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

by Nicole Fox

  A few just give me dark glances and went back to whatever they were doing. But others kept their eyes trained on me, warning me with bared teeth and angry eyes not to fuck with their corner of the world.

  There’s only one other woman in the room looking at me with something that comes close to sympathy.

  She looks older, about fifty or so, and she’s so thin that the skin around her eyes and mouth is worn down like tissue paper.

  As she approaches me, I see the line of silver scars on both her arms. They’re so perfectly aligned that they can only be self-inflicted.

  “My name’s Nancy,” she says in a voice just one notch above a whisper. “If you want, I can look after your baby.”

  The way she speaks, the way she looks me right in the eye without blinking, is deeply unsettling. I don’t want to be judgmental, but the slightly manic glint in her eyes makes me take a step back.

  But at least it’s not outright hostile.

  Though that’s really splitting hairs.

  “That’s okay,” I say as politely as I can. “I need to feed him anyway.”

  Her face drops immediately. I feel a chill snake through my body as she turns away and stomps out of the room with aggressive steps.

  Tonya smirks and shakes her head. “You better watch out for that one,” she tells me. “She gets real mean after she’s shot up.”

  “She was high?” I ask.

  “Nah, that was just her in a good mood.”

  Emotion is churning inside me like a volcano waiting to blow. My immediate instinct is to get as far from this place as possible.

  But where would I go? What would I do? Who would I seek?

  Artem would have answers.

  You should be here with me.

  I need you.

  Our son needs you.

  My pride tries to bury the need, but my resilience is fading fast. It has been months of lone survival. All that time is starting to take a toll on my resolve to strike out on my own.

  Why did I think I could do this?

  I lived a sheltered life. Everything was done for me. I had always believed I was strong.

  But maybe I’m nearly strong enough.

  “Jesus, are you gonna start crying?”

  I blink hard. Tonya comes back into focus. I shudder and try to pull myself together as I move towards the bunk’s ladder.

  “How old is the brat anyway?” Tonya asks. Her initial anger has softened somewhat, although she still isn’t exactly what I’d call “friendly.”

  I glance at her, shocked that she’s actually trying to make conversation. “Um… a day,” I reply with a joyless chuckle. “And a half.”

  “Fuck,” she says, her eyes going wide. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “His name is Phoenix.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t have come up with anything better?”

  She looks so cartoonishly annoyed that I can’t help but smile. “Look at him and tell me I was wrong,” I challenge her.

  She eyes the bundle strapped to my chest but she doesn’t make an attempt to come closer. “I can see that pink cheek from here,” she says dismissively. “Looks more like a fat little cardinal.”

  I look away from her and attempt to climb up onto the bunk so that I can feed Phoenix. I get up on the first rung just fine, but then it becomes hard to hoist myself onto the second.

  I pant for a moment, deciding to take it slow when I hear Tonya cursing violently behind me.

  “Fucking hell,” she says. “Are you gonna make this much noise every time you climb up there?”

  I sigh and ease myself back down onto the ground. “Give me a break okay?” I say as the fatigue catches up to me. “I had to have an emergency C-section.”

  She rolls her eyes again, but I notice her expression has changed. “Just fucking take the bottom bunk,” she snarls. “I can’t deal with you creaking up onto the top every fucking day.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “I just said, didn’t I?” Tonya replies impatiently. “Don’t piss me off. Just take the bunk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now don’t go and start crying, okay?” she says. “It’s bad enough that I’ll have to deal with your brat crying. I don’t need that shit from you, too. You’re a damn little girl that thinks she’s a grown ass woman, goddamn…” She trails off into mutters I can’t quite decipher, still cursing up a storm.

  I suppress a smile. She’s more bark than bite, I think.

  Then she clears her stuff away, which is limited to blanket and a small cloth bag, and throws everything onto the top bunk.

  I sit down on the hard bottom mattress. My body oozes with gratitude for the respite.

  But it doesn’t last long.

  Phoenix stirs in the blanket and I slowly unwind it from around my body. I lay him down on the bed while I prepare to feed him.

  By the time I look up again, Tonya has disappeared.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful to find myself alone.

  Well, not alone exactly, because there are still at least four other women in the room.

  But at least they’re minding their own business.

  Phoenix starts mewling impatiently. I know he’s hungry, but I want to change him first. I grab my duffel bag and pull out a new diaper.

  I change him quickly and dispose of the dirty diaper in an old paper bag that I keep in my duffel for just such an occasion.

  I want to get rid of the bag immediately, but Phoenix’s starting to fuss. If I don’t feed him soon, he’s going to start screaming his lungs out.

  So I put the paper bag in a corner next to the bed and then I sit down and put him to my breast just before he starts wailing. He quiets down and suckles greedily.

  I stroke his cheek and watch him for a long time, trying to think about my next move. The shelter is not what I expected. I sure as hell don’t want to stay here long term.

  My only option is to find a job as fast as possible. With money coming in, I’d have options. A little more autonomy.

  I let Phoenix feed for twenty minutes and then I burp him and switch him over to my second breast. I make sure to keep a blanket folded over my shoulder so that no one can see him nursing.

  At some point, I notice Nancy edge back into the room. Her attention falls on me instantly, but she looks away just as quickly and goes to her bunk on the opposite end of the room.

  Once Phoenix has had his fill, I burp him again and secure the contents of my duffel. I’d love to take a shower and change my clothes, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage that with Phoenix in tow.

  Shit, I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage anything with Phoenix in tow.

  The thought almost makes me cry, or maybe scream and rip my hair out until I look like Tonya. I’m not sure which would feel better.

  I have to stop for a second and breathe so I don’t lose it.

  One thing at a time, Esme.

  I push my bag under the bunk bed, secure Phoenix to my chest once more with his blanket, grab the paper bag with his dirty diaper in it, and head out of the room.

  To my relief, I find Maisie at the front desk looking through a long list of names.

  “Excuse me, Maisie?” I interrupt.

  “Hmm?”

  “Where can I get rid of Phoenix’s dirty diapers?”

  “Oh,” I she says, looking up at me for the first time. “The bathroom has closed trash cans that are emptied out regularly. You can use those.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to leave, but before I get far, she stops me.

  “Just one thing before you go…” Maisie says.

  “Yes?”

  “I need a couple of your personal details.”

  The blood starts pounding in my ears. “Oh, right… um, my name is Emily,” I say casually.

  She smiles sardonically. “I already know that,” she says. “But everyone has a last name.”

  “Yeah, of course, silly me. It’s, uh, Emily… Kovalyov
.”

  “Kovalyov,” she repeats. “Can you spell that for me?”

  Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why did you have to use his last name!

  I nod, hands trembling, and spell it out for her.

  “Great,” she nods. “And some type of identification. A driver’s license, passport, or social security number?”

  I bite my lip. “I don’t have anything.”

  “Nothing at all?” she asks with raised eyebrows.

  I shake my head and stare pointedly at the ground between my feet.

  Maisie just sighs. “All right then. Lunch has already been laid out. You look like you could use some nourishment.”

  I scurry away as fast as I can.

  Once I’ve disposed of Phoenix’s diaper, I go to the dining room, which is basically a large rectangular room set up like a poorly conceived cafeteria.

  There are narrow tables arranged across the room, with two long benches flanking each table. There’s already a long line for food and I join the line.

  It takes nearly ten minutes to get up to the front where the food is being served by volunteers. They’re all men and women with kindly faces who still manage to avoid everyone’s eyes.

  Lunch comes down to two options: a vegetable stew and a chicken pasta. I get a ladle full of both, a cup of water, and a plastic fork, and head to an empty table to eat.

  The educated part of my brain is aware that the food is not good. It’s lacking in flavor and body.

  But it’s hot and it fills my belly and that’s enough for me to believe that’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.

  It’s also the only real meal I’ve had in two days, so that probably factors in, too. Either that or Gordon Ramsey is now working at this grimy women’s shelter south of Carlsbad.

  I clean my entire plate in a minute flat. With a full stomach, I can start to visualize a plan for the future.

  Staying here can only be a temporary solution. I will not allow my son to grow up in a place like this.

  I take a deep breath.

  I want to live near the ocean. I want Phoenix to grow up near the beach.

  I know the ocean is only an hour or so away. I could take a bus, but I’d rather drive. I feel a pang of regret as I think about the car I had abandoned a few days after I’d left Devil’s Peak.

  I’d only been thinking about covering up my footprints, and I knew that Artem had the license plate number.

  What I should have done was find a shady dealership somewhere and sell the car. They would have stripped it for parts and I might have gotten a few hundred bucks from the sale.

  Instead I’d walked away with nothing, and I’d regretted the decision ever since.

  I think about the ways I might go about getting another car. The choice I’m left with twists in my stomach like a knife.

  There’s only one way to get yourself a car at this point.

  I left that life behind for a reason.

  It doesn’t happen all at once. This is about survival.

  It would be theft. That’s a crime.

  Life is not black or white. It’s grey. It always has been.

  Artem said something similar to me what felt like eons ago. I try to sort through the internal dialogue waging in my head, but it just makes me hurt all over.

  I need sleep. One night of sleep and I’ll decide tomorrow.

  Phoenix turns a little, trying to stretch his little hands. I leave the dining area and head back to my assigned bunk. When I approach the bed, I noticed that one of my duffel straps is peeking out from underneath the bed.

  I frown and pull it out. It definitely looks like it’s been tampered with. I pull the zip open and look through the contents.

  Most of Phoenix’s stuff is still there, and so is my supply of diapers, but a few of my clothes are missing. I had a beige sweater I loved that’s now gone, and a long-sleeved black shirt that is definitely not here anymore.

  “Fuck.”

  “Left your shit unchecked huh?” Tonya’s voice comes from just behind me. “Rookie mistake.”

  “They stole my clothes,” I say in disbelief.

  “You had some fancy shit in there. That black sweater was nice.”

  I turn and glare at her. “You took my clothes?”

  She glares right back at me. “I’m no fucking thief,” she bites back. “A few of the other bitches stormed through here and went through your shit when you left with the brat.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” I demand.

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “You fucking serious?” she asks. “Those bitches would have skinned me alive. And you’re no one to me. It’s every woman for herself in here.”

  I shudder, realizing how entitled I must sound to her. “Sorry,” I murmur. “You’re right.”

  “At least they left all the baby’s shit,” Tonya tells me. “That was pretty kind.”

  “Right. Yeah. Kind.”

  “Did you have money in there?” Tonya asks.

  “No.”

  “Good, so you’re not that fucking stupid.”

  I’d taken to carrying my money around in my bra since I’d left the hospital. It was one of the smartest moves I’d made in a while.

  But it’s not enough.

  I’ve got to be smarter now that I’m on my own.

  I’ve got to be tougher, too.

  For myself.

  For Phoenix.

  For the future I gave up everything for.

  23

  Artem

  Dublin, Ireland

  Ronan’s darkened blue eyes flicker over the men that surround him.

  “Kill him,” he says again with finality.

  I don’t budge. Don’t so much as take my eyes off the cold bastard.

  “Before you kill me,” I say calmly. “Do you at least want to hear how your son died?”

  He stops. Freezes, really.

  And yet, his face remains unchanged. It’s as though I’ve given him the weather report.

  But I know better than to assume he feels nothing.

  Men like him have curated their image to perfection. If I can’t tell what’s he’s feeling, it’s because he doesn’t want me to know what he’s feeling.

  But I’m not looking for emotion. I’m looking for hesitation.

  And when I see it, I seize my opportunity.

  “He died four months ago,” I say. “He took the bullet that was meant for me.”

  Ronan turns to me slowly, his eyes boring into mine. He really looks at me this time. He gives a small nod.

  His men lower their weapons.

  “Get in the car,” he tells me. “We’ll finish this discussion inside.”

  I glance back at the bartender who’d brought me here. He’s staring at me open-mouthed, clearly shocked at how I’d managed to get myself out of what he clearly thought would be a short and fatal confrontation.

  Fucking idiot. He’s too dumb to last long in this world.

  I turn my back on him and walk to the foot of the mansion’s marble staircase. Before I ascend, I’m stopped, frisked and unburdened of all my weapons by a pair of suited goons.

  Ronan stands at the top of the stairs, looking up at the ornate gargoyles looming above the entryway. Waiting for me, no doubt, but his back is turned so I can’t see his face.

  Does he feel the loss?

  He clearly feels something—otherwise, why invite me back to the house?

  It gives me a small glimmer of hope, but I’m still cautious. I knew next to nothing about the O’Sullivan clan. Nothing real, in any case.

  Cillian had spoken about them in brief, bitter anecdotes. And only when he was very drunk or really pissed. The family portrait he painted was less than flattering.

  The goons push me up the stairs. I mount slowly, wary of everything around me.

  When Ronan hears me coming, he slips inside without a word.

  I follow him in.

  The house is surprisingly modern inside, made of clean lines
and a lot of glass. Everything is sleek and jaw-droppingly expensive.

  Fuck me. The O’Sullivan’s are doing better than anyone realized.

  “Follow me,” Ronan throws back over his shoulder at me. He walks fast.

  We cross a massive foyer, go through a great room with three fireplaces all burning. Libraries, lounges, a cinema, a sprawling office. I get glimpses of each room as we pass.

  My admiration grows with every step.

  On the far side of the house, we emerge back into the sunlight.

  There’s a table set out on the deck, made of bulky wood that clashes horribly with the sleek modernity of the rest of the house. It’s the most Irish piece I have seen so far.

  “Sit,” Ronan instructs me.

  I see him nod to one of his guards posted at the doorway. The man disappears into the house. The rest of them seem to disappear as well, but I can still sense them around us. Watchful and waiting for their don’s next command.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” Ronan asks.

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  He sighs like I’m an idiot and holds up three fingers to another of the guards lingering around the perimeter of the garden.

  “Today, you do.”

  Shortly afterwards, one of his men appears with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.

  Ronan grabs the green neck of the Jamison Irish whiskey that Cillian used to favor and fills up all three glasses.

  “Is someone else joining us?” I ask.

  As if in answer, I clear the click of heels on wood. Then, an older blonde woman steps out onto the deck.

  She’s striking. Beautiful, really. She wears a gray turtleneck and black pants with silver diagonal zips that mark each pocket. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head and her makeup is expertly applied to hide the age lines around her mouth and eyes.

  I hadn’t expected Cillian’s mother to be quite so… glamorous. She must have been in her fifties, but youth still clung to her delicate features.

  Cillian hadn’t inherited much from her in the way of looks. He had his dad’s masculine, rough-hewn features.

  But there was still a resemblance to his mother, however subtle. A sort of kindness in the eyes, maybe.