Stolen Heir: Chapter 26

We take Mikolaj to a safehouse in Edgewater. Klara drives, while Marcel shouts directions and rips open a medical kit with his teeth. He tears into a little packet containing a long tube and a syringe.

Mikolaj is sprawled out across the back seat. His eyes are closed and his skin looks gray. He doesn’t respond when I squeeze his hand. I’m trying to hold a cloth tight against his stomach, but it’s difficult with how wildly Klara is driving and how soaked the cloth has gotten already.

“What’s your blood type?” Marcel barks at me.

“What? I—”

“Your blood type!”

“Uh . . . O positive, I think,” I say. I’ve donated a few times during the blood drives at school.

“Good,” he says, relieved. “I’m AB, which won’t work.”

He shoves the needle into Mikolaj’s arm, then says, “Give me yours.”

He makes me stand, half-crouching in the speeding car, so my arm is higher than Mikolaj’s.

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask him.

“I was in medical school in Warsaw,” he says, his speech muffled because he’s wrapping a long rubber band around my arm, while holding one end in his mouth. “Got myself in trouble popping pills to stay awake. Started selling them, too. That’s how I met Miko.”

He jams the other end of the cannula into my vein.

Dark blood speeds down the tube into Mikolaj’s arm. I can’t feel it draining out of me, but I pray to god it’s moving fast, because Mikolaj needs it badly. I’m not even sure he’s still alive.

After a minute I think a little color has come back into his cheeks. Maybe that’s only wishful thinking.

It’s funny to think of my blood mixing in his veins. I’ve already had a bit of him inside of me. Now he has me inside of him.

“Left here,” Marcel says to Klara.

Klara is intently focused on the road, hands rigid on the steering wheel.

“How is he?” she says, unable to look back at us.

“Don’t know yet,” Marcel replies.

We pull up in front of a building that looks deserted. The windows are dark, some smashed and some covered with cardboard. Marcel stops the blood transfusion, taking the needle out of my arm. He says, “Help me with his feet.”

We haul Mikolaj into the building, trying not to jostle him.

As soon as we’re through the door, Marcel shouts, “Cyrus! CYRUUUUS!”

A little man appears in the hallway—short, balding, with deeply-tanned skin and a white goatee.

“You didn’t call to tell me you were coming,” he rasps.

“Yes I did!” Marcel says. “Twice!”

“Ah,” Cyrus says. “I forgot to switch on my hearing aid.”

He fumbles with the device nestled in his right ear.

“We should take him to a hospital,” I murmur to Marcel, highly concerned.

“This is closer,” Marcel says, “No one will take better care of Mikolaj, I promise you. Cyrus is a wizard. He could stitch up Swiss cheese.”

We carry Mikolaj into a tiny room filled by what looks like a dentist’s chair and a couple cabinets of medical supplies. It’s a jumble of mismatched items, old and older, most of it rust-speckled or dented. I’m becoming more worried by the minute.

Once we’ve deposited Mikolaj on the chair, Marcel shoves Klara and me out.

“We have this,” he says. “Go and wait—I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He closes the door in our faces.

Klara and I retreat to a little room with an ancient TV, a fridge, and an assortment of couches and chairs. Klara sinks down into an overstuffed armchair, looking exhausted.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. Then, seeing the misery on my face she adds, “He’s probably survived worse.”

I try sitting on the couch, then I pace the room for a minute, then I sit down again. I’m anxious, but I’ve given out too much blood to keep up the pacing.

“That fucking back-stabbing Judas,” I hiss, furious at Jonas.

Klara raises her eyebrows. I don’t usually talk like that. She’s never seen me riled up like this.

“He’s trash,” she agrees, calmly.

“Isn’t he your cousin?” I ask Klara.

“Yeah,” she sighs, pushing back her bangs, which are dark with sweat. “I never liked him, though. Mikolaj always treated me well. He was fair. Didn’t let the men put their hands on me. And he gave me money for my mother when she got sick. Jonas didn’t send her anything. She’s his father’s sister—he still didn’t give a damn.”

I could stab Jonas myself, if he were standing here now.

I’ve never felt that kind of violent anger before. I don’t lose my temper. I don’t have murderous thoughts. I don’t even kill spiders when I find them in the house. But if Mikolaj dies . . . I won’t be a pacifist anymore.

“Marcel will take care of him, won’t he?” I ask Klara.

“Yes,” she says, firmly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

She’s quiet a minute, then she says, “Marcel was from a wealthy family in Poland. That’s why he sounds so posh. His father was a surgeon, and his grandfather. He could have done the same.” She laughs softly. “He never would have looked twice at me in Warsaw.”

“Yes he would!” I tell her. “He looks at you about a hundred times a day here. He can’t pay attention to anything else when you’re in the room.”

Klara flushes. She doesn’t smile but her dark eyes look pleased.

“He shot Simon,” she says, still shocked. “Simon was choking me . . .”

She touches her throat where the bruises are already starting to appear.

“This is so insane,” I say, shaking my head. “Everyone’s gone mad.”

“We all have to choose where our loyalties lie,” Klara says. “Mikolaj chose you.”

Yes, he did.

And I chose him, too.

I was only minutes away from my family’s house.

I turned around and ran back to him.

I knew he was in danger, because of me. I had to help him.

Will I make the same choice, once he’s safe?

I don’t know what a future with Mikolaj would look like. He has a darkness inside of him that terrifies me. I know he’s done awful things. And his resentment toward my family is still burning.

On the other hand, I know that he cares about me. He understands me in a different way than my mother or father or siblings. I’m not just a sweet, simple girl. I feel things deeply. I have a well of passion inside of me—for things that are beautiful, and for things that are broken . . .

Mikolaj brings out that other side of me. He lets me be so much more than innocent.

We’re only just scratching the surface of this bond between us. I want to dive all the way in. I want to lose myself in him, and find myself all over again—the real me. The complete Nessa.

And I want to know the real Mikolaj: passionate, loyal, unbreakable. I see it. I see who he is.

I’m more than good, and he’s more than bad.

We’re opposites, and yet made for each other.

This is what I’m thinking about, while the hours drag by. The time seems horribly long. Klara is quiet, too. I’m sure she’s thinking of Marcel—wishing she could help him with more than just thoughts.

Finally the door cracks open. Marcel emerges from the makeshift operating room. His clothes are bloodstained and he looks exhausted. But there’s a grin on his handsome face.

“He’s alright,” he says to us.

The relief that washes over me is indescribable. I leap to my feet.

“Can I see him?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Marcel says. “He’s awake now.”

I run into the cramped room. Cyrus is still washing his hands in the sink, next to a pile of blood-stained gauze.

“Careful,” he croaks. “Don’t hug him too hard.”

Mikolaj is laying in the dentist’s chair, half-reclining, half propped up. His color is still awful. His shirt has been cut away, so I can see the many places where Cyrus and Marcel stitched and taped and bandaged him.

His eyes are open. They look as clear and blue as ever. They find me at once, pulling me over to him.

“Miko,” I whisper, taking his hand and raising it up to my lips.

“You were right,” he says.

“About what?”

“You said I wouldn’t die. I thought I would. But you’re always right . . .”

He winces, still in pain.

“We don’t have to talk now,” I tell him.

“Yes, we do,” he says, grimacing. “Listen, Nessa . . . Jonas, Andrei, and the others . . . they’re going after your brother. Not just them, the Bratva too. Kolya Kristoff . . .”

“I’ll call Callum,” I say. “We’ll warn him.”

I can tell it’s hard for him to speak, because he’s still so drained. But he’s determined to make sure I understand the danger.

“They want to kill him.”

Mikolaj wanted to kill my brother, too. Now he’s doing his best to save him. For me. Only for me.

He chose me over his desire for revenge.

He chose me over his brothers.

He chose me over his own life.

“Thank you, Miko,” I say.

I lean over him, careful not to press against his injured body, and I kiss him softly on the lips. He tastes like blood, smoke, and oranges. Like our very first kiss.

“Come on,” Marcel says from the doorway. “I’ll take you to your brother.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I say to Mikolaj, clinging to his hand.

“We’ll stay together,” Miko agrees, trying to sit up.

“Hey! Are you crazy!?” Cyrus shouts, hurrying over and trying to make him lay back again. “You’ll rip out all your stitches.”

“I’m fine,” Mikolaj says, impatiently.

He’s not fine, but he seems determined to will it into reality.

“We can’t hang around here, we’ve got too much to do,” Miko says.

“You almost just died,” Marcel reminds him.

Mikolaj totally ignores that, as if it’s already in the distant past. He’s pulling himself upright, grimacing, but not thinking about the pain. His mind is working a million miles a minute, strategizing, formulating our next steps. Half his men may have turned on him, but he’s still the same leader and planner. He’s still the boss.

“We’ve got to go to the west side, to Cook County Jail.”

“What are you talking about?” Marcel says, clearly thinking that Mikolaj has lost his mind.

Mikolaj groans, putting his feet down on the ground and slowly hoisting himself up.

“We’re going to get Dante Gallo,” he says.