Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) Read online

  We’re both aware that the gunfire has ceased.

  Now there’s nothing but silence—dark, taunting silence that could mean absolutely anything.

  “Let’s go,” I say fiercely. “I’m ready.”

  To my surprise, he shakes his head again. “No. You’re staying. I’ll go.”

  “Cillian, I—"

  He moves so fast I don’t even have time to react. He rips the gun suddenly from my hands and pushes me down onto one of the chairs on the table.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I demand once I’ve processed what the hell just happened.

  “Making sure you can’t leave.”

  Acting quickly, he grabs the sheet I gave him earlier that night and uses it to tie me to the chair.

  I try to struggle, try to thrash, but my movements are sluggish with shock and his knots are swift and secure.

  By the time he’s done, I can barely budge.

  “Are you fucking serious, Cillian?” I hiss at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, voice drenched in apology. “I’m sorry, Esme. But I’m not taking you with me.”

  “Fuck!” I scream.

  I tug as hard as I can.

  The knots don’t move at all.

  Cillian takes the gun, as well as one of his own, and heads out the door. He glances back at me from the threshold, his blue eyes catching the moonlight for a moment.

  Then he disappears into the darkness.

  3

  Esme

  I scream Cillian’s name again and again until my throat is hoarse and my voice is gone.

  But I know that he’s not coming back to untie me.

  I can’t hear a thing. The weight in my chest just keeps getting heavier and heavier until I feel that familiar shooting pain lancing through my stomach.

  The last time I felt it was weeks ago.

  Right after Stanislav’s funeral.

  When I’d first discovered that Artem was responsible for Cesar’s death.

  My baby kicks hard. I know that my rising heart beat and intense panic can’t be good for him.

  “It’s okay, little bird,” I say, falling back to my brother’s old nickname for me. “It’s okay. We’re going to be all right.”

  I’m on the verge of saying that his Papa is gonna be all right, too, but I stop short at the last moment.

  I don’t know if that’s true.

  For the moment, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again.

  The thought races through me like poison. “Oh, God,” I gasp as claustrophobia grips my throat and tightens its cold fingers around my heart. “I can’t breathe… I can’t…”

  But there is no one to help me.

  Another shooting pain courses through me, worse than the first.

  My stomach feels suddenly twice as large and twice as heavy and I try to breathe and I try to calm down, both for myself and for the child inside me, but my thoughts are chaotic and uncontrollable and they’re rising up in me like a dark swirling tide and I can’t get my heart to ease and the blood is pounding so hard in my temples and the night outside is so horrifyingly silent and why won’t anyone come to help me and where is Artem and where is Cillian and who is out there in the darkness and what do they want and where did they come from and oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, if something doesn’t happen soon then I feel like I’m going to—

  “Breathe, Esme,” I whisper out loud.

  MANY YEARS EARLIER

  “Breathe, Esme.”

  “Cesar?”

  My eyes fly open to find my brother kneeling in front of me, his gaze fixed on me with concern.

  I don’t know how he managed to get so close to me without me noticing.

  But then again, my head had been buried in my hands while I cried.

  “What’s wrong, little bird?” Cesar asks.

  “Papa hit me.”

  Cesar’s eyes flare with anger. “He did what?”

  I nod as another tear slips down my cheek. “He asked me to play piano for his friends and I said I didn’t want to. I don’t like his friends. They look at me weird.”

  “So he slapped you?”

  “He said that he was my father and I was to do whatever he asked of me.”

  I place my hand against the cheek Papa slapped. It still stings, but I don’t know if the pain is real or imagined. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

  Cesar sits down beside me on the grass and takes my hand. “I remember the first time Papa hit me.”

  I look at him in shock. “Papa’s hit you?”

  Cesar nods. “I was younger than you are now,” he tells me. “Probably about seven.”

  “What happened?” I ask. I’m still sobbing but not as hard anymore. My breath comes a little easier as I lean into my brother’s warmth.

  “I can’t remember,” Cesar replies. “I know that sounds strange, but I honestly can’t remember. I was doing something he didn’t want me doing. Or maybe I said something he didn’t like. Either way, he punched me in the face. My nose started bleeding, I thought it was broken.”

  “Was it?”

  “No,” Cesar shakes his head. “But his ring left a mark.”

  I gasp, noticing the tiny white scar on the bridge of his nose. “That’s how you got it?”

  “That’s how I got it,” he says. “But Papa never hit me again after that. You know why?”

  I shake my head and wait for the massive revelation that I think is going to come.

  “I never gave him a reason to,” Cesar tells me. “I do whatever Papa wants, and I do it however he wants. And you must learn to do the same.”

  For some reason, I shudder. “What if I can’t?”

  “Does your cheek hurt, little bird?” Cesar asks.

  I nod. “A lot.”

  “It will get a lot worse if you continue to defy him. I know you’re growing up, but that’s only going to make him harder on you.”

  “I’d rather take the pain than do everything I’m told to do,” I snap defiantly.

  Cesar smiles. “You’re braver than I am. But you’re also young. Pain takes all sorts of different forms, and it stays with you, little sister. It works its way into your skin and never leaves. You and I have been born to a don. Our life will never be easy. We will always be bound by the expectations of the Moreno cartel.”

  “Then maybe I don’t want to be a Moreno anymore.”

  Cesar raises his eyebrows and looks me dead in the eye. “If you’re not a Moreno, who will you be?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Someone else.”

  He ruffles my hair. “That’s a good plan.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” I demand.

  “No, I’m not,” Cesar says softly. I believe him. “You’re not just braver than I am, little bird. You’re smarter, too. I don’t have the option of not being a Moreno. But you might.”

  “How?”

  “You might have to disappear one day,” he tells me. “Find a quiet corner of the world to call your own and just… live.”

  “Why would I have to disappear?” I ask, alarmed by the notion of disappearing at all.

  “Because if you don’t, Papa will look for you,” Cesar tells me. “And if he finds you…”

  “I’ll be back to being a Moreno,” I finish.

  Cesar’s eyes are dark with grief. I notice that his fingers tremble slightly. I reach out and take his hand, massaging it gently between mine.

  “I can’t disappear, Cesar,” I say at last.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t leave you.”

  He smiles at that, but he’s still sad—I can see it in his eyes. “And I can’t leave you,” he replies.

  “Then I’ll just do what you do. I’ll listen to Papa and I won’t give him a reason to hit me again.”

  Cesar nods, but he doesn’t look proud like I’d hoped he would.

  He looks… broken.

  “You could disappear with me,” I say softly. “We could disappear together.”

&nbs
p; Cesar raises his eyes to my face, but it’s like he’s looking right through me. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. There is no escape, Esme,” he replies. “Not from this life. It consumes you whole until there’s nothing left. The real world won’t accept you after you’ve been spit out by this one.”

  The look in his eyes scares me. “Cesar…”

  “Let’s not talk about disappearing anymore, okay?” he says abruptly.

  I have no choice but to nod.

  I open my eyes once more.

  Fresh tears slip free. I had long since forgotten about that memory. The fact that I’ve remembered it now feels ominous and revelatory in equal measure.

  I take a deep breath. It comes easy this time. Easier, at least.

  I strain against my bindings. Suddenly, I feel one of the knots give.

  Just a little bit. Just a tiny sliver of hope.

  But that’s enough.

  I suck in another inhale, regroup, and push harder. With each shove, the sheet slackens a tiny bit more. And more. And more.

  Until, with one final push, I manage to get one hand free.

  From there, it’s easy enough to disentangle myself from the sheet. I wriggle out of it and rush to the bedroom.

  Crouching down on all fours, I pull out the gun that Artem’s stowed under the bed. Once I’m armed, I turn off all the lights in the cabin and slip outside, into the shadows and the moonlight.

  The night outside is dewy and crisp. Bright stars overhead, and the trees standing tall and silent like soldiers.

  My hand is weak and sweaty with anxiety as I hold the weapon and move forward into the trees. I don’t know what difference I can hope to make, but I’m resolved to try.

  Maybe one bullet in this gun will mean the difference between life and death for Artem.

  I don’t hear any noise to guide me. Ten minutes in, I realize that I don’t even know which direction to walk. I’m walking in circles for all I know. Trapped in my own head. Held back by my lack of instincts, my lack of experience.

  And then I hear something.

  A sharp noise that has me freezing in place.

  It snaps me out of my daze. Suddenly, I’m acutely and painfully aware of the position I’ve put myself in.

  I’ve walked into the forest without any notion of what I’m going to face.

  I have no protection, except for the gun in my hand, which isn’t much, seeing as how I’m barely confident in which end to aim where.

  I should have listened to Artem.

  I should have listened to Cillian.

  I should’ve never left the lodge.

  I hear the sound again, and this time, I’m certain of what it is—footsteps, coming right towards me.

  The night air turns cold against my skin. I hear the trill of frightened birdsong, the chirp of crickets, the whistling and crunching and motion in the brush that surrounds me.

  And underneath it all, those footsteps, like thunder behind the storm clouds.

  Please, dear God, let it be Artem. Let it be Cillian.

  The owner of the footsteps appears from between two tall trees.

  It’s not a friend.

  I don’t know who it is beyond that. But he sure seems to know me.

  “Well, well, well,” the man says. “I thought I got stuck with the grunt work, scanning the area for Artem’s men. And I stumble across Artem’s woman instead. Lucky me, huh?”

  I take a step back and keep my arm sheathed behind my hip. I don’t want him to see that I have a gun until the last possible second. The element of surprise is all I have at this point.

  “Budimir will be thrilled,” the man continues in slightly accented English. “He assumed you’d escaped us. A smart woman wouldn’t have chosen to stay with Artem. He’s a dead man walking.”

  I flinch back at his words, but I can’t move. I can see the gun in his hand, too. He’s probably a hell of a lot more skilled with it than I am.

  “He’s going to kill you all,” I snap.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you stay with him?” he asks.

  The way he speaks to me strikes me as odd. It’s as though we’re old friends and he’s resuming a conversation we left half completed.

  “He’s my husband,” I reply, chin held high.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Is it possible that you actually care for him? That he cares for you?”

  The shock is evident in his tone, but I bite down on my tongue. He’s going to use me as leverage, as bait… and I’ve just offered myself up on a silver fucking platter.

  He takes my silence as an answer. Whistles softly in surprise.

  “Well, that’s going to make this a lot harder for him, isn’t it?”

  That gets my attention. “What are you talking about?” I demand, unable to keep the fear from my voice.

  He drops the “old friends” voice and lets the real underlying venom glisten through.

  “I’m talking about the fact that I’m claiming you for my own,” he hisses, a dark smile playing across his face. “Then I’m going to drag you to Artem and he can watch as my seed slips out of you.”

  A shiver of fear of runs down my spine, but I’ll be damned if I let him see that.

  This son of a bitch is confident he can overpower me. Like it or not, the odds are definitely in his favor.

  Bu I’m not about to go down without a fight.

  I’m stronger than I look, motherfucker.

  4

  Artem

  I stare at the man I used to think of as a second father.

  Budimir’s face is familiar, and yet completely unrecognizable to me. Is it possible I used to think of him as kindly? Is it possible I used to think of him as loyal?

  Everything I thought I knew about him confronts me as he stares me down, his beady eyes gleeful and triumphant.

  “I must admit,” Budimir remarks, “this is the last place I expected to find you.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I retort.

  I look around at the men that surround me. I recognize only two of them. What happened to the other men of the Bratva, the men I served and bled with, the men who were once loyal to me?

  Did they turn their backs on the true don?

  Or did Budimir have them killed?

  “I can see the wheels in your head spinning, nephew,” Budimir says, taking a step forward. “Do you have nothing you want to say to me?”

  “I have many fucking things I would like to say to you,” I snarl.

  Budimir chuckles as he looks around at his men. “What did I tell you, boys?” he asks. “My nephew is nothing more than a wild animal without discipline or intelligence.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” I ask evenly.

  “Come now, Artem,” he says. “It’s not an insult if it’s true.”

  I take a step forward, but at the slightest motion, half a dozen guns cock in my direction.

  Gritting my teeth, I freeze. Attacking now would not only be stupid and short sighted—it would also be proving the bastard right.

  “Really, Artem,” Budimir sighs, “I had hoped to have a long-awaited chat with you. I can’t do that if you look so damn aggressive.”

  “The time for conversation is done,” I snap.

  Budimir glances at the man to his right and nods once. Five soldiers begin to creep toward me from different angles.

  I don’t bother with my gun. The moment I open fire, they would cut me down in a hail of bullets.

  But they’ve all holstered their weapons, too. They’re closing down the distance to where I stand in the middle of the clearing one slow step at a time. Hands empty.

  Let us fucking brawl, then.

  The moment the first man comes within punching distance of me, I clench my fist and send my knuckles straight to his face.

  He tries to block at the last minute, but he’s too late and he ends up with a mouthful of blood and dirt.

  I turn fast, rea
dy with my second punch. But then I feel something snake around my legs.

  Is that a fucking lasso?

  Before I can do anything else, my ankles are yanked from under me. I hit the ground hard, facedown in the muck. The wind whooshes painfully out of my lungs.

  The rest of them are on me instantly. A flurry of kicks and nightsticks to the ribs, the back, the legs.

  It’s over as soon as it starts. I’m tugged upright onto my knees and someone secures my hands behind my back and lashes my ankles together.

  I spit blood onto the earth in front of me. I can’t move unless I want to topple over. Trussed up like a fucking pig.

  “Ah,” Budimir says approvingly, as he moves closer, “you’ve finally learned your place, nephew. On your knees in front of me.”

  I snarl up at him. “The man you force on his knees will rise again, stronger and more vicious than before.”

  It’s something Father used to say. Something I never paid much mind to when he was still alive.

  Budimir just laughs. “If he can get up at all. Which you definitely won’t be able to do when I’m done with you.”

  “So then do it,” I growl. “Kill me and be done with it.”

  Budimir’s eyes flash for a moment and I detect a note of surprise. “Oh, I will,” Budimir nods. “But not just yet.”

  I roll my eyes. “You always had a flare for drama, didn’t you?”

  “This coming from the man who drank his weight in alcohol for months after losing his whore.”

  “She was my fucking wife.”

  Budimir shakes his head at me like I’m a stupid child who isn’t understanding. “I’ve had wives, Artem. Several, in fact,” he muses. “And I have not mourned for a single one. That’s something I’ve never understood about you.”

  He eyes me strangely, as though he’s genuinely curious about the answer.

  “I’ve never understood the attachments you’ve formed with these women. They should be merely distractions, a place to put your cock for the night. But you… you seem to care.”

  “You’re right,” I nod. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s beyond your capacity.”