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

I’m just drunk enough that I try to reach out and touch her. Like it’s real. Like this isn’t all some fucked-up trick of the eyes and the alcohol and the remaining adrenaline from the showdown at the docks.

I want to touch that bronze skin again. Taste the sweetness of the girl’s lips.

I’m so close.

Almost touching…

Almost there…

And then the shrill ring of my phone scythes through. The vision disappears.

In its place is what was there before—nothing but pure darkness.

“What?” I bark into the phone.

“That’s no way to talk to your father or your don,” Stanislav breathes wearily.

“I didn’t know you missed me so much that you had to call so soon after I left.”

“Don’t be smart with me, son. I have a job for you.”

“No thanks. I’m busy.”

“It wasn’t a question, Artem. The job is in Mexico. You leave tomorrow. You will need to prepare.”

My scornful laughter sounds utterly wrong in the silence of the graveyard. “Is this a fucking joke? I’m not going to goddamn Mexico.”

On the other end of the line, Stanislav growls under his breath like the old Russian bear that he is.

“I’m only going to say this once, Artem: do not mess this up. You’re going down to Mexico to get something very, very valuable. We cannot afford to lose this. Not after…” He sighs again before finishing, “Not after what happened with you before.”

Then he hangs up.

And the darkness descends once again.

10

Esme The Moreno Compound, Mexico

Another day in hell.

At least it’s pretty here.

The grand sitting room glitters like everything’s been painted in gold.

Every chandelier has been lit. Every surface is gleaming.

Waiters in waistcoats circulate with trays of crisp champagne and five-star hors d’oeuvres.

The guests are dressed for the occasion—although even now, I don’t know what that occasion actually is.

The men wear suits and watches worth a mortgage. The women are in cocktail gowns and enough jewelry to fill a museum. Both sexes have applied far too much perfume.

And they won’t stop fucking staring.

No matter what I do, I feel their eyes on me. The women are curious, scrutinous, sometimes jealous.

But the men… the men look at me like they want to tear me limb from limb.

I can’t stand their stares. After everything that happened four months ago, even a friendly male gaze makes me shiver and twitch.

The piano is my only shield. My only safe space. The one thing that allows me to keep myself from sweating, screaming, panicking.

But I know it won’t last. I’ve been playing for almost a half hour now.

I have shown that I’m an exceptional pianist. I have proved Papa’s boasts.

And yet, it won’t be enough.

He will want more of me soon.

As my fingers race across the keys, my mind flies back across the weeks and months, back to that one rogue night at the nightclub in Los Angeles.

That memory makes my heart race too.

I still can’t believe my luck. Somehow, in my state of flustered panic, I had forced Tamara to her feet and dragged her out of the club and onto the street.

I’d hailed a cab and we’d gone straight to my hotel room, where my guards had been waiting for me.

Apparently, neither one had wanted to get the Miguel treatment, so they agreed to conceal the fact that Tamara and I had given them the slip.

Fine by me.

But even after I had settled Tamara into bed next to me, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Not that night. Or the next. Or the night after that.

Sleep’s been pretty elusive ever since then, actually.

“Doesn’t she play beautifully?”

The voice is soft and low and comes from a few feet behind me. She’s not talking to me, though. I can’t see who it is, but I imagine her staring at my back, pitying me.

“She’s certainly a pretty little ornament,” another woman replies to the first. This one’s voice is deep but still manages to sound feminine, even sultry.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, I’m not being cruel. Isn’t that what we all are? Ornaments?”

“Hmph. She just looks very young,” the first female voice continues.

“She is. Barely legal.”

“It won’t stop Joaquin from pawning her off when the time comes. He’s the most ambitious man I’ve ever met.”

I close my eyes, trying to drown them both out.

Just breathe, Esme.

That’s what Cesar would tell me if he was here. He always knew how to calm me down

So I do that.

For a second, it even works.

The room around me fades. The sound of the guests’ voices—all of them speaking pretty lies, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, corrupt men plotting the lives of their wives and daughters without ever consulting the women themselves—all of it recedes into the background.

But as soon as it’s gone, something comes in its place.

And just like that, in my mind, I’m back in The Siren’s bathroom.

The distant sound of the club’s music throbs against the tiled walls. My skin heats up. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

And there he is.

The man with the dark eyes and the cruel, arrogant grin.

I swear I can feel him touching me. Even though I’m a thousand miles away, it’s like he’s right here. Between my thighs. Breath steaming against my neck.

I want to stay in this moment. It’s the only time in years I’ve felt free. Like I was in the right place.

But I have to face the facts: I’m not there.

I’m here.

Still stuck in my father’s hell.

Something yanks me back to the present moment: I missed a note.

It was a momentary lapse, a tiny mistake, something only I would notice.

But I felt as though the whole room stops what they’re doing to look at me. Like the proceedings came to a screeching halt and all those treacherous gazes swung in my direction.

I resume playing, but it’s too late. I know what will happen next.

Papa’s coming.

11

Esme

I sense him before I see him.

His shadow falls over my keys, blotting out the light of the chandelier. I don’t look up to meet his gaze.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

I tense instantly. My fingers falter again. I