Stolen Heir: Chapter 28

There’s a novel called You Can’t Go Home Again. It’s about a man who goes away for a time, and when he returns, so much has changed that he’s not really returning to the same place.

Of course, the thing that changed the most is him.

When I finally see my parents’ house again, it is both the most familiar, and the most unfamiliar sight I’ve ever seen. I know its architecture like my own bones. But also, it looks brighter and flatter and simpler than I remember. It’s a lovely house—it just doesn’t have the same spooky grandeur as Mikolaj’s place.

This same strangeness has taken hold of my parents. They’re dressed the same as always, in expensive, well-fitting clothes, their hair nicely cut and styled. But they look older than they did before. They look tired.

It makes me cry when they wrap their arms around me and hug me harder than they ever have before. I’m crying because I missed them so much. And I’m crying because they’re so happy to have their daughter back again. But I’m afraid they don’t have her back—not the same one.

There’s an explosion of outrage when they see Mikolaj. My father is shouting, and his men are threatening to shoot Miko and Marcel, and Mikolaj is silent, not defending himself at all, while I stand in front of him, yelling right back at these people I love, that I’ve been waiting so long to see.

Then Callum and Aida come into the kitchen, and the hugging and crying starts all over again.

It’s a long time before we’ve all calmed down enough to speak rationally.

My father is leaning up against the kitchen island, arms crossed. He’s glaring murderously at Mikolaj, too angry to speak. My mother is pouring drinks for those that want them. I can see her hand trembling as she tries to pour a steady measure of whiskey in each of the glasses.

Cal is sitting closest to Mikolaj, across from each other at the kitchen table. He’s angry too, but he’s listening as Mikolaj explains, briefly and without emotion, the current situation with the Bratva and the Braterstwo who have sided with Jonas.

It’s funny—usually my father would sit in that seat. Cal is taking his place, bit by bit. I knew he would someday, but seeing it happen makes me realize that we’re all growing up. Things change. And they never go back again.

By this time, Nero and Sebastian have arrived, too. All three of Aida’s brothers sit next to her on the barstools, with the siblings lined up from youngest to oldest.

Sebastian is on her right side. He’s the youngest of the brothers, and the tallest. He’s got soft, curly dark hair, and a gentle face. He used to play basketball, until Jack Du Pont stomped on his knee—one of the last ugly acts in the feud between our families. Sebastian still limps a little, though Aida tells me it’s getting better. I’m surprised to see him here. He’s a college student, and he usually stays on campus, not involving himself with this side of the family business. His presence shows how serious this is.

Next to Sebastian is Nero Gallo. I suppose you could say he’s the most handsome of Aida’s brothers—if it’s possible for the devil to be handsome. Quite honestly, Nero terrifies me. He’s wild and violent, and his full lips are always twisted up in a sneer. He’s chaos incarnate. I can never be comfortable around him, not knowing what he’ll say or do.

Then there’s Dante. He’s the oldest, and the only one who can keep the others in line. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him say ten words in a row. He’s built like a mountain, and he looks older than his real age. Unlike Sebastian, who has half the girls at his school in love with him, and Nero, who makes a sport out of seducing women, I’ve never seen Dante with a girl. Aida told me he was in love once, a long time ago. But the girl broke his heart.

Finally, we have Aida. She’s the only person who doesn’t look different at all. And the only one smiling unreservedly. She’s delighted to have me back. Unlike everyone else who seems to want to murder Mikolaj, she’s looking at him curiously, her keen gray eyes taking in every detail of his person from his tattoos, to his bandaged arms, to his resigned expression.

Mikolaj looks out of place in my parents’ house, more than anyone else. He belongs in his own dark, gothic mansion. In this bright, clean space he’s an obvious outsider.

Everyone is arguing over what we should do about Jonas and Kristoff.

Dante wants to go on the offensive and attack the Russians now.

“We can split their forces,” he says. “We don’t want to fight the Braterstwo and the Bratva at once.”

My father thinks we should wait and gather information so we know what they have planned.

“They’ve already combined forces, if what Mikolaj says is true,” my father says, with an expression that means he doesn’t at all take Mikolaj’s honesty as a given.

“Yeah,” Nero says, “But we already shook that tree and we didn’t get any fucking apples. If we couldn’t find Nessa after a month of looking, how many decades do you think it will take to find a good source?”

While they’re all arguing, Aida and Callum are murmuring to each other. During a break in the conversation, Aida says to Mikolaj, “Your men think you’re dead?”

“Yes,” Miko nods.

“That’s one advantage we have,” Aida says.

“They plan to attack me at the library opening?” Callum says.

“Yes.”

“Then we should let them,” Callum says.

Nobody likes this idea, least of all my father.

“You need to cancel the event and lay low,” he says.

“The Russians are good at killing people,” Callum says. “You can’t avoid every car bomb or drive-by or shooter in a crowd. We should pretend that we know nothing to draw them out.”

Aida presses her lips together, unhappy with this. But she doesn’t argue with Cal—at least, not in front of everybody else.

After another contemplative pause, Marcel says, “I might have an idea.”

Everyone turns to look at him, since this is the first time he’s spoken. Klara is sitting next to him, about as close as you can get without actually touching.

The one thing I haven’t told my family is that Marcel is the one who killed Jack Du Pont. We’ve got enough resentment in the room without adding that to the mix.

“What’s your idea?” Nero Gallo says, suspiciously.

“Well . . .” Marcel looks at Dante. “I don’t know if you’re going to like it . . .”