Stolen Heir Sophie Lark Quotes

I see her, and she sees me. I was death, and she was life.

I see her, and she sees me. I was death, and she was life. I thought I’d had stolen her, brought her down to the underworld. All the while she was waking me up. Stirring the blood in my veins. Breathing air into my lungs.

moja mała baletnica.” My little ballerina.

A marriage strangles and dies on apathy. Passion keeps it alive.

But now I feel that most dangerous emotion of all—guilt. The emotion that drains you, that makes you regret even the most necessary actions.

There he lays. My beast. My enemy. My captor.

Do you know why I sent you away?” I ask her. “Yes,” she sobs. “Because you love me.” “That’s right,” I sigh.

Love is the one thing you can’t steal. You can’t create it, either. It either exists or it doesn’t. And if it exists, you can’t take it by force.

What are you doing, little ballerina?” he growls.

I was a corpse when I met you, Nessa,” he says. “No breath. No heart. No life. I felt nothing. I cared about nothing. Then I saw you, and you woke me up inside. I was such a fool at first. I was so numb that I thought that spark must be hatred. If I was a normal person, I would have realized it was love. Love at first sight. From the second I laid eyes on you.

She’s a piece of music that gets stuck in your head, repeating over and over. The more you hear it, the more it lodges in your brain. Most people become predictable, the longer you watch them. Nessa Griffin is the opposite. I thought I knew exactly who she was—a sheltered little princess. A dancer living in a fantasy world. But she’s much cleverer than I gave her credit for. She’s creative, perceptive. And genuinely kind.

Then I taste his lips and his tongue, I breathe in his scent, and it’s gasoline on an open flame. I’m the wood, he’s the accelerant. No matter how much we burn, we’re never used up.

Now she’s looking at my arms again, trying to decipher the meaning of my tattoos. She won’t understand them. They’re dense, convoluted, and they have meaning only to me.

I’m more than good, and he’s more than bad. We’re opposites, and yet made for each other.

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.

Then you can go around the house and garden. Everywhere but the west wing.” I don’t ask him what’s in the west wing.

I’ll follow her. Stalk her. And take her at my leisure.

Now it’s all been ripped away, and what am I without it? A weak and frightened girl who is so deeply, deeply lonely that I would even sit down to dinner with my own kidnapper again, just to have someone to talk to.

I’m watching her with awe. The way a hunter would watch a doe that walks into a clearing. Nessa is the doe. She is lovely. Innocent. Perfectly at place in her natural environment. I’ll send my arrow straight into her heart.

And then I kiss her. Her lips are parched from dancing. I lick those lips, tasting the salty skin, and then I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and I lick every part of that, too—teeth, tongue, palate. I inhale her scent and her taste. I fuck her mouth with my tongue.

You’re going to be okay,” she promises me. Probably not, but I won’t argue. I have to tell her something, while I still have time. “Do you know why I sent you away?” I ask her. “Yes,” she sobs. “Because you love me.” “That’s right,” I sigh.

Nessa, I’ll love you every second of my life. I’ll love you for exactly what you are, and whatever you become. Anything you want, I’ll make it happen for you. I’ll never hold you back. I’ll always tell you the truth. I’ll keep you safe and happy, at any cost.

Mikolaj, I love you with all my heart. I promise, you’ll be the only man in the world to me. I’ll be your lover and your best friend. We’ll do the hard things and the fun things. We’ll make our choices together, for the good of us both. I’ll always put you before anything else, so that nothing can come between us.

All I know is it’s beautiful. She looks effortless, weightless, like a leaf in the wind.

I like the moon. It changes all the time. But it also stays the same.

The beast wants his revenge, and he wants the city, too.

She’s a piece of music that gets stuck in your head, repeating over and over. The more you hear it, the more it lodges in your brain.

Most people become predictable, the longer you watch them. Nessa Griffin is the opposite. I thought I knew exactly who she was—a sheltered little princess. A dancer living in a fantasy world. But she’s much cleverer than I gave her credit for. She’s creative, perceptive. And genuinely kind.

Instead of an evening gown, I see her in a white wedding dress. I see what Nessa would look like if she were my bride.

We’re taking her on field trips now?” he says. “I’ll take her to fucking Mars if I feel like it,” I reply.

I want to be close to you again,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to be earning trust with your parents,” he says. “That could take a hundred years,” I moan. “Don’t you miss me?” “More than I ever thought I could miss anything.

Mikolaj broke Jackson’s arm . . . for me. It’s the strangest favor anybody’s ever done for me.

What I see is beautiful. Some things are the same—her kindness, her creativity. She was a running stream, sparkling in the sunshine. But her water runs deeper by the day. She’s becoming a lake, and then an ocean. I see her, and she sees me. I was death, and she was life. I thought I’d had stolen her, brought her down to the underworld.

What I see is beautiful. Some things are the same—her kindness, her creativity. She was a running stream, sparkling in the sunshine. But her water runs deeper by the day. She’s becoming a lake, and then an ocean. I see her, and she sees me. I was death, and she was life. I thought I’d had stolen her, brought her down to the underworld. All the while she was waking me up. Stirring the blood in my veins. Breathing air into my lungs.

I’m already bound to him, mind, body, and soul. All that’s left to do is say the words out loud.

I know they’ve been rehearsing together for hours every day, something that would usually make me horrifically jealous. Except that every night when I visit her, Nessa runs to me like she hasn’t seen me in a hundred years. Like she can’t stand another second apart. So I know who she’s been thinking about, even when she’s dancing in another man’s arms.

After all, Miko saved my life. He spotted Kristoff before anybody else. He blocked the bullet headed right for my face. Then he shielded me with his own body. That’s what gave my father time to shoot Kristoff in the back.

But Miko really does surprise me, by dropping down on one knee. “It’s not a gift exactly,” he says, “Since I didn’t pay for it . . .” He pulls a little box out of his pocket and opens it up. Inside I see the last thing in the world I was expecting: my grandmother’s ring.

Your mother gave this to me. She knows that I love you. I love you more than money or power or my own life. I stole you, Nessa. And you stole my heart. It’s yours forever. I couldn’t take it back if I wanted to. So will you marry me?” “Yes!” I cry. “Of course, yes!

It’s the night of Nessa’s ballet. I’ve been waiting for this almost as eagerly as Nessa herself. Maybe more so, because I’m simply excited to see it, while Nessa has become increasingly anxious the closer it’s gotten.

As she descends the staircase, I’m rooted to the spot, staring up at her. Instead of walking down the stairs, I see her walking down an aisle toward me. Instead of an evening gown, I see her in a white wedding dress. I see what Nessa would look like if she were my bride.

We should kill Enzo and Fergus.

We’ve known each other a long time. Long enough for me to know when he’s lying. The knife cuts through the air between us, driving straight toward my liver.

Listen, Nessa . . . Jonas, Andrei, and the others . . . they’re going after your brother.

Marnie asks. She’s tall, skinny, and black,

I stole you, Nessa. And you stole my heart. It‘s yours forever. I couldn't take it back if I wanted to.

My brother Callum knows how to fight, how to shoot a gun. He was taught to be a leader, a planner, an executor. I was sent to dance classes and tennis lessons. Why didn’t my parents consider what might happen if I ever left the safety of their arms? They brought me into a dark and dangerous world, and then they armed me with books, dresses, ballet slippers . . .

As soon as Nessa sees the performers on the stage, brightly lit and directly below us, she gasps and claps her hands over her mouth. “It’s my show!” she cries. It’s the last night that Lake City Ballet will be performing Bliss. We’ve missed half the show, but Nessa doesn’t seem to care.

I’ve never forced myself on a woman. It’s the one thing I won’t do.

Love is the one thing you can't steal. You can't create it either. It either exists or it doesn't and if it exists, you can't take it by force.

I see her and she sees me. I was death and she was life.

On the drive home we’re quiet—Nessa because she’s swimming in the happiness of seeing her show live, seeing what she imagined brought to life on the stage. Me, because I’m realizing more and more how brilliant this girl is. She channeled a portion of her own spirit, her own bliss, and she brought it to life for everyone else to see. She made me feel it. Me, who never feels happiness, let alone pure joy.

It’s the only warmth I can feel. All my blood is draining out onto the half-frozen ground. She’s so, so beautiful. If this is the last thing I ever see, I can die peacefully. “Nessa,” I wheeze. “You came back.

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.

We all have to choose where our loyalties lie,” Klara says. “Mikolaj chose you.” Yes, he did. And I chose him, too.

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 see Klara standing next to Marcel, smiling excitedly. She’s wearing the black gown from the attic, underneath a long coat, and she looks absolutely gorgeous.

I brought Nessa back to your house. All I’m asking is for your permission to continue seeing her. I want to marry her. But you’re right, she is young. I can wait. There’s plenty of time for you to know me. For you to see that I will cherish and protect your daughter forever.

I leap forward, tray outstretched. The gun goes off like a cannon. I feel the jolt as it hits me, simultaneous with the noise. I plow into Nessa, knocking her to the ground and covering her with my body. I don’t know where the first bullet hit. I expect to feel several more, riddling my back. There’re three more shots, but I don’t feel any pain. I smother Nessa, keeping her trapped beneath me so nothing can hurt her. All through the screaming and stampeding of people trying to get away, I cover her up, keeping her safe.

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 have to avenge Anna. I promised her that.

I’m only sixteen years old. I’m skinny, half-grown, wearing my deli apron under my coat. I look like every other kid in Praga—poor, underfed, pale from lack of sunlight. I’m a nobody to him. Just like Anna was. He would never suspect me.

Tymon brought me here, to America. He told me we’d build an empire larger than the entire wealth of our homeland. I believed him. His dream became my dream. It gave me something to live for.

But we’re not the only gangsters in Chicago. We found ourselves in conflict with the Colombians, the Russians, the Italians, and the Irish.

When I make Nessa disappear, it will be like dropping a stone in the ocean. There won’t be a single ripple to show where she’s gone.

It was the Braterstwo. The Polish Mafia. They think they can have whatever they want—expensive watches, gold chains, phones that cost more than I make in a month. Apparently, they decided that they wanted my sister.

My sister is laying in the bathtub, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes are wide and fixed, utterly dead. Her face looks paler than chalk. One arm dangles over the side of the tub. A long gash runs from wrist to elbow, open like a garish smile.

I’ve never spent one whole day away from my sister. She’s been my closest friend, the only person I truly cared about. Anna is better than me in every way. She’s smarter, kinder, happier. I often felt that when we formed in the womb, our characteristics were split in two parts. She got the better part of us, but as long as she was close by, we could share her goodness. Now she’s gone, and all that light has gone with her. All that’s left are the qualities that lived in me: focus. Determination. And rage.

This is Tymon Zajac. More commonly known as Rzeźnik—the Butcher.

You killed two of my men. That can’t go unpunished.

NESSA GRIFFIN CHICAGO

I run the Chicago Braterstwo now, with my brother Jonas. He’s my brother by covenant, not by blood. We’re the adopted sons of Tymon Zajac. I worked for Tymon for ten years. He taught me, trained me, and mentored me. My biological father died in Warsaw. I don’t know where his gravestone sits. I don’t care. I’ll never set foot in Poland again. I don’t even like to think about it.

Which left us free to attack the Italians, specifically the Gallo family. But Enzo Gallo wasn’t as old and complacent as we expected. His sons put three of our men in the ground, buried under the foundations of their high-rise on Oak Street. Before we could strike back, the Gallos formed an unexpected alliance with the Griffins, Irish mafia royalty at the pinnacle of crime in Chicago. The Gallos married their only daughter to Callum, the Griffin’s only son.

She draws the eye of men and women alike, surprisingly sensual as she dances. She seems to have forgotten her shyness, lost in the music.

I love people watching.

He’s quite beautiful—like a starving angel.

Istand at the edge of the parking lot, just out of sight, laughing softly to myself. Little Nessa Griffin spooks easy. Watching her sprint toward the studio gave me a thrill so sweet I could almost taste it. I could have caught her if I wanted to. But I have no intention of taking her tonight.

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.

We live in a slum.

Zajac raises the cleaver. He brings it whistling down, splitting my pinky in half, right below the first knuckle. This hurts less than the blow from the gun. It only burns, like I dipped my fingertip in flame. Zajac picks up the little piece of flesh that was once attached to my body. He throws it on top of Iwan’s corpse. “There,” he says. “All debts are paid.

I open the program, scanning through the list of dances, then down to the credits. I’m expecting to see my name—in fact, I intended to ask Jackson if I could take this home to show my parents. Instead I see . . . absolutely nothing. Jackson Wright is listed as head choreographer, Kelly Paul as second. There’s no mention of me at all.

It’s just . . . I think they forgot to put me as one of the choreographers,

They didn’t forget,” he repeats. “You’re not credited.

You’re not a choreographer here, Nessa,” he says, as if he’s explaining that one and one makes two. “You’re a corps member. Just because you threw a few ideas in the ring—” “I created four of the dances!” I blurt, my face burning. I know I sound like a child, but I can’t help myself.

Here’s the thing, Nessa,” he says. “You put in some work. But your work is not that original. It’s simplistic. The parts of the performance that bring it alive, that make it sing, are from me. So you’d only be embarrassing yourself, trying to insist on credit that you don’t deserve.

My assets are in the eight figures if you add them all together. But, looking at me, you’d never know it. I keep a low profile, and I force my men to do the same. You get lazy, sloppy, and flashy, and you draw the wrong kind of attention.

I run the Chicago Braterstwo now, with my brother Jonas. He’s my brother by covenant, not by blood. We’re the adopted sons of Tymon Zajac. I worked for Tymon for ten years. He taught me, trained me, and mentored me. My biological father died in Warsaw. I don’t know where his gravestone sits. I don’t care. I’ll never set foot in Poland again.

We crushed the Colombians, taking over their drug-running pipeline.

Then the DOJ did us a favor, cracking down on the arms trafficking run by the Russian Bratva.

It was extremely unexpected. Like an alliance between Israel and Palestine, or cats and dogs.

When Aida Gallo and Callum Griffin came poking around one of our clubs, we drugged them and brought them back to an old slaughterhouse on the west side of the city.

Mikolaj,” he said. “You are my son and my heir. I know you will never fail me again.” I had long since lost the ability to feel anything like love. But I felt the fire of a loyalty stronger than love. Tymon spared my life twice. He would never need to do it a third time. I felt reinvigorated. I planned to work with my father to crush the Italians and the Irish. To take our place once and for all as the rulers of the city. Instead, a week later, Dante Gallo murdered Tymon. He gunned him down, leaving him to bleed out in the gutter. I’ve yet to take my revenge.

I want them to suffer. I could kill Callum or Dante. But what would that accomplish? I want to break the entire empire down. I want to drive the two families apart. Then pick off their members one by one. To do that, I need to find their weak point. Their vulnerability. So I’ve been watching and waiting. Letting them think the Braterstwo are defeated, that they cut the head off the snake when they killed Tymon.

Right at that moment, a girl walks into the club. I see a hundred gorgeous women every night, dolled up in their tight dresses and heels, faces painted, hair freshly coiffed, skin dusted with glitter. This girl catches my eye because she’s the opposite of that. Young, fresh-faced. So cleanly scrubbed that she almost glows. Her light-brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes are wide and innocent. She hasn’t tried to cover up the spattering of freckles across her nose.

As soon I see her, I get a rush of adrenaline. My muscles tighten like coiled springs, and I can feel my pupils dilating. I imagine that I can smell her perfume, light and sweet, over the scent of smoke, alcohol, and sweat. It’s the reaction of a predator when it sights its prey. Because I recognize this girl. It’s Nessa Griffin. The cherished baby girl of the Irish mafia. Their little darling. She’s wandered into my club like an innocent gazelle. Foolish. Lost. Ripe for the taking.

I watch as she bends and stretches, warming up. She’s flexible. Her joints look loose and rubbery.

Once she’s warmed up, she starts twirling across the floor. I don’t know the names of any dance moves, except maybe a pirouette. I don’t even know if she’s good. All I know is it’s beautiful. She looks effortless, weightless, like a leaf in the wind. I’m watching her with awe. The way a hunter would watch a doe that walks into a clearing. Nessa is the doe. She is lovely. Innocent. Perfectly at place in her natural environment. I’ll send my arrow straight into her heart. That’s my right, as the hunter.

My sister would be beautiful if she ever smiled. She’s got skin like marble, gorgeous green eyes, and lips as red as her hair. Unfortunately, she has the temperament of a pit bull. And not a nice pit bull—the kind that’s trained to go right for the throat in every encounter.

The only thing I don’t love is how grouchy my sister is first thing in the morning.

How can I make great art when I’ve barely experienced anything at all? I’ve been sheltered and babied my whole life. Art comes from suffering—or, at the very least, adventure.