Irish whore over us,” Andrei hisses.

“I’m making an alliance with the Irish, and the Italians too,” I tell them.

“You want us to lick their boots,” Jonas says.

“I want us to get rich together,” I correct him. “I want you all in Maseratis instead of caskets.”

“This is bullshit!” Jonas shouts, saliva flying from his mouth. “He’ll say anything to save his skin, and protect that little bitch. He doesn’t care about us. And he doesn’t care about Zajac! They killed our father! Zajac deserves our vengeance.”

“I took Nessa from them,” I say. “Better to keep her than to kill her. Better to share power with the Irish than share a mausoleum with Zajac.”

“Those are the words of a shivering dog,” Jonas spits.

“You think I’m afraid?” I ask him. “You think you can lead my men better than me? Then prove it, Jonas. Not with four men against one. Prove it just you and me. Man against man. Boss against boss.”

Jonas grins, his black eyes gleaming manically. He clenches his knife all the tighter. I don’t think he would have agreed to this yesterday. Yesterday I was the better fighter. Today I’m barely alive.

Jonas knows I’m injured. He knows he has the advantage.

“If that’s what you want, brother,” he says.

We circle each other, in the open area of the club usually used for dancing. The only lights in this area are the green, filtered lights that give the appearance of tall grass and jungle foliage. Jonas and I circle like predators. Like two wolves fighting for control of the pack.

In a fist-fight, Jonas might have the advantage because he’s heavier than me. In a knife-fight, I’m usually faster. But I’m not fast right now. My right arm is heavy, and my body is exhausted. I try not to show those injuries, but I know I’m not moving as smoothly as usual. Jonas smiles, scenting blood.

We weave around each other, Jonas making a couple of feints in my direction. The key to knife fighting is footwork. You have to keep the right distance from your opponent. This is tricky, because Jonas’ reach is just a little longer than mine.

Imagine two boxers facing off in a ring. Then think how many times Muhammad Ali gets hit, even though he’s the best in the world at dodging blows. You can’t afford to take that many cuts from a knife.

So I keep a wide space between us. Jonas keeps trying to dart inside that circle, slashing at my face and body. I narrowly avoid his cuts, though I have to jerk aside to do it. I feel stitches opening up, on my belly and down my back.

I’m not trying to cut Jonas open. I’m aiming for something different—his knife hand.

Jonas slashes at me again. This time I’m too slow. He opens up a long gash on my left forearm. The blood patters down on the dancefloor. Now I have to avoid that, too, or risk slipping in it.

“Come on,” Jonas grunts, “Quit ducking away. Come on and fight me, suka.”

I pretend to lower my guard. This means I have to actually lower my guard for a moment. Jonas rushes in, slashing his knife right at my face. I duck, again just a little too slow. I feel a burning cut down my right cheek. But Jonas has come close. I slice the back of his knife hand, cutting through muscle and tendon. We call that “defanging the snake.” The effect is immediate—he can no longer grip. His knife falls and I catch it out of the air, so I’m now holding a blade in each hand.

Jonas stumbles backward, his feet slipping in my blood. He goes down hard and I jump on top of him, ready to cut his throat.

Andrei and Franciszek know what will happen if Jonas dies. They rush forward to help their fallen leader.

Dante Gallo intercepts Franciszek. He clasps his fists together, still cuffed, and sends his arm swinging upward like a hammer, crashing up under Franciszek’s chin. Franciszek’s head snaps backward and he sails off in the opposite direction, smashing into one of the empty booths.

Andrei is still running at me, yanking his gun from his coat. I’m holding Jonas down. I’ve stabbed one knife into his shoulder to pin him in place, like an insect on a mount. The other blade is right at his throat. I’ll have to let him go, to jump up and meet Andrei.

Before I can do that, I hear the crack of a shot.

Andrei stops running. His gun drops limply from his hand. Then he sinks to his knees and tumbles over.

I look back where Nero Gallo was hiding, thinking he was the shooter. Nero is standing by the bar, mouth open, his expression as dumbfounded as mine.

I turn the opposite direction instead, to the front doorway.

Sebastian Gallo lowers his gun. He shot from all the way across the room, hitting Andrei in the back of the head. I guess Aida was wrong about his aim.

My other men seem frozen, unsure of what to do. They don’t know what’s happening, there’s no precedent for all this.

I know one thing for certain.

There can only be one Boss.

Jonas is still struggling and spitting beneath me, one arm useless from the knife in his shoulder, but the other fist trying to swing and hit every part of me he can reach.

“I should have been boss,” he spits. “It was my right by blood . . .”

“You’re nothing like Zajac,” I tell him. “You don’t have his brains, or his honor.”

“Go to hell!” he howls, as he writhes and struggles.

“I’ll see you there, brother,” I tell him.

I cut his throat from ear to ear.

The blood pours out in a sheet, dousing my hand. I wipe it off on Jonas’ shirt, and the blade of my knife as well.

Then I stand up, refusing to wince.

My face is throbbing, my arm too. Blood is seeping through the front of my shirt where my stitches pulled out. I stand tall, regardless. I can’t let my men see weakness.

They all stare at me, shocked and guilty. Unsure of what to do.

It’s Marcel who acts first. He strides over to me and kneels in front of me.

“Good to have you back, Boss,” he says.

Olie and Bruno follow close after him, kneeling in front of me so Jonas’ spreading blood soaks the knees of their pants.

“Forgive me, Boss,” Bruno says. “They told me you were dead.”

The rest of my soldiers rush over to kneel. This is the position of penance. Whatever punishment I want to mete out, they will accept.

If I were Zajac, I’d take a finger from each of them.

But I’m not Zajac. The guilty have already been punished.

“Uncuff Dante Gallo,” I say to Marcel.

He unlocks the cuffs, and Dante, Nero, and Sebastian stand at the edge of the dance floor, shoulder to shoulder. My men eye them with wary looks, some still angry.

“Our dispute with the Italians is over,” I tell my men. “The same with the Irish.”

“What about Zajac?” Olie says, quietly.

“I’ll put a monument on his grave,” Dante Gallo says, in his rumbling voice. “In honor of the new friendship between our families.”

Olie nods his head once.

“Get up,” I say to the rest of my men. “Clean up this mess. You had your fun—now it’s time to get back to work.”

As my men start putting the club back in order, I head back to my office with the Gallo brothers.

“What the fuck was that shot?” Nero says to Sebastian.

Sebastian shrugs.

“I told you,” he says to Nero. “I’m the athlete in the family. I’ve got the fastest reflexes.”

“Like hell,” Nero scoffs. “I just had a shit angle.”

Dante puts a heavy hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks his brother.

“Yeah,” Sebastian shrugs.

His face looks troubled. I’m guessing that was the first man he ever killed.

I’m not happy about it, either. I’ve known Andrei for six years. He lived in my house. We played pool together, and Chaturanga. We ate at the same table. Laughed at the same jokes.

But in our world, you’re brothers or enemies. There is no in-between.

Once we’re inside my office, I call Kolya Kristoff. He answers after a few rings, his voice thick with sleep, but his brain as sharp as ever.

“I didn’t expect to see a dead man’s name on my phone,” he says.

“You picked up to see what it’s like on the other side?”

He laughs. “Enlighten me.”

“You’d have to ask Jonas.”

“Ah,” he sighs. “His reign didn’t last long.”

“I’ve made peace with the Griffins and the Gallos.”

Kristoff chuckles softly.

“So little Nessa Griffin put the collar on your neck, instead.”

I won’t rise to the bait.

“Our agreement is off,” I tell him.

“An agreement by two can’t be broken by one,” Kristoff says.

“Do as you will,” I tell him. “Just know that the Griffins are expecting you. If you try to take Callum and Aida, you’ll be slaughtered.”

“We’ll see,” Kristoff says.

He hangs up the phone.

I look at the Gallo brothers.

“He’s a cocky little shit, isn’t he?” Nero says.

Dante scowls.

“I’ll be waiting at the library,” he says. “If Kristoff is stupid enough to pop up his head, I’ll blow it off his shoulders for him.”