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

by Nicole Fox

So I pivot around to table four and pull out my notepad.

  “I’m really sorry about the wait, guys,” I say to them.

  Both their expressions soften when they take in my huge belly. They don’t give me any attitude as they relay their orders. When we’re done, I walk away and let loose a heavy sigh.

  Ruby’s waiting for me back at the counter with her arms crossed. I used to be concerned by that particular stance, until I realized that it was Ruby’s resting pose. Same for the bitch face she wears around the clock.

  I start to say, “I still have one more table to—”

  “It can wait,” she says, cutting me off. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  Fear rises up inside me like bile.

  I can’t lose this job. I can’t lose this job. I can’t lose this job.

  “Maternity leave,” Ruby says.

  I hesitate. “What about it?”

  “You need to go on maternity leave,” Ruby repeats grimly. She’s eyeing my stomach.

  Sometimes, it feels like my pregnancy is the only thing that defines me anymore. That’s all people see. It’s the first question they ask.

  “I will,” I say. “But not yet.”

  “When, then?” Ruby asks. “When the kid pops out between table three and table four?”

  “I’m fine,” I argue. “I feel strong and fit and capable.”

  “Do you know what you look like?” she asks.

  “Umm…”

  “You’re the skinniest pregnant woman I’ve ever seen,” Ruby continues impatiently. “You’re skin and bones and the biggest fucking stomach on the West Coast.”

  Ouch.

  “You’re making customers uncomfortable.”

  My eyebrows knit together. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, don’t get all bent out of shape,” she sighs. “You always sound like you’re two seconds away from completely breaking down. And it doesn’t help that you look twelve.”

  “Are you not happy with my work?” I ask bluntly.

  Ruby meets my gaze. “You’re a hard worker, Emily,” she says. “And I hired you because you were determined, confident and honestly, a little desperate. But you need to take a fucking break.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip. “If I do, will I have a job here when I get back?”

  Ruby hesitates. “You’ll have a baby.”

  “I can still work.”

  “And who’s gonna take care of your baby?”

  It’s a really good question. One that I can’t answer just yet.

  But that won’t stop me from trying my best to salvage this situation.

  “I have family,” I blurt out in desperation. “They’ll take care of the baby while I’m at work.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Ruby says, with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

  “My… uh… great aunt and uncle,” I say. “Tío Charlie.”

  “You’ve never mentioned them before.”

  I shrug. “Don’t bring your personal life into the workplace, right?” It’s a lame lie but it’s the best I’ve got.

  Ruby sighs, obviously onto the fact that I’m just blatantly making shit up. “I won’t tolerate a baby at work, Emily,” she says. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” I note. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d still like to keep working.”

  Ruby groans. “Jesus! Fine. Just go deal with the mess on table three.”

  Sighing with relief, I head over to table three just as Sara, the other waitress working today, swings by.

  “You okay?” she mutters to me over her shoulder.

  She has beautiful blue eyes that remind me of someone I knew in my old life. The life I ran from. I have to focus hard every day not to be distracted by them.

  “Fine.” I brush a flyaway bang out of my face. “Ruby’s just trying to get rid of me.”

  “She’s brusque,” Sara acknowledges. “But her heart’s in the right place.”

  “I know, and I get it. But I really need this job.”

  Before Sara can respond, the door to the diner opens. A small group of four men walks in.

  I’m immediately on high alert.

  They are dressed in dark sunglasses and dark coats. All of them are stony-faced, tattooed, and intimidating as hell.

  Please don’t pick my section, I pray silently. Anywhere but my section.

  Which means that they of course head directly for my section.

  I sigh with frustration as they take the table I’ve just cleaned up. Shitty luck.

  I put my game face on and walk over to them. There’s no point putting it off.

  Their eyes fall on me wordlessly and nerves claw at my throat. I’ve known men like this my whole life. I’ve learned the hard way not to stick around for a second longer than I have to.

  “Good evening,” I say politely. “What can I get you guys?”

  “I want a steak.”

  I turn to the burly man who spoke. He removes his shades to reveal dark, piercing eyes that might be considered attractive if the rest of his face weren’t so… threatening. My eyes flicker down to the massive eagle tattoo that takes up the entire left side of his thick neck. It looks shitty, blotchy, amateurish.

  A prison tat, if I’ve ever seen one.

  “Rare,” he tells me. “I like my meat bloody.”

  I have to resist the urge to cringe at the salacious way he gives me his order. His gaze roams down to my stomach and he licks his lips. Goosebumps prickle my skin, but I manage to hold it together.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I say, keeping my tone professional. “We don’t have steak.”

  He raises his eyebrows while his friends snicker. Clearly, he’s the ringleader and he’s so predictably menacing that I almost want to roll my eyes.

  If only he knew the kind of life I’ve had.

  “I want steak,” he says. “So do my men.”

  So do my men. Those words aren’t lost on me.

  They’re definitely mafia, probably small-time drug runners operating out of nearby Tijuana.

  But I’ve had enough of the mafia for one lifetime.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Let me put it to you in a way you can understand,” he interrupts. He leans forward a little, scanning me from head to toe, though his eyes linger on my stomach and breasts. “I want fresh meat. One way or the other. You know, I’ve always had a thing for pregnant women.”

  My forced smile turns sour. I take a step back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I back away and head straight for the kitchen. Once I’m in the safety of the kitchen, I can breathe a little easier, but the thought of going back out there turns my stomach.

  “Emily, you okay?” asks Jose, the line cook.

  I nod and force a smile back onto my face. “I’m fine,” I reply. “I just…you know, difficult customers.”

  “What else is new?” Jose asks, rolling his eyes.

  “Not shit. Anyway, can you whip up four steaks… rare?” I ask desperately.

  “Steaks?” he repeats. “We don’t have steak. Tell them to pick something off the fucking menu. That’s what it’s there for.”

  “I can’t tell these customers that,” I groan.

  He walks past me and peers through the little partition that looks over into the restaurant area. “Table three?” he asks.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Fuck, those dudes look scary.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “I’ve got some pork ribs though. Go ask them if they’ll have those?”

  “Jose, please,” I beg. “Men like them don’t like hearing the word ‘no.’”

  “Just ask,” he snaps. “I’ve got three other orders to fill.”

  Gritting my teeth, I turn, ready to go back into the lion’s den to ask them a question I already know the answer to, when Sara almost runs right into me.

  “Whoa!” I exclaim.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. Listen, Emily, why don’t you let me take that table?”

 
; “Really?” I ask, relief surging through me.

  I do feel a little bad palming the table off on her. But I’m just so tired and my spine feels like it’s on fire.

  “Sure thing.” She smiles brightly. I just want to hug her. “You hide out here for a bit and I’ll go handle the table. I’ll ask them about the pork ribs.”

  I sag in thanks as Sara disappears back into the restaurant. Turning, I take a seat on one of the little stools in the hallway that the staff uses to steal a quick break from time to time.

  My legs cry with relief.

  But I haven’t even been sitting five minutes before Sara returns with a grim look on her face.

  “Oh, God, what happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Em,” Sara sighs. “They want you.”

  “What?”

  “They told me… um… They’re horrible,” she admits. “I tried to tell them that you’d clocked out for the night but—”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I can do it. Thanks anyway.”

  “And Jose… they want steaks,” she calls over to him.

  I glare at him. “Told you.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fine, I’ll send Larry out to buy a few steaks. They’ll have to wait.”

  I know that means I’ll have to deal with them for longer.

  This is so not my night. Sara gives me a reassuring look and pats me on the shoulder as I move back into the dining area.

  The moment I appear, a round of hooting and wolf whistles rise up from table three. I grit my teeth and approach them.

  “We’ll get your steaks,” I say, brusquer than I should be with any customer. “But it might take a little longer than usual.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” the man with the eagle tattoo remarks. “We have you here to keep us entertained.”

  “What’s your name?” the man closest to me asks. He’s got bloodshot eyes and a nose so sharp it looks cartoonish.

  “Emily.” Even after three months of my new identity, it still sounds clunky coming out of my mouth.

  “You don’t look like an Emily.”

  I just shrug. What am I supposed to say?

  Good call—you got me! I’m actually Esmeralda Kovalyov, neé Moreno, daughter of one of Mexico’s most powerful cartel bosses and the estranged wife of the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. But really, the pleasure is all mine.

  As fun as it would be to see these assholes shit themselves, I can’t imagine that ending well for me.

  “How old are you?” another one asks me while I fantasize about stabbing them.

  “Why does that matter?”

  They laugh as though my irritation is exactly what they’re going for.

  “Damn, kitty has claws!”

  I bite back the retort on my tongue. “I’ll bring over the steaks as soon as they’re ready.”

  “Are you hungry?” Eagle Tattoo asks me.

  I stop reluctantly and pivot to face them again. “What?”

  “I asked, are you hungry?” he repeats, enunciating each word like I’m an idiot. “Because I’ve got a delicious piece of meat that I’m sure you’ll love.”

  This fucking asshole.

  My skin prickles with heat. I can’t help wondering how a certain tall, dark Russian would react to these men.

  I chase that thought away as soon as it comes.

  You’re on your own, Esme. There’s no tall, dark Russian to come to your rescue anymore. There’s no point thinking about him now.

  “I’m vegetarian,” I reply smoothly. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Beer,” Eagle Tattoo says. “Lots of it.”

  I bring four huge pitchers of beer to their table and then scuttle back to the kitchen the moment I can. I feel their eyes on me the whole time.

  It makes me want to scream.

  I need just one fucking minute away from their awful stares. Anywhere is fine, as long as it’s away. I don’t even think about where I’m going until I end up in the walk-in refrigerator.

  The cold feels good against my fevered skin. I try and breathe, rubbing one hand against the crest of my stomach.

  The baby is kicking furiously. I wonder if that’s because he can sense how agitated I am.

  Then the door to the walk-in freezer opens. I turn to find Sara, looking at me with concern.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  She’s a sweetheart and a good friend, but it pains me that I can’t tell her everything. Not even my real name. Not even that one little, insignificant fact about who I really am.

  “Sorry. I just needed to catch my breath,” I say. “I’ll be out to help in just a second.”

  “There’s no need,” Sara tells me. “Michael arrived early for his shift and there are only a couple of tables left. We can manage. You take your time.”

  I smile gratefully. “Oh, you don’t need to…”

  “You can go home if you want,” she suggests.

  “What about the assholes at table three?” I ask.

  “Michael can handle them,” she says with a shrug. “He’s plenty scary himself.”

  That’s definitely true. Michael is ex-military and doesn’t tolerate bullshit in any forms. Especially not the “I’ve got a delicious piece of meat you’ll love” variety.

  He’s a teddy bear on the inside, but you have to get to know him to see that side of him.

  “Thanks, Sara.”

  I expect her to leave, but she takes a step towards me.

  “How are you, Emily?” she asks.

  I flinch. Not because of her proximity, but because she really believes my name is Emily. The more I get to know her, the more it feels like a betrayal to keep certain things from her.

  “Fine,” I reply vaguely. Details are what get you every time. Better to stay distant, abstract.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”

  She sighs. “Because you’re over-worked and very pregnant,” she says. “If you need money, I have some saved up.”

  My eyes fill with tears of gratitude. It’s been a hard three months. Maybe harder than I even realize.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate the offer,” I say. “But you’re saving up for college. I can’t take that in good conscience.”

  “You can pay me back when you’re able to,” she says. “I know you’re good for it.”

  I’ve been closeted from the world for so long, distrust ingrained into me from such a young age, that sometimes it still shocked me that there are such genuinely kind and generous people out there.

  People like Sara.

  “I can’t, Sara,” I say. “I love you for offering, but I’m good.”

  The stash of money I’d taken with me from Aracelia’s has dwindled fast. No matter how sparing I am, it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. This job helps slow the flow somewhat, but even then, my tattered envelope filled with bills has been getting thinner and thinner.

  I never realized how expensive the simple act of living could be.

  After leaving Aracelia’s house in the nameless village near Picacho del Diablo, I’d ditched the car on the side of the road and taken a bus into this grimy Mexican border town outside of Tijuana.

  It checked all my boxes: anonymous, transient, and out of the way.

  Perfect.

  Not exactly paradise. But it’s the best place I could find to have my baby. It had taken me a day to find a cheap place to stay, a one-room apartment that cost me first and last months’ rate plus a hefty security deposit and an uncomfortable brusque conversation with the chain-smoking landlord to secure.

  It isn’t anything to write home about. The bed is pushed to one side of the wall next to the kitchen and the shower is separated from the rest of the space by a plastic curtain.

  To make matters worse, the toilet is located outside my apartment and I share it with the tenants in the two apartments down from mine.

  But for the price—and more importantly, for not having to divulge a
single piece of personal information—I’ve been willing to put up with all that.

  It took me a little longer to find a job. No one was willing to hire a pregnant girl. Ruby at the diner was the only one who took a chance on me.

  Even with my job, though, I’ve been just scraping by, hanging on to the last couple of hundred dollar bills from Artem’s stash.

  How much longer can I live like this, I wonder?

  “Emily?”

  “Yes?” I say, looking up at Sara’s big blue eyes.

  “I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” she murmurs, much to my surprise. “I know there’s something you’re running from. But I just want you to know: you can trust me.”

  My heart thrums chaotically for a moment.

  “Esme,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “My real name is Esme.”

  Sara’s eyes go wide. “Oh.”

  “You’re right about what you said, too,” I continue. It’s like a gushing flow. Now that I’ve started sharing my truth, I can’t stop. “I am running from something: a life I didn’t want.”

  “And… the father of your baby?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Not exactly. We wanted different things,” I answer sadly. “I couldn’t compromise. If it was just me, maybe I could have. But I have my child to think of.”

  Sara nods. “Was he a dangerous man? Like the men out there?”

  Either Sara is incredibly perceptive or I’m just that transparent. I take a deep breath and try to explain.

  “He is more dangerous than all of them put together,” I tell her. “But not to me. He was good to me. I believe he maybe even loved me.”

  She reaches out to touch my hand reassuringly. “Then…?”

  “There is no separating work from your personal life,” I say. “Not when it comes to the mafia.”

  “Mafia?” Sara breathes. “He’s in the mafia?”

  “Something like that,” I confirm with a nod. “And he wasn’t going to leave that way of life. So I did.”

  She squeezes my fingers between hers. “Thank you for telling me, Esme.”

  I smile. “I’m sorry I lied to you for so long.”

  “I understand why you did,” she says simply. “Why don’t you go back home? I’ll hold down the fort here.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s okay to accept help every now and again, Esme,” she says.