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

by Nicole Fox

  It feels better than I can express to hear her use my real name.

  The weariness hits me all at once. Three months of running and hiding and scrapping and looking over my shoulder all the goddamn time. To have someone offering me simple help, with such an honest, trusting smile…

  It’s overwhelming.

  “Thank you.”

  I give her a tight hug before we exit the walk-in fridge together. Then she offers me a parting wave and heads down the narrow corridor towards the dining area, while I turn into the bathroom.

  I’m parched and tired, but I’ve gotten so used to the discomfort that I barely even notice it anymore. I splash some cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  Ruby is more accurate than I’ve given her credit for. I look scarily thin, a fact that’s only highlighted by my massive belly.

  My rent is due in a week and I’m counting on my tips to get me over the edge. Otherwise, I’ll have to dip into my emergency cash reserve, which I’ve been hoping to save for the baby.

  I have no plan once the baby arrives. I know that’s as reckless as it is stupid.

  But really, what are my options?

  I can’t afford to hire a nanny or a babysitter and Ruby has made it abundantly clear that she won’t have me waiting tables with a baby on my hip.

  What are you gonna do, Esme?

  “Excuse me, sir!”

  My head darts in the direction of the sound.

  That was Sara’s voice.

  She speaks up again. “You can’t be in here. The diner’s restrooms are on the other side of the restaurant.”

  “Well, I’m already here, so don’t be a bitch about it.”

  I recognize the gruff voice instantly and I freeze.

  The burly man with the eagle tattoo.

  Is it possible that these men are on Artem’s payroll? Or worse, are they on Budimir’s?

  Are they intentionally hunting me down or is this just a cruel coincidence?

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  But before I hear an end to Sara’s sentence, I hear her gasp.

  A second later, there’s a low thud and a shocked cry.

  The son of a bitch hit her. He put his hands on her.

  I rush to the door and inch it open to peer out so I can figure out what’s happening.

  I can see the eagle-tattooed man. He’s pushed Sara up against the corridor wall that serves as a gateway between the staff quarters and the main restaurant. It doesn’t get much traffic, which is probably why he’s followed her here in the first place.

  I catch a glimpse of Sara’s face. Her head is craned back in an awkward position, held in place by Eagle Tattoo’s meaty paw clamped around her neck.

  “You want my cock, don’t you, you little slut? Just like your whore friend who ran away,” he growls at her, licking her neck as she whimpers in terror underneath his clutches. “Don’t look so scared, baby. You’re gonna love it.”

  I back away from the door, frozen with horror.

  No matter how far I run, it seems violence is destined to plague me. And I am in no position to confront it, either.

  Not in my current condition.

  But Sara... Sara needs help.

  Your friend needs you.

  What are you gonna do, Esme?

  13

  Artem

  Picacho Del Diablo, Mexico

  You wake up.

  It’s before dawn and the air is frigid and every inch of your body hurts.

  But you wake up anyway.

  You get out of bed. Shoes on. You run a ten-mile trail throughout the mountains. The cold makes your lungs scream, but the altitude no longer affects you the way it once did.

  When your legs refuse to go any farther, return to the cabin.

  Get the gun.

  Creep into the woods. Find animal tracks. Follow them.

  A doe and her two fawns, camped in the underbrush. The mother and one of her children get away.

  The other is not so lucky.

  Bring the carcass back to the cabin. Sharpen the knife.

  Skin the deer, dress it, hang it to dry.

  Go down to the ravine to rinse the blood and sweat from your body.

  Morning light now illuminates the mountains.

  At the riverside, you shadow box and lift boulders. No weights to be found out here. The rocks serve that purpose.

  Pick up the heaviest one you can find. Carry it up the hill. Again. Again.

  Your muscles cry out for rest. For a moment’s respite.

  No.

  Another rep. Another.

  Sun is high overhead now.

  Then—target practice. Lying in the dirt. Plinking the rock targets a hundred yards away, two hundred yards away, three hundred yards away.

  Don’t miss. Don’t you dare fucking miss, you son of a bitch.

  You don’t.

  Sun beginning to set. You run again until you can’t anymore.

  You return to the cabin.

  You drink whiskey until you black out.

  And when the morning comes, you do it all over again.

  14

  Artem

  The water’s cold this morning. Colder than usual. Snowmelt coming down from the top of the mountain range, I bet. Winter is thawing.

  I force myself to stay in for a minute longer than I want. To plunge my head beneath the surface of the water and stay there, stay there, stay there until my lungs are crying out for oxygen.

  And then just a moment longer.

  To prove a point to—fuck, to someone, though I don’t know who the hell cares. There’s no one out here but me.

  I get out of the water about fifteen minutes after I’ve gotten in. Ice cold droplets sink into my skin, but I shiver and air dry as I walk over to the rock where my clothes are laid out.

  I glance down at my body as I dress again.

  I have three new scars glistening with the river water. Two from the bullet wounds and one from the stab wound that’s left a long, thin lightning bolt down the side of my torso.

  My stomach is a mess of callused tissue. That one took the longest to heal.

  Beneath the scar is new muscle. Fresh muscle. Lean and taut and powerful.

  My body is a weapon in and of itself. The way it is meant to be.

  I plan on using it to its full advantage.

  I will not be left lying in the dirt again.

  I head up the steep pathway that leads away from the ravine. The climb used to be difficult for me, but with time and day after day of running and hefting rocks, it’s become laughably easy.

  Once I’m back on relatively flat surface, I walk fast towards the cabin. These trails are as familiar to me now as the back of my hand. Little by little, I’ve made this land my own.

  Traps lurk throughout the woods. Some to catch forest creatures for food. Some to catch any fools who dare wander too close.

  The trunks bear markings that point the way to this trail or that one. Others are scarred with bullet holes.

  Some from me.

  Some from the night everything changed.

  I pick up the trail that leads directly to the cabin. As I mount the highest point of the ridge, I hear a whine.

  Sighing, I glance to the side to see big brown eyes staring at me from behind a large boulder.

  “Fuck,” I growl. “Not you again.”

  The dog limps towards me. He looks like shit. A paw that’s twisted inward and fur matted all to hell.

  “Fuck off,” I say, walking past him.

  The dog whines again like he’s saying something back to me.

  I sigh with exasperation. “Is it too fucking much to ask to be left alone?”

  The dog blinks up at me, apparently shocked by my reaction. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure out how crazy I was.

  According to the people in town, I crossed over into wild, insane mountain man about two and a half months ago.

  They’re not wrong.

  I ignor
e the mangy fleabag and keep walking. But I can hear the mutt trailing behind me.

  When I get to the cabin, I head inside and check my alcohol supply.

  I have five or six bottles of the strongest shit I could find in this fucking hick town. That’ll probably only hold me over for two days. Three at the max.

  Another whine. The mutt has snuck into the cabin. He’s sniffing around the pasta that’s stuck all over the floor.

  Apparently, I upended the table last night. Both chairs still lay on their sides. The table, too. And pasta everywhere.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  The smell in here is mostly booze and sweat. Underneath it all, though, is a stink that set in weeks ago.

  I need to fucking clean up.

  I pick up one of the fresh bottles of whiskey, set one of the chairs upright, and sink into it. I crack the top and take a burning swig.

  I don’t usually start drinking so early, but I’m feeling restless today. Worse than usual.

  The mutt eagerly laps up the pasta.

  I take another drink and set the bottle down on the floor. When it clinks, the mutt looks up with a startled little flinch and fixes his sad eyes on me.

  “Don’t fucking judge me,” I snarl. “At least east I don’t look like you do.”

  The dog starts wagging his tail and pads over to me. I don’t touch. I don’t want the mongrel to get too comfortable with me.

  I don’t mind him eating shit off the floor, but I’m in no position to look after anything.

  The whiskey settles my nerves. I get out of the chair and survey the cabin.

  It looks like a fucking shithole. Mostly because it is. I know where all the important shit is—the whiskey and the weapons—but the rest of it is a haphazard mess.

  Sighing, I right the table and the other chair back to their normal positions. One of the table’s legs is crooked, but I’m in no hurry to fix it.

  Then I move around the cabin and straighten what I can.

  The place is nowhere near clean, but it’s the most I can bring myself to accomplish right now.

  When I’m sick of trying to fix this unfixable chaos, I grab my jacket.

  The dog perks his head up.

  “Don’t even fucking thinking about it,” I tell him. “You’re not coming with me.”

  He actually lets out a little whine, as though he’s understood me perfectly.

  “Too fucking bad,” I reply. “I’m not your damn owner.” I glare down at him. “Nobody would want you anyway.”

  The dog just blinks at me.

  “Yeah, now you decide not to understand me.”

  I wonder if I should be concerned that I’m talking to a fucking animal. It feels inconsequential, though, given everything I’ve lost.

  I’ve had three months to think on all those losses. And what I’ve decided is that they were all necessary.

  I needed the bullshit to be stripped away. For my vision to be cleared.

  I needed a reminder of who I am and what my purpose in life is.

  Had I really been prepared to give up my claim to the Bratva?

  Yes, I had been.

  And for what?

  A woman.

  A woman with dark hair and hazel-gold eyes and a smile that was so pure that it made me aware of just how tainted my own soul was.

  She was not for me.

  She was never been meant for me.

  A wife? A child? A family.

  These are things that belonged to other men. Normal men.

  But I am no normal man.

  I am Artem Kovalyov.

  I am Don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

  That is my only purpose in life.

  Until death absolves me of my responsibility.

  I head out of the cabin. There’s a black Jeep parked right outside the porch. I’d nabbed it about a month ago, a few miles outside of Devil’s Peak.

  I have grown unreasonably attached to the vehicle, but that won’t stop me from changing it in a few weeks.

  I’m not going to let sentiment rule me any longer. I have made too many weak decisions to repeat them.

  So as soon as I feel myself longing for something, fitting in with something… it gets tossed.

  I climb into the Jeep. The dog watches me from the porch, chin on his paws. He already looks too fucking comfortable.

  If he’s still here when I get back, I’ll fire a few warning shots to scare him off for good.

  I’m interested in company. Not even the four-legged variety.

  I drive fast down the trail to the village. I take the turns recklessly, but I’m confident I can drive this path blindfolded now. It’s so damn familiar to me.

  My time here is ending soon.

  I needed these few months to recover. I was too wrecked from Budimir’s attack to do anything else.

  But now, after months of intense training, my body is at its peak physical shape. My mind is in a stronger place, too.

  I’m focused. I’m determined. And I’m thirsty for blood again.

  I park in a tight space outside the bookstore that Esme used to frequent. I catch a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror and I pause for a moment.

  My beard is now my dominant feature, swallowing the bottom half of my face and casting attention to the dark circles under my eyes.

  I barely recognize myself. But maybe that’s a good thing.

  I get out of the car and head straight to the grocery store. I’m running low on supplies and I need to replenish.

  I hunt regularly, so I’m good with food.

  But alcohol is something I can’t forage for in the forests around the cabin.

  And God fucking knows I need that. It’s the only thing that gets me through the nights.

  I can feel eyes lock on me as I stride around the grocery store, throwing things into my cart. Anyone in my path clears away instantly, before they even meet my gaze.

  I like it this way.

  I’m standing in front of the liquor section when I feel someone walk up to me. My body clenches in response to the unwelcome attention.

  People have started calling me El Ruso Loco. The Crazy Russian.

  I like that, too.

  But apparently, word hasn’t gotten to quite everyone just yet. Either that or there are still people in this town who are fucking clueless.

  “Hello, Artem.”

  I smell her before I look up at her. That thick, floral scent laces the air around her like an aura.

  Aracelia.

  I groan inwardly, but I keep my eyes dark and my expression impassive as I drop a bottle of whiskey into my cart without acknowledging her.

  “You’re not planning on saying hello?” Aracelia asks.

  “Hadn’t planned on it, no.”

  “Having a party tonight?” she asks with interest.

  I pivot in place, turning the full force of my black eyes on her. “You’re in my way.”

  “I think you’re in your own way.”

  I roll my eyes. “Where’d that come from?” I demand. “Your self-help book of the month?”

  “Just a personal observation,” she replies with a shrug.

  The woman has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. She’s annoying enough to kill, but it really wouldn’t be worth the effort. I’d have to bury her body afterwards and it would just mess with my evening of drinking.

  A man can fantasize, though.

  “How’ve you been?” she persists.

  “Are you fucking serious right now?” I groan. “You’re making small talk?”

  “You could use a friendly conversation—”

  “We are not fucking friends,” I snarl.

  I lean in so that my nose is inches away from hers. She stares back at me without any reaction. She doesn’t even take a step back.

  She shrugs. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “It’s my fucking opinion.”

  “Meaning what?” she asks. “Mine doesn’t count?”

  Fucking hell. Th
e shit I have to put up with.

  “No,” I reply blackly.

  “Why?” she demands. “Because I’m a woman?”

  Her eyes flare with indignation. I notice a couple of people gawking at us from the aisles. That does remarkably little to help my mood.

  “No,” I retort. “Because you’re fucking nuts.”

  “You should look in the mirror before you go around throwing insults like that,” she says placidly.

  One well-placed hit and she’d be out cold. It’d be so easy and the silence that follows would be so fucking welcome…

  I try to walk around her, but she moves right in front of me, putting her body between me and the exit.

  “Why don’t you come around to my place for dinner?” she suggests brightly. “You look like you could use a real meal.”

  “I have food.”

  “Alcohol doesn’t count as food.”

  “Why the fuck do you even care?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I think Esme would want me to make sure you’re alright,” she says.

  I freeze. My eyes narrow. Icy, flinty, furious.

  “Fuck off, you crazy bitch,” I rasp.

  Then I push past her so hard that she stumbles into the long shelves and upends several racks of beans.

  Leaving the chaos in my wake, I head straight for the checkout counter and push my cart through.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” I tell the pimple-faced youth who looks about ready to piss himself. I’m not sure how good his English is, but some messages are universal. He gets the gist of it.

  He grabs the items from my cart, trying to be as fast as he can, but he’s so nervous he keeps stumbling, making silly mistakes and sweating through his green grocery store shirt.

  “You have five seconds to finish up or else I’m gonna walk out of here with my alcohol and you’re gonna have to pay for it.”

  His eyes go wide and the amount of sweat on his brow seems to double instantly.

  “Do you have to terrorize the boy just because you’re mad at the world?” comes a sickeningly familiar voice.

  Fucking Aracelia.

  “Don’t you have a séance to go perform somewhere?” I ask. “A Ouija board that needs a friend?”

  “Not today,” she replies seriously. “But if you’re interesting in communicating with someone, I can find the time for you.”