Stolen Heir: Chapter 33

I meet Geo Russo outside of The Brass Pole to hand the keys over. His payment hit my bank account this morning—he’ll be the new owner of both of my strip clubs (minus the one Nero Gallo burnt down).

Russo pulls up in his Bentley. He’s a short, stocky man—completely bald, with hands as puffy as cartoon gloves. He looks pleased and suspicious about our deal.

“Now that it’s settled,” he says, tucking the keys in his pocket, “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you wanted to sell? What is it? Have men lost their taste for titties?”

He gives a wheezy laugh.

“No,” I say, stiffly. “I’m just moving in a different direction.”

“By god,” he shakes his head in amazement. “They said you’d gone crazy over some girl, but I—”

He breaks off, seeing my expression. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Are you going to finish that sentence?” I ask him, coldly.

“No,” he mutters, staring down at my shoes. “My apologies, Mikolaj.”

“You can thank ‘that girl’ for putting me in such a good mood,” I tell him. “Otherwise I’d snap your fucking neck.”

I walk back to the car, where OIie is waiting to drive me over to Jungle.

“Trouble, Boss?” he asks me, as I slide into the backseat.

“No,” I say. “Just people forgetting their place in the world. I might have to make an example out of somebody.”

“Russo would be a good place to start,” Olie grunts. “He snaps his gum.”

“I noticed.”

I’m not sorry to let the strip clubs go. There’re too many other things to sell in this world—I don’t have the same taste for trading women as a commodity.

I’m not getting rid of Jungle, though. That was the first place I ever laid eyes on Nessa. And I’m not so reformed that I’m above selling liquor. In fact, I’ve got plans to open six more clubs—here, and in St. Louis. There’s still room to expand in Chicago, and in neighboring cities as of yet unclaimed.

I plan to renovate the house, too. Nessa doesn’t want me to change it, but I tell her we should at least have proper heating.

“Why?” she says. “I don’t care if it’s cold. We can cuddle up together.”

“That’s fine for us. But what about children?”

She looks up at me, green eyes wide.

“Do you want children?” she asks, quietly.

I never did before. But with Nessa, I want everything. I want every experience life has to offer, as long as it’s with her.

“I can wait,” I tell her. “But yes, eventually.”

“I want that, too,” she says.

“Are you sure?” I smile. “You know twins are hereditary.”

She laughs.

“Nothing with you is ever simple, is it?”

“No,” I say. “It really isn’t.”

For our honeymoon, I planned to take her to Agra, to see the Taj Mahal. But Nessa wants to go to Warsaw instead.

“I want to see where you grew up.”

“It’s ugly,” I tell her. “And dangerous.”

“The whole city isn’t ugly!” Nessa protests. “There’s palaces, and parks, and museums . . .”

“How do you know?”

“I looked it up on Trip Adviser!!”

I shake my head, smiling at Nessa’s endless optimism. She always finds the beautiful parts of anything. Why would Warsaw be any different?

“Come on!” she coaxes me. “I really want to see it. And I do speak Polish now . . .”

“Somewhat.”

“What do you mean ‘somewhat?’ ”

“Ehhh . . .” I shrug.

She puts her hands on her hips, frowning at me.

“How good is my Polish? Tell me the truth.”

I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I don’t want to lie to her, either.

“It’s about as good as a fourth-grade child,” I tell her.

“What!” she shrieks.

“A clever fourth-grade child,” I hasten to add.

“That’s not any better!”

“It’s a little better.” I say. “It’s a very difficult language.”

“How long did it take you to learn English?”

“Maybe a week,” I say. That’s not true at all, but she knows I’m teasing her.

She tries to give me a playful smack. I’m too quick—I grab her hand and kiss her palm instead.

“Are we going to Poland or not?” she demands.

I kiss her again, on the mouth this time.

“You know I’ll take you anywhere you want, Nessa.”