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

damage in the short time he’d been in charge. It cost me endless time, effort, and money to undo his stunted, brutal legacy.

Choosing underbosses and reorganizing the Bratva hierarchy.

Distributing businesses and assigning territories.

The never-ending work of the don. All the things I once despised doing. The things I told my father I didn’t give a flying fuck about.

That’s what makes up my days now.

I couldn’t be more grateful.

I’ve had help, of course.

The O’Sullivan clan’s assistance in the takeover had not only shifted the balance of power back to me, but it had also taken out two underworld mob bosses whose men had been scattered to the wind after their deaths.

I don’t have to worry about Kovar or Bufalino anymore. Neither does anyone else in the city.

Thank fucking God.

True to my word, I haven’t brought down the hammer on the remaining rats quite as brutally as I would’ve expected.

They have Esme to thank for that.

Most chose exile. Some reneged on their betrayal and were reassigned to low ranks. They’ll never hold true power in my Bratva again. But they have their lives and a change to remake their legacies.

We all deserve that kind of mercy.

I know that better than anyone.

The only other project that occupies some of my time—but mostly Esme’s—is the renovation of my father’s mansion.

Once all the damages sustained in the fight had been dealt with, Esme threw herself into re-decorating it. Most of the rooms were transformed within weeks, so much so that sometimes I walk into rooms and fail to recognize a single thing in there.

“Do you hate it?” Esme had asked me when I’d looked around at my father’s old office that she had converted into a family sitting room.

“No, I don’t hate it at all,” I’d told her. “It’s just so different.”

“I wanted the space to be warmer,” she explained. “It was so… austere.”

I’d laughed at that. If only she knew how right she was. “My father was austere, so that would explain it.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind all the changes I’m making here?”

“I’m sure. This is your home now. I just want you to be comfortable here.”

We’d ended up having sex on the wide sofa that occupied the space where my father’s desk once sat.

Pure fucking bliss.

That is probably the best part of my new reality.

Esme.

Phoenix.

Our family.

Being don wouldn’t be so sweet if I didn’t have the two of them with me.

“The cars are out front, boss,” Adrik says, snapping me out of my idle thoughts.

I nod. “Before we leave, sit down for a moment,” I say, looking towards Vasyl and Alexei. “You two as well.”

The three of them sit down, forming a lose circle around me. I open a fresh bottle of whiskey and pour out four glasses.

It’s the first drink I’ve had in months. These days, my drinking has become sporadic. It’s something I engage in on special occasions.

The last time I was drunk was when I’d been in the mountains. Almost a year ago now, drinking away my losses, drowning my demons.

I don’t need to do that anymore.

“We’ve got our shit together,” I tell my underbosses. I pick up my glass of whiskey. “We’ve solidified control of the West Coast and we’ve eliminated threats to the Bratva. But we’ve got more to accomplish. I have plans for all of us.”

Adrik smiles and raises his glass. “To the future of the Bratva.”

We raise our glasses and I take a sip of the rich, bitter whiskey.

“Our future would not have been possible without the sacrifices of others,” I say. “So I propose another toast. To Stanislav,” I say, raising my glass.

My men murmur and toast to Stanislav.

“To Maxim,” I continue.

“To Maxim!”

“To Cillian.”

“To Cillian!”

“You’re really going to toast to me without me?” comes a familiar voice from the doorway. “Pretty damn rude, I’d say.”

I turn.

And the whiskey glass falls from my hand.

It hits the ground and shatters, but I don’t notice. Don’t give a damn.

Because there’s a ghost in the room.

Or at least, I thought it was a ghost.

But Cillian O’Sullivan looks very, very real.

He’s Flesh and bone. Warm. Living.

He’s got a cane in his hand and he leans on it a bit as he crosses the distance between us.

He’s got scars I don’t recognize.

Those blue eyes, though—stubborn, laughing, alive—those haven’t changed one bit.

And when he takes the final step forward and embraces me, I realize just how damn much I missed my best friend.

“You’re not getting all soft and sentimental on me, are ya?” he mumbles in my ear.

I release him from the hug and step away.

“You look like shit,” I comment wryly.

“Still better looking than you’ll ever be,” he fires right back.

I laugh, he laughs, and the men looking on from the table laugh. It’s a soul-cleansing laugh, the kind that only happens a few times in a man’s life. When something truly takes him by surprise.

“Now,” Cillian says, eyes sparkling, “can we finish that toast? I’m fucking dying for a drink.”

I find a pair of fresh glasses and pour us each one. Adrik, Alexei, and Vasyl all stand to join us. We clink glasses and drink deeply.

It tastes like salvation.

It tastes like redemption.

It tastes like the future I’ve shed blood, sweat and tears for.

It tastes really fucking good.

Once we’ve all drained our glasses, my lieutenants make mumbled excuses and slip out of the room.

It’s just Cillian and me.

I feel like a fool—I keep looking at him, wondering if he’s real or if I maybe just sustained a traumatic brain injury and this is all a sick hallucination.

But he’s real. He’s here.

“So?” I say after a minute of silence.

He glances back at me curiously. “So what?”

Jesus—all these months later and it takes him no time at all to infuriate me again.

I slam my hand on the table and roar, “So are you going to tell me how the fuck you got here?!”

He laughs again at that. That infuriating Irishman’s laugh that drives me up the wall the same way it always has.

He reaches out for the whiskey bottle and refills our glasses.

“Yeah,