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

shooting again. The tree gives him too much coverage, but he keeps shooting until he’s clean out of bullets.

As he stumbles to reload, I stand, aim, and shoot him in the thigh that’s just barely sticking out.

He hits the ground with a scream. I growl with satisfaction.

I’m about to call for Esme when I hear her scream.

“Artem, watch out!”

I whirl around—just in time to avoid a swinging fist from a man dressed like he’s attending the funeral.

I grab his arm before he can bring it down on me and twist it around. He tries to reach for his gun with the other hand, but I break his elbow and smash his face into the back of the Prius, leaving his blood smeared across the trunk.

Before I can catch my breath, I feel a grazing pain at my back. A shot—not a direct hit, but enough to draw a pained bellow from my lungs and send me to my knees.

Fuck.

There’s one too many.

And I’m a little too slow.

I pivot and try to stand. Ready to fight back, even as I know that the odds aren’t good.

But fuck this son of a bitch if he thinks I’m going to go down easy.

He’s got a dark bandana tied around his jaw so all I can see is laughing green eyes and thick eyebrows. The man lines up his gun, with me square in his sights.

This is it.

This is how it ends for me.

I’m too close to dodge, but too far to stop him.

I’m staring death in the barrel.

But before he can pull the trigger, there’s a blur from off to the side.

And Esme appears out of nowhere with a banshee scream.

She claws at the man’s face with her nails and angry red claw marks blaze across his cheek. The man roars in surprise and pain. I’m so overwhelmed with pride that I don’t act as fast as I normally would.

That is, until I see his eyes turn wild with rage as he turns his violent attention to my wife.

It’s all the opening I need.

Before he can touch her, I’ve fired five times, getting him twice in the stomach, twice in the heart, and once right between the eyes.

I hear Esme gasp. Her eyes go wide with horror at the recognition of what we’ve done to his dead, mangled face.

But we don’t have time to panic. I grab her and force her gaze away from him.

She’s breathing heavily, her eyes are panicked and anxious, and I can sense she’s close to falling apart.

“Look at me!” I roar. “Just focus on me. I’m right here. You’re with me.”

She nods slowly, the panic in her eyes receding a little. I take her hand again and we run from the cemetery quickly, leaving a litter of bodies in our wake.

When we hit the street nearby, I discard my blood-stained suit jacket behind a hedge and hail a taxi.

I can’t afford to go back to find my men right now. Nor am I willing to wait for a Bratva car to come pick us up.

I have to take care of Esme first.

We only have to wait a minute before a cab stops for us. I get Esme inside first.

I don’t know who did this. But when the time is right, I plan on finding out.

And when I do, they’re going to rue the fucking day they decided to cross the Bratva.

38

Artem

I give the taxi driver an address close to the nearest Bratva safehouse and we head off.

Esme looks visibly shaken, hands trembling, though she’s trying hard to hide it.

I reach out instinctively and take her fingers in mine. She looks at me gratefully, but her face still carries the remnants of fear.

Neither one of us talk while we’re in the cab. We get out on the corner of a nearly abandoned residential area. It’s a three-block walk to the safehouse, but I’m still worried about Esme. She looks ashen-faced and her body keeps trembling sporadically.

“It’s a short walk,” I tell her. “I can carry you.”

She shakes her head firmly. “No. I’m fine. I’ll walk.”

The safehouse is settled on the edge of the suburban street. It’s a small, two-bedroom house with a backyard and minimal furnishings. Completely innocuous.

I punch in the code to unlock the key box and retrieve the key from inside it. Then I open the front door and let Esme in.

It’s quiet and musty inside from months of disuse. I leave the lights off.

I take Esme’s hand and lead her upstairs to the bigger of the two bedrooms. She stares at the walls, the lights, the furniture, as if she’s never seen any of it before.

She only reacts when I gently remove the jacket she’s wearing.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Checking for wounds.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“I’m going to check anyway.”

And to my amazement, she lets me. I slowly unzip the black dress she’s wearing and peel it down her hips.

My touch is gentle, careful. All the adrenaline from the fight has concentrated on this moment. Like the slightest wrong move will ruin everything.

Esme seems like she’s scared to breathe too loud. She doesn’t move or speak or even blink. Just lets me undress her a little bit at a time.

When she’s standing before me in her black lace bra and panties, I circle her slowly. Her skin is as soft and caramel as it’s ever been. Every inch still sweet. Still beautiful. They didn’t get to her. They tried to kill me, and that’s expected, that’s fine, that’s just the nature of being the don.

But God help them if they so much as scratch my wife.

“You’re fine,” I rasp quietly once I’ve finished my examination.

“Are you?”

“Those fuckers couldn’t shoot for shit,” I growl. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Esme says. “You buried your father today. And you didn’t even get to bury him properly.”

My chest constricts. “I’m fine,” I repeat gruffly.

I move to turn from her.

But she grabs my hand before I can go.

“Stop,” she says, with such natural authority in her voice that it