Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) Nicole Fox (no david read aloud TXT) 📖

It takes several minutes and a lot of effort to move Artem into the wheelbarrow. When he’s finally in, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

He looks absurd in there. Far too big for it, so that his limbs are dangling over the edges. Like a big, goofy scarecrow.

But all it takes is the sound of one plink of blood against the rusted metal to bring me back to reality.

Aracelia grabs the handles with a grunt. I race alongside her, keeping the wheelbarrow steady over the uneven ground.

We go around back and wheel Artem right up to the back door. Then Aracelia and I each throw our shoulders into one of the handles to stand the cart upright.

As soon as the balance shifts, I run around to the other side and stop Artem from falling out onto his face.

He weighs as much as the mountains do, but Aracelia tosses the wheelbarrow aside and comes to help me. We each loop one of his arms around us and get him indoors.

It feels like an hour has passed since I arrive. Aracelia and I set Artem down on the red rug that adorns the entrance to her home. She locks the door quickly.

I’m drenched in sweat, dirt and blood, my limbs are strung out with fatigue, but I feel wide awake.

Aracelia looks disheveled, too, but there’s a calm about her that forces me to focus.

“Take a breath,” Aracelia tells me. “And then we’ll move him to the dining table. I can work on him there.”

I breath in and out as I gaze down at Artem’s pale form, while Aracelia heads into the next room and clears the dining table of its candles and ornaments.

Once it’s empty, she gets a thick sheet and covers it over before walking towards me again.

“Ready?” she asks.

I nod as I bend, shifting my hands beneath his underarms to pick Artem up. Shooting pain races through my body but I ignore it and heave him up as Aracelia grabs his legs. The last few feet to the dining table are a struggle, but we manage to heave him up onto the wooden surface.

He falls onto his side, but I gently maneuver him onto his back.

I feel nausea surface and I clamp my hand down over my mouth.

“The bathroom is right behind you,” Aracelia says, pointing it out to me.

I run inside and throw up violently into the commode. Nothing but bile and stomach juices comes up.

The nausea recedes for a moment, but when it comes back, it does so with a vengeance. I dry heave for several minutes until I taste blood.

Once I’m done, I fall limply against the bathroom floor and sob until my tears run dry.

I support my head in my palms and try to breathe past the pain. My head is bursting, but it’s the weight on my chest that I want to get rid of.

Then I feel a kick. A strong, powerful kick. Almost like the little baby inside me is trying to reassure me.

“I’m sorry, little bird,” I whisper, running my hand along my stomach. “I’m supposed to be reassuring you.”

Cesar was right. This life is nothing but violence and pain.

The odd thought sends a shiver of fear coursing through me. Is this a sick preview of the rest of my life? If Artem didn’t leave the Bratva behind, then it most certainly would be.

Forever stitching wounds. Staunching blood flow and plugging bullet holes. Living in fear, night in and night out, for as long as we both manage to survive.

Artem told you he was done with it all. That he was choosing his family over the Bratva.

Even as I think that, though, I don’t believe it. No matter how hard to hope, I know it isn’t true.

He was lying to me. I knew it then—deep down, at least, even if I was afraid to say it out loud—and I know it now.

I just wasn’t ready to face the truth.

He’ll never walk away from his birthright.

My husband was not made for a quiet life on a remote mountain.

He was not made for the life I craved.

I’m parched and weary and I can feel dehydration set its claws into my starving body, but I can’t bring myself to get up.

For right now, this cool bathroom floor is comfort in a cruel world. I plan on staying here, at least until I feel like I can stand without falling right back down.

I’m so drained, emotionally and physically, that death feels like it would be a relief.

Cesar, is this what you felt at the end?

Did you kill Artem’s wife because you knew it was the easiest way to commit suicide?

Did you hate this life as much as I do?

10

Esme

Sometime later, the bathroom door opens.

Aracelia peers down at me. “Esme,” she says softly.

I look up from where I’m curled in the tiled corner. “Is he okay?”

Her tone is neutral. “I managed to stop the bleeding and bandage him up. His color has improved a little.”

I bite my lip to stop from crying. “I… I… thank you,” I stammer. “How long have I been in here for?”

Aracelia steps the rest of the way into the bathroom with me. “Almost an hour and a half.”

“Oh.”

She kneels down in front of me, her eyes alight with sympathy. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom. As I emerge, I see Artem lying flat on the dining room table. I break away from Aracelia and float towards him.

She has done an amazing job. She’s stripped away his clothes, wiped him down, and washed away all the blood and grime. His body looks clean, almost pristine, except for the bandages that cover his arms and stomach and the soft blue towel she’s drawn over his waist.

I smell a strong, peppery scent coming from the bandage around Artem’s stomach and I notice that a rub has been applied to the wound before the bandages were put on.

“It’s a