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

is—how he was, I mean. You just saw the mask my father made him wear. There was a different person underneath.”

He listens to me silently, taking in every word I’m saying. His eyes flit over my face as though he’s searching for more clues. His jaw is still tense but the darkness lifts from his eyes a little as I speak.

“That may be true,” Artem answers. “But it changes nothing. Mask or not, it didn’t make his actions any less real.”

Those words leave me feeling cold and I put down my fork and wrap my arms around myself.

When I look back at Artem, I can see more than just the contained anger I have come to expect when we talk about the past.

I can see pain, too.

Cesar, what did you do to him?

And suddenly, I’m scared to hear this story. My brother’s memory has remained pure in my head since his death.

Yes, losing him had been painful.

But the pain was untainted.

I had mourned him freely, without complicating my grief with other unwelcome emotions.

If what Artem is implying is true, Cesar’s death was not as simple as I’d always thought.

I shake my head to dislodge the creeping feelings. “Let’s change the subject,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He dips his head down in acknowledgement and we finish the rest of our breakfast in companiable silence.

Afterwards, Artem and I head to the counter to pay for our breakfast.

I watch from his side Midge steps up the cash register with a bright smile.

“Had a good breakfast, handsome?” she asks, her eyes raking up and down his tattooed arms.

“It was great,” Artem answers coolly. “But I have to say, my favorite breakfasts are the ones my wife cooks for me.”

Then he reaches back to where I’m standing, drapes his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into his body, so there can be no doubt of who his wife is.

I suppress a laugh as Midge coldly passes over the change from Artem’s twenty.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon!” I call back to Midge as we head out of the diner. Her scowl just makes my smile brighter.

Artem’s arm stays around my shoulders until we reach the car.

“How’d you like my push?” he asks as he opens the passenger door for me.

“Subtle,” I reply sarcastically. “But much appreciated.”

He tips a fake cap at me and closes the door before circling around to the driver’s side.

We drive off, leaving the diner in our wake.

56

Esme

Once we’re back on the road, I fiddle with the radio, trying to find a channel with music that doesn’t annoy me.

“Jesus,” I complain, after I’ve changed the station for the fifth time. “Doesn’t anyone listen to real music anymore?”

Artem gives me an amused glance. “You’re not a fan of rap?”

I shrug. “I like some of it,” I admit. “A little Tupac every now and again. But classical music is my happy place.”

“Listening to you play the piano in Hawaii was one of the highlights of that trip,” Artem says unexpectedly.

I glance at him, incredibly touched by his words. “Really?”

“Really,” he nods. “Hands down, you’re one of the best pianists I’ve ever heard perform.”

“Uh-huh,” I smile. “And how many have you heard perform?”

He gives me a grin that makes my ovaries do a little dance. “I don’t need a fuck ton of experience to know when someone is good,” he tells me.

My fingers twitch, a telltale sign that I’ve been away from my piano for too long. It feels like years since I’ve last played.

“You miss it, don’t you?” Artem asks, as though he’s just read my mind.

“How can you tell?”

“Your fingers do this weird twitching thing. I figured it had something to do with playing piano.”

I look at him in surprise and he smirks at me. “Yeah, I’m observant,” he says. “Did you assume my talents were limited to kicking ass and fucking?”

I snort with laughter and shake my head at him. “I’ll admit, I did assume that.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

I smile, but my heart can’t help fluttering every time he looks at me with that tilted smile. It gives me ideas. The kind of ideas that would require pulling over to the side of the road and removing my Walmart t-shirt and shorts.

Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that. Seeing as how there’s a murderous Russian man pursuing us and all.

“So,” I say to fight the rising blush in my cheeks and heat between my legs, “what kind of music do you listen to?”

“I don’t listen to much, to be honest.”

I can only gawk at him. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I’m always working,” he replies. “And when I’m alone in my apartment, I like to lie in bed with silence. That’s my music.”

“Wow,” I comment. “Very poetic. Also, boring as hell.”

He smirks. “I like Viktor Tsoi. He was a Russian musician.”

I wrinkle my brow. “Never heard of him. You sure you didn’t just make that up to impress me?”

“He was popular in Russia,” Artem tells me, chuckling. “He died young.”

I stumble across a station that’s playing instrumentals. It’s modern day stuff from Hans Zimmer and Circadian Eyes, but it’s the kind of music I like. The notes are so beautifully balanced, so harmonious together I feel the sweet melodies seep into my body.

My fingers twitch again and I notice Artem’s smile.

“When we get back home, to our real home, I’ll get you a piano,” Artem tells me.

“Where’s our real home?” I ask. Even the concept feels foreign to me now.

“The place we’re running from,” Artem answers immediately. “Los Angeles. That’s home.”

I suppress the sigh I can feel at the back of my throat and try not to think about it. My desire to stay in L.A. has waned considerably since Stanislav’s funeral.

The city spells nothing but violence, chaos, entrapment.

What I really want is a quiet corner of the world. Somewhere to raise my child and play my piano.

I glance towards Artem. His profile is as impressive as the rest of him. I