Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) Nicole Fox (people reading books TXT) 📖

Jungle? There’s a bottle girl there I’ve been dying to fuck.”

I shake my head. “Nope, nope, and nope.”

His scowl deepens. “If you think we’re going to The Siren again…”

“That’s exactly where we’re going.”

“You realize that in four fucking months, we’ve barely been anywhere else?” Cillian points out in exasperation. “Is there something there that you keep going back for?”

“No.”

Cillian eyes me closely. “You’re a good liar,” he says. “But I know you too well.”

“It’s a fucking club, Cillian,” I reply. “They’ve got good whiskey.”

“Yeah? And this has nothing to do with—oh, I dunno… some woman you’ve taken a liking to?”

“Watch it,” I warn.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been practically celibate these last couple of months.”

Fucking hell. I need to give Cillian more credit. He’s a lot more perceptive than I realize sometimes.

I roll my eyes. “You really should focus more on your sex life then mine.”

“What’s going on with you lately?” Cillian asks. His tone shifts from our normal bro-banter to something more serious. “For real, Artem.”

“Nothing,” I said, trying not to let my irritation show. “I’ve just been preoccupied with work.”

“Okay, brother. If that’s your story,” Cillian replies, letting it drop.

The screech of tires on gravel saves me from any further interrogation.

“They’re here,” I announce.

Two cars drive up at the same time. Standard wannabe-mobster bullshit—windows tinted too dark, no license plates, the backseat jammed with burly enforcers holding guns they barely know how to operate.

Fucking amateur hour.

We have intel that this is the third meeting between the Albanians and the Polish. Neither of the first two received permission from the Bratva, so Cillian and I have been dispatched to remind these bastards of the pecking order in this city.

Meaning: nothing happens without our say-so.

I stay rooted in my seat for now and let it get underway.

It’s a pretty straightforward exchange as far as drug deals are concerned. Two men get out from each vehicle and meet halfway.

Some macho banter. Some bullshit posturing. A briefcase changes hands.

That’s when Cillian and I get out of the car.

We saunter over, hands in our pockets, making no attempt to conceal our presence.

“What the fuck?” one of the Albanians snarls at his Polish counterpart. “You brought more men? This was not part of the agreement.”

“They’re not our guys,” one of the Polish men snaps back.

“Calm down, boys,” I call over. I enter into the circle of light where the two groups are standing. Cillian takes a stance right at my shoulder. “We’re not a part of this little business deal you have going. Unfortunately for you.”

The two Polish seem to know who I am—I can tell from the horrified look that passes across their face.

They understand that my presence here is not a good sign for them.

They’ve been muscling in on Kovalyov territory for the past few months. It’s time for me to step in and put them back in their place.

“Artem Kovalyov,” acknowledges the beefy Polish with the tear drop tattoo beneath his eye.

The mention of my name has the Albanians turning pale.

I see their hands twitch towards their weapons, but no one makes a move to draw their guns.

Wise choice. Maybe they’re not as stupid as I assumed.

“You’re aware that you’re on Kovalyov territory?” I ask lightly.

“It’s a private deal, Russian.”

I cock my head to the side as I scan their faces. “Do I look dumb to you?” I ask.

When no one answers, I step forward again.

All four men stiffen at once.

“I asked you a question.”

“Seems like they think you’re stupid,” Cillian offers casually.

“No,” the second Polish says quickly. “That’s not what we think.”

“What do you think then?” I ask. “Because it sure feels like you think I’m stupid.”

The men exchange silent glances, then the beefy Polish snatches the suitcase from his partner and hands it to me.

“The Kovalyov reigns supreme in these parts,” he says apologetically. “We won’t conduct our affairs… even personal ones on your turf again.”

I nod. Good boy, I think silently. Cillian takes the suitcase.

“How much is in there?” I ask.

“Five hundred grand worth of heroin.”

I nod. All things considered, this is going well. None of these idiots seem to be raring for a showdown.

Which is good, since that would end with their insides splattered all over their outsides.

But part of me wishes they would try something. I’m itching for a fight. For the adrenaline, the rush.

Mostly because it’s been four fucking months since I’ve been inside a woman.

Not ideal. But every time I go to break the dry spell, I see her face again.

I see her doe eyes, milky hazel and flecked with green.

I see her trembling lips, full and pouty.

I hear her wild, gasping moans…

And I know I can’t fuck another woman when all I want is her.

What I really need, though, is a purge. A cleanse of my system. L.A. hipsters might reach for some garbage green juice to accomplish that goal.

But I’m the future don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

The only thing that will make me feel better is blood.

Father would be pissed if I cracked heads just for the sake of it, though. So I hold back all the same.

“This is your first and only warning,” I announce. “The next time you deal on our turf again, I will take a limb or a life. Your choice. Understood?”

They nod in trembling fear. Message received, their terrified eyes tell me.

I turn my back on them and start walking away.

Cillian doesn’t say a word until we’re back in the car. He throws the suitcase into the back seat and looks at me.

“You didn’t throw a punch,” he says incredulously.

“I didn’t have to.”

“Since when have you ever needed a reason to beat some bastard’s head in?” Cillian asks.

I think about the fucking son of a bitch who tried to force himself on the girl from The Siren.

I could have killed him. I would have done exactly that, if I hadn’t needed to check to make sure she was okay.

But I’d thrown him out of that bathroom with a broken arm and a permanently scarred face.

That