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

by Nicole Fox

  I can’t bring myself to be gentle or patient. I can’t bring myself to be kind.

  I just need to get him in the car and then I can concentrate on my bedside manner another time.

  He just stares at me blankly.

  My hands tighten around his face. “You are not fucking dying on me, you bastard,” I snarl at him. “I don’t care that you’re bleeding. I don’t care that you’re in pain. You get the fuck up and you get in that car.”

  He looks at me again, not saying anything. His lips tremble.

  Then he tries to get up. It’s painstaking and horrible to watch. Two steps forward, one step back, again and again as he tries to overcome the pain, loses, redoubles his effort, tries again.

  As he wins another inch. And another. And another.

  I’m doing everything I can to help. I’m pulling his shoulders from the front and pushing against them from the back. I’m whispering under my breath, “Yes, yes, a little more, a little more,” like a goddamn lunatic.

  And eventually, somehow, he gets to all fours. From there, he uses me like a crutch to push up to half-kneeling. And then two feet on the ground.

  And then he rises, still leaning almost all his weight on me, but that’s fine, that’s okay, we’re going to make it.

  I almost stumble over, but the adrenaline is coursing through me.

  Somehow, I manage to support his weight as we stumble to the car together.

  His blood soaks my clothes. The strips of my nightgown are flapping in the night breeze, crusted red. Artem’s groan in my ear is low and constant. He’s muttering nonsense syllables and his eyes keep falling closed.

  But we move forward.

  One step at a time.

  Until at last we make it to the car. Artem falls against the side of the vehicle, his head knocking the roof. He crumples listlessly into the back seat. I have to heave his legs inside.

  Once the door is closed, I let myself breathe for a moment. But only a moment. I don’t have any longer than that.

  I open the front door and start to climb inside. Just before I’m all the way in, though, something catches my eye.

  Something sparkling golden in the moonlight.

  Frowning, I go look at it. It’s something caught on the spiked leaf of one of the bushes. My heart starts pounding as I get closer and closer.

  Until I’m close enough to see and my chest seizes up entirely.

  It’s a lock of blond hair.

  One end stained red with blood.

  My body aches like I’ve been punched in the gut. Cillian is somewhere out there. With the bad men or alone, I can’t be sure.

  But he’s hurt, it seems. Maybe dead.

  I look around and scan the forest one more time, hoping against hope for another sign that he’s okay.

  “Where are you, Cillian?” I whisper into the night.

  No response.

  I can’t wait around for him. Artem is dying too fast for that. We have to go, now.

  I offer up a silent prayer for the sad-eyed Irishman. Then I get back in the car and start the long journey into town.

  I hope to God we make it in time.

  9

  Esme

  The tires crunch over rocks and dirt. The car breathes exhaust into the night. And little by little, we wind down the mountain.

  I feel like I’m sleepwalking. As if this is all just another night terror.

  But this time, Artem can’t save me from it.

  Who can?

  I don’t make the conscious decision to go to Aracelia’s house. I don’t even realize that’s where I’m going until I’m parked outside her home, staring up at it as though it has all the answers.

  Bringing Artem here might be a mistake. But it’s the only option I have.

  I run up to her front door and pound the door as hard as I can. I keep ringing until she opens the door.

  She looks calm. Serene. Not sleep-addled in the least—as if she’d been awake and expecting me.

  I shake that thought aside. I’m just panicked, that’s all.

  “Hola, Esmeralda,” she murmurs in that weird, whimsical way of hers.

  Not that it even matters, but relief floods through me when she remembers my name. Her eyes run along my body as she takes in the bloodstains on my ripped nightgown.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  The calm aura that had engulfed her the first time we’d met is still there, but as she takes stock of the situation, it changes somehow. Intensifies. Sharpens.

  “I’m sorry,” I say desperately. “I couldn’t go anywhere else.”

  “Someone is hurt,” she guesses.

  “My husband. Please, Aracelia, I need your help. He’s dying.”

  She glances towards the car that’s parked behind me. “He’s in the car?”

  I nod. “Will you help me?” I ask. “I have no one else to go to.”

  For a moment, I think she’s going to turn me away. But then I see her jaw set with determination.

  “Venga,” she says. “I’ll help you.”

  I’m so overwhelmed with gratitude that I almost hug her. But she pushes past me and hurries toward the car.

  It’s dark now. A cloud over the moon blots out all the light from the sky, and her house is far from any other building.

  Still, there’s no telling who might be out in the night. Watching. Waiting to finish what they started.

  We go to the car and I throw open the back door.

  Aracelia takes one look at Artem and purses her lips up with a professionalism that ER doctors would envy. “He’s a big man,” she says. “How did you manage to get him in here on your own?”

  “He helped.”

  He doesn’t look like he’ll be repeating that, though. The back seat is soaked with blood and Artem is groaning softly. His eyes are pinwheeling wildly beneath his eyelids.

  “Stay there,” Aracelia orders. Before I can answer, she turns and strides behind the house.

  While she’s gone, I lean forward and mop the cold sweat from Artem’s forehead.

  “Stay with me,” I whisper to him. “We came this far. I can’t lose you now.”

  A tinny squeak invades the night. A moment later, Aracelia rounds the corner of the house again—this time, pushing a wheelbarrow.

  She brings it over and parks it as close to the car as she can manage.

  “You grab his head,” Aracelia tells me. “I’ll take his legs. We need to move fast.”

  It takes several minutes and a lot of effort to move Artem into the wheelbarrow. When he’s finally in, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  He looks absurd in there. Far too big for it, so that his limbs are dangling over the edges. Like a big, goofy scarecrow.

  But all it takes is the sound of one plink of blood against the rusted metal to bring me back to reality.

  Aracelia grabs the handles with a grunt. I race alongside her, keeping the wheelbarrow steady over the uneven ground.

  We go around back and wheel Artem right up to the back door. Then Aracelia and I each throw our shoulders into one of the handles to stand the cart upright.

  As soon as the balance shifts, I run around to the other side and stop Artem from falling out onto his face.

  He weighs as much as the mountains do, but Aracelia tosses the wheelbarrow aside and comes to help me. We each loop one of his arms around us and get him indoors.

  It feels like an hour has passed since I arrive. Aracelia and I set Artem down on the red rug that adorns the entrance to her home. She locks the door quickly.

  I’m drenched in sweat, dirt and blood, my limbs are strung out with fatigue, but I feel wide awake.

  Aracelia looks disheveled, too, but there’s a calm about her that forces me to focus.

  “Take a breath,” Aracelia tells me. “And then we’ll move him to the dining table. I can work on him there.”

  I breath in and out as I gaze down at Artem’s pale form, while Aracelia heads into the next room and clears the
dining table of its candles and ornaments.

  Once it’s empty, she gets a thick sheet and covers it over before walking towards me again.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod as I bend, shifting my hands beneath his underarms to pick Artem up. Shooting pain races through my body but I ignore it and heave him up as Aracelia grabs his legs. The last few feet to the dining table are a struggle, but we manage to heave him up onto the wooden surface.

  He falls onto his side, but I gently maneuver him onto his back.

  I feel nausea surface and I clamp my hand down over my mouth.

  “The bathroom is right behind you,” Aracelia says, pointing it out to me.

  I run inside and throw up violently into the commode. Nothing but bile and stomach juices comes up.

  The nausea recedes for a moment, but when it comes back, it does so with a vengeance. I dry heave for several minutes until I taste blood.

  Once I’m done, I fall limply against the bathroom floor and sob until my tears run dry.

  I support my head in my palms and try to breathe past the pain. My head is bursting, but it’s the weight on my chest that I want to get rid of.

  Then I feel a kick. A strong, powerful kick. Almost like the little baby inside me is trying to reassure me.

  “I’m sorry, little bird,” I whisper, running my hand along my stomach. “I’m supposed to be reassuring you.”

  Cesar was right. This life is nothing but violence and pain.

  The odd thought sends a shiver of fear coursing through me. Is this a sick preview of the rest of my life? If Artem didn’t leave the Bratva behind, then it most certainly would be.

  Forever stitching wounds. Staunching blood flow and plugging bullet holes. Living in fear, night in and night out, for as long as we both manage to survive.

  Artem told you he was done with it all. That he was choosing his family over the Bratva.

  Even as I think that, though, I don’t believe it. No matter how hard to hope, I know it isn’t true.

  He was lying to me. I knew it then—deep down, at least, even if I was afraid to say it out loud—and I know it now.

  I just wasn’t ready to face the truth.

  He’ll never walk away from his birthright.

  My husband was not made for a quiet life on a remote mountain.

  He was not made for the life I craved.

  I’m parched and weary and I can feel dehydration set its claws into my starving body, but I can’t bring myself to get up.

  For right now, this cool bathroom floor is comfort in a cruel world. I plan on staying here, at least until I feel like I can stand without falling right back down.

  I’m so drained, emotionally and physically, that death feels like it would be a relief.

  Cesar, is this what you felt at the end?

  Did you kill Artem’s wife because you knew it was the easiest way to commit suicide?

  Did you hate this life as much as I do?

  10

  Esme

  Sometime later, the bathroom door opens.

  Aracelia peers down at me. “Esme,” she says softly.

  I look up from where I’m curled in the tiled corner. “Is he okay?”

  Her tone is neutral. “I managed to stop the bleeding and bandage him up. His color has improved a little.”

  I bite my lip to stop from crying. “I… I… thank you,” I stammer. “How long have I been in here for?”

  Aracelia steps the rest of the way into the bathroom with me. “Almost an hour and a half.”

  “Oh.”

  She kneels down in front of me, her eyes alight with sympathy. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom. As I emerge, I see Artem lying flat on the dining room table. I break away from Aracelia and float towards him.

  She has done an amazing job. She’s stripped away his clothes, wiped him down, and washed away all the blood and grime. His body looks clean, almost pristine, except for the bandages that cover his arms and stomach and the soft blue towel she’s drawn over his waist.

  I smell a strong, peppery scent coming from the bandage around Artem’s stomach and I notice that a rub has been applied to the wound before the bandages were put on.

  “It’s a special poultice,” Aracelia tells me before I can ask. “All-natural, but they have amazing healing properties.”

  I nod, unwilling to question her. In any case, he looks much better than he did when I first found him. That awful, rattling groan has quieted to a gentle inhale and exhale.

  “I know I’ve put you in a compromising situation,” I tell her. “I’m sorry for that.”

  She sighs. “I was hoping what I saw in your tea leaves was wrong.”

  I blink back fresh tears. “Apparently, I’m not that lucky.”

  “No, but you are strong,” Aracelia tells me. “Strong enough to live through this.”

  You are strong.

  Cesar had told me the same thing a lifetime ago, before I had believed in my own strength.

  “Come now,” Aracelia prods gently. “You need a good soak in the tub and after you’re done, it’s important you eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat, Esme. For you child.”

  I nod slowly, reluctantly, and follow her into her bedroom. The floral patterns are overwhelming but they help soothe me somehow.

  They’re simple. Pretty. Innocent.

  A stark contrast to the world I’ve been incapsulated in for far too long.

  “Go on,” she encourages me. “I’ll set some fresh clothes for you on the bed.”

  I walk into the bathroom, dazed, to find that the tub is filled with steaming water. After I strip down, I get into the tub and let the water sooth my aching body. I run my hands over my stomach and watch as my baby moves inside me.

  It’s just you and me, little bird.

  Something about that idle thought catches. It snags on the corner of a harsh realization. A growing realization.

  The realization that I made a choice about what happens next. One I couldn’t fully process until right now.

  It’s just you and me, little bird.

  A single tear slips down my cheek.

  The only one who has the power to give me the life I want is me.

  If I want a different life, I have to take it.

  And I can’t make Artem come with me.

  I can’t bring him with me at all.

  My muscles cry out for me to stay in the bath forever. But now that I’ve made my choice and acknowledged it to myself, I feel like the clock is already ticking. Ticking down to what, I’m not sure—until I lose heart or lose the opportunity, maybe.

  I just know I have to do it now.

  I have to leave forever.

  I get out, dry off in a hurry as panic flows through me faster and faster, and go into the bedroom.

  There’s a pair of faded blue jeans on the bed next to a flowing floral shirt and a dusty pink sweater.

  I dress hurriedly with fumbling hands. Then I head back towards the dining table where Artem lies.

  I can hear Aracelia in the kitchen, but before I speak to her, I slip outside to the car. I rummage through the trunk and the center console until I find what I’m looking for.

  When I walk back into the house, Aracelia is standing by the dining table checking on Artem. She looks up and catches sight of me.

  “Don’t you look better?” she says with a smile.

  I return the smile shakily and step forward.

  “I want you to have this,” I say, holding out the bundle of money in my hand.

  She arches an eyebrow. Not quite surprised, but not quite expecting this, either. “Esme…”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I insist. “After all you’ve done for me.”

  “What about you?”

  “I kept some for myself,” I say. “But I want you to have this.”

  Aracelia h
esitates but then she takes the money with careful fingers and sets it down on the table beside Artem.

  Turning my gaze from her to him, I move a little closer and put my hand on Artem’s arm.

  “I’m leaving, Aracelia,” I say softly without looking at her.

  “Where?” I notice that she doesn’t sound in the least bit surprised.

  “I don’t know yet. But I have the car and enough money to hold me over for the next few months. I’ll figure it out.”

  In the corner of my vision, Aracelia nods. “What would you like me to tell him when he wakes up?” she asks.

  I gnaw at my lower lip. “Tell him…”

  I trail off, wondering what message I can possibly leave him with.

  I’m sorry?

  I couldn’t do it anymore?

  I have to protect myself and my child?

  I can’t trust you to walk away?

  I can’t trust anyone but myself?

  Nothing feels right. Nothing seems enough. “Don’t tell him anything,” I say finally. “He’ll know why I left.”

  “But will he understand?”

  No, he probably won’t.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I reply. “Our lives are on different paths now.”

  Aracelia nods again. “When do you want to leave?”

  “Now,” I reply. “As soon as possible. If I stay any longer, I’m afraid… I’m afraid I won’t be able to go.”

  “I’ll pack some food for you.”

  She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me with my husband. I raise his hand to my lips and kiss his bruised knuckles. Then I bend my head down and kiss his closed eyes, his forehead, his cheeks.

  I save his lips for last.

  “I loved you,” I whisper in his ear. “Remember that I loved you.”

  I let go of his hand and step back. The final goodbye sticks in my throat, refusing to come out.

  So I leave it unsaid. I blink away my tears and turn.

  And then, one step at a time, I walk away from Artem. From the man who saved me and ruined me and saved me again.

  Doubt threads through my thoughts. But that is just fear trying to confuse me.

  I made my decision and now it’s time to see it through.