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

They’re with him.

That leaves ten men remaining against the five of us. Two against one.

Every man in the room is doing the math in his head. Calculating angles and odds, figuring out which narrow path leads to survival—and to victory.

But not me.

I did all that months ago, up on that frigid mountaintop. Every time I ran until my lungs bled or heaved boulders until I couldn’t lift a finger more, I was practicing for this. Preparing for this.

And the answer has not changed.

Everyone moves at once. My men hurl the trolley carts towards the remaining bodyguards and unsheathe their weapons.

Gunfire blasts through the air as Budimir’s guards, as well as Kovar’s and Bufalino’s, jump into the fray.

I hear someone grunt in pain and then I hear a yell, but I don’t take my eyes off my uncle, who is standing behind his largest bodyguard.

The fucker hasn’t been in a real fight for a long while now. He always shied away from the actual battles. Considered himself above them, like the king who sends his army in while he sits comfortably up in his castle watching the whole thing unfold.

I can sense his panic from here.

Fucking coward.

My only goal is to get as close to him as possible. I want to see the life drain from his fucking face when I do what I came here to do.

I feel the screaming brush of wind next to my ear. I’ve narrowly missed a bullet aimed at my head, but I don’t feel panic or fear.

I never have.

This is what I was born to do.

And if I die, it will be a glorious fucking death.

Except the moment the thought enters my head, I chase it right back out again. This isn’t like any other fight I’ve ever been in.

I can’t die. Not this time.

Esme needs me. My son does, too.

So it’s not fear that I feel.

It’s duty.

I duck low and vault over the sofa that stands between me and the towering bodyguard protecting Budimir.

I fire at him, but he’s pushes Budimir to the side and jumps in the opposite direction.

My path towards my uncle is clear, but the bodyguard decides to be a fucking hero. He starts firing, forcing me to take cover.

I’m aware of the sounds of gunfire and fighting behind me, but I can’t concentrate on anything other than finishing Budimir once and for all.

If I lose now, my men will certainly die. But if I can just get my hands around his throat, that will end it for everyone. Kovar and Bufalino will scatter to the wind. The Bratva will be back where it belongs.

All I have to do is…

“Fuck!”

I turn around to see Maxim collapse to the ground, blood spurting out of his stomach.

“No!” I yell. I abandon my position and run towards him.

I shoot at the fucker who’s standing over him, and he drops before he can finish the job.

The moment I see Maxim, however, I know that it’s too late. He’s bleeding out too fast, the color already draining from his face.

I get down on my knees beside him anyway. Above us, the gunfire continues in every direction.

“Hold on, brother,” I say. “Help’s on the way.”

He smiles hopelessly, and blood drips from his mouth. “I thought you could lie better than that…”

“Surround them!” I hear Budimir order.

When I look up, I realize that my distraction has given Budimir and his men the upper hand. They’ve got us surrounded now, and I realize that Alexei is being held at gunpoint and both Adrik and Vasyl are injured, though their injuries look only surface-deep.

When I turn back, Maxim is staring unseeing up at the ceiling.

Rage curdles in my chest like poison.

But it has nowhere to go.

We’re pinned. Surrounded. Outgunned, outnumbered, outmaneuvered.

I lose.

Budimir steps out from behind his bodyguard, a cold sneer on his face. His two lackeys, Kovar and Bufalino, flank him.

“Did you really think you could storm the meeting with four men and live to tell the tale?” he demands. “I’m going to make an ornament of your fucking—”

The rest of his threat is drowned by the sound of the main entrance being blown into smithereens.

Everyone ducks down, including Budimir, who seems as stunned as I am at the sudden intrusion.

“Who the—”

Within seconds, the huge space is filled with armed men pouring in, their guns pointing towards all of us.

“Guns down!” the masked man at the head of the pack barks.

Is that a fucking Irish accent?

“Artem Kovalyov,” the masked man continues. “Ronan O’Sullivan sends his greetings.”

40

Esme

The Parisian Café At The Citadel Outlets

Oh, God.

I can survive anything.

But my baby… someone please protect my baby.

Fear has me paralyzed. My body is hunched over Phoenix as he screams in my ear. Chaos breaks all around me, but the only thing I can hear, apart from my son’s panicked screams, is my own heartbeat.

Is my body trembling? It feels that way. But I don’t feel connected to my physical self any longer. I feel as though I’m floating.

Floating away from my body.

Away from my son.

“Phoenix,” I whisper to him, but my own voice is drowned out by his wailing.

I know that Tamara is close by, but I can’t bring myself to look up. I can’t bring myself to look up and see the men storming the café.

Once I see them, I’ll no longer be able to convince myself that this is just a horrible nightmare.

“Esme…!”

I hear my name. I think Tamara is the one calling to me. I can hear her fear, her uncertainty, but I don’t look up. I don’t answer back.

Phoenix.

That’s the only thought running through my head.

Even if they let me live, they will never spare my son.

He is the heir to the Bratva after Artem. He is as much a threat as his father.

The old uncertainties come roaring back.

Oh, God—why didn’t I just stay away?

Why did I come back to L.A.?

My thoughts falter for a moment. And suddenly, a memory comes into high relief.

It’s the moment, almost a year ago when I