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

by Nicole Fox

  Dublin looks like a place worth remembering.

  I sink to a seat with my back against the low wall, duffel bag at my side. Part of me is racking through my conversation with the O’Sullivans. Wondering what they’ll decide.

  I ought to set that aside. Take this moment to remember my best friend.

  I decided on the flight to Ireland that he must be dead by now for certain. Maybe I’ll never know for sure. I don’t have a body to bury, after all.

  But all the blood on the ground in the forest left little room for doubt.

  He’s gone. I feel it in my bones.

  All that’s left of Cillian O’Sullivan are my memories.

  I’ll keep those until the day I join him.

  I think for a while about the man. Growing up with him at my side. The trouble we caused and the trouble we found alike. The past is full of things that make me laugh.

  But it’s the future I can’t stop running through again and again.

  If Ronan turns me down, what will I do?

  I had contacted the men still loyal to me just before I’d left the States. They swore they’re behind me and I was assured of their loyalty, but we’re still too few to take back the Bratva.

  We need a show of force and power in order to gain the upper hand from Budimir. I know that with money, I could buy the men I needed.

  But I’ve never been a fan of that method. It was the one of the few matters on which Stanislav and I had agreed.

  Win a man with money, and he will stab you in the back the moment another offers him more.

  Loyalty is in the blood, not in the wallet.

  A man who fights for money fights for himself alone.

  Stanislav had a dozen more sayings like that. He had drilled each of them into me over the years from the time I was old enough to listen.

  The lessons had stuck.

  Apparently, Budimir wasn’t paying attention.

  All the better. You have a few lessons still to learn before you die, motherfucker.

  I can only hope that he’s made just enough mistakes to undo him. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Truth is, I’m living on a sliver of hope and the dirty fuel of revenge.

  But that’ll be enough.

  It has to be.

  I don’t know when I fell asleep. I dreamed all night of strangling Budimir until he spluttered and choked and turned blue under my fingers.

  But the sun wakes me up.

  A little rudely, to be honest.

  Yesterday’s clouds are gone and the dawn this morning is bright as fuck. I open my eyes and wince against it.

  And then I realize there’s someone else on the roof with me.

  Adrenaline surges through me at once. I leap to my feet, halfway to drawing a knife from my boot to gut the motherfucker…

  When I see who it actually is.

  I sigh and sheathe the knife again.

  “Good morning, Sinead.”

  She sinks gracefully to a seat on the ground across from me. Removes her dark sunglasses and stows them in her purse.

  She’s wearing black checkered pants and a snow-white coat. Elegant and poised, just as she was yesterday.

  She looks around at the rooftop and sighs.

  “I don’t think I’ve been here in over a decade,” she admits. “Certainly not up here.”

  “Has it changed?” I ask.

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “It’s… not quite what I expected,” I say with a harsh laugh. “Cillian made it seem like heaven on earth.”

  She smiles sadly. “I never did understand why the boy loved this place so much.”

  “I think it was more about the experience than the place.”

  “Perhaps,” she says with a shrug.

  I try and read her expression, but there’s nothing there. I wonder if she learned her poker face from her husband—or if it was actually the other way around.

  “You have an answer for me, don’t you?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  “And I’m not going to like it.”

  She nods. She’s not apologetic or regretful. Nor is she spiteful.

  Just matter-of-fact. Straightforward. Honest.

  “We won’t be helping you, Artem. Not with money or with men. It’s not our place to concern ourselves with the matters of the Bratva.” She fixes me with a level gaze. “This is your fight, not ours.”

  I look her in the eye and I know instinctively that nothing I can say will make a difference.

  I nod. “Very well.”

  I expect her to get up and leave. But she stays seated. Cranes her neck around to survey the view I admired last night.

  “I keep thinking of him as a child,” she muses. “All those little memories I’ve suppressed for so long. He was such a beautiful child. Everything was funny to him.”

  “That never changed.”

  “I’m glad,” she says. “I was always so worried about him… out in L.A., on his own.”

  “He wasn’t on his own,” I correct. “He had me. We had each other.”

  She smiles, a sad smile that makes her powder blue eyes swim for a moment. “That helps to know,” she says. Her eyes scanning over me like she’s searching for clues. What kind of man was with her son at the end, perhaps. “You’re married.”

  I had thought about removing my ring months ago after Esme had left, but I never followed through. Apparently, my hurt pride wasn’t strong enough to withstand the desire to keep a small part of Esme with me, no matter how hollow the gesture was.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love her?”

  I look at her, immediately uncomfortable with the conversation. The only person I had ever discussed this kind of shit with was Cillian.

  Without him around, I just bury it deep.

  “Love has no place in my life,” I answer.

  She sighs with exasperation. “Why?” she demands. “Because the Bratva always comes first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are a weak man.”

  I look at her with amusement. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you not strong enough to have both? To protect both? To balance both?” she asks. “Why is it always either-or with you men?”

  “She wants me to give up the Bratva,” I say with a scowl. “It wasn’t my idea to choose. It was hers.”

  “I see,” Sinead says. “And you chose your legacy.”

  “It’s not a choice,” I snap. “It’s what I have to do. I have to avenge my father’s death. I have to avenge Cillian’s death.”

  “Even if that’s not what he would have wanted you to do?”

  “My conscience won’t rest until I get back what was stolen from me,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what Cillian would have wanted. He’s not here to tell me otherwise.”

  She taps her fingernails on her thigh. “You know, Artem, I used to tell my husband something when we were newly married and his ambitions were greater than his capabilities,” she says. “‘Get out of your own way.’”

  “Am I meant to apply that advice to my own life?”

  “All men should,” she replies. Then she unfolds herself to her full height once again and settles her sunglasses back on her face.

  She turns to go back to the ladder, but pauses before she gets far. “I wish I had more to offer you,” she says. “But all I have is my thanks.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For taking in Cillian,” she replies. “For being there for him when I didn’t.”

  “He didn’t blame you.”

  “He should have,” Sinead says bluntly. “I should have fought for him harder than I did. Family is the one thing you never regret fighting for. It’s also the one thing that leaves you with regret when you haven’t done enough.”

  I sit there, turning her words around in my head. “Take care, Artem,” she says. “I hope you get what you want.”

  Then she disappears over the edge.

  Leaving me stewing in indecision.

 
Questioning every choice that’s brought me here.

  25

  Esme

  The Women’s Shelter—South Of Carlsbad, California

  “Jesus, does the little brat ever stop crying?” Tonya complains as she soaks her bread in the bowl of potato soup in front of her.

  “He’s only four days old.”

  I follow her lead and dip my bread in my own soup. It’s stale, so it soaks up the broth pretty well and softens the roll up considerably. I’m not complaining, though. My belly has been satisfied the last three days and I’m never taking that for granted again.

  “Still, can’t you do something about the noise?” she groans.

  I look down at Phoenix, who’s strapped to my chest as usual. Gabby’s blanket has been a godsend. It’s stitched so long that I can wrap it around my body to secure him in place.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask. “I’ve changed him and I’ve fed him. He’s just sleepy.”

  “So why isn’t he sleeping then?”

  “Jesus,” I sigh. “It’s not that damn simple. Clearly, you’ve never been around a baby before.”

  Tonya’s eyes go dark for a moment, but then she pushes the anger back and shrugs it off.

  “Yeah well, I never got to keep my baby,” she says callously.

  “What?” I gasp, looking at her with shock.

  I can see the way her slight shoulders tense immediately, but she’s trying hard to act as though it doesn’t affect her.

  She runs her hand over her shaved head self-consciously and twists her spoon around in her bowl. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Had a baby a while back. Girl. Didn’t keep her.”

  I raise my eyebrows and choose my words carefully. I know the moment I meet Tonya with anything close to sentiment or pity, she’ll pull back and completely ignore me.

  “That must have been hard.”

  Tonya shrugs. “It wasn’t like I could keep her,” she tells me. “I didn’t know what the fuck to do with her. I could barely keep myself alive at that point. I’m still trying to figure out how to do that.”

  “How old were you?” I ask.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fuck.”

  She smiles. “I love it when you swear.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because you’re like a little Pollyanna princess,” she tells me. “It’s funny.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m no Pollyanna.”

  “Yeah, no one buys that shit,” Tonya says.

  I feel eyes on me suddenly and I turn slightly to catch Nancy enter the dining area. She’s scratching her arms wildly, her eyes skitter over the crowded tables, looking for a spot to fill.

  “Cracko’s here,” Tonya warns me. “Thank fuck our table’s full.”

  A part of me feels sorry for Nancy. She looks at Phoenix with a longing that’s impossible to deny.

  But I’m also frightened of her.

  She’s high through most of the day and prone to bouts of manic emotional highs and lows.

  Yesterday, she’d gotten into a fight with someone in an adjoining room.

  She went back to cut the woman’s hair off in the night.

  She shuffles down the food line and then settles into a table on the far corner of the room. I’m not upset about that in the least.

  I’m almost too exhausted to care, though. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Each night, I hear every creak, noise, snore, and nightmare from the other women in the shared room. Sleep is elusive.

  Quite apart from them, I have to wake up every three hours to feed Phoenix. I’m so worried that his crying will wake them up and piss them off that I spend most nights tip-toeing along the line between sleep and consciousness, jumping to attention at Phoenix’s slightest stir.

  The lack of sleep is really starting to weigh on me. This will be my fourth night at the shelter and it’s still pretty early, but already my eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.

  Phoenix lets out a sharp cry and Tonya winces as though someone’s just knifed her.

  “Stop being dramatic,” I tell her.

  We’ve fallen into an easy and unexpected friendship, though I knew better than to categorize it as that to Tonya.

  “That sound makes me want to pull my ears right off,” she says.

  I roll my eyes again and force the pacifier into Phoenix’s mouth. He’s been rejecting it for the last hour, but now, he finally accepts it and quiets down a little.

  “Jesus, finally,” Tonya says. “Why the fuck didn’t you do that before?”

  “I tried.”

  “All right, all right,” she says, holding her hands up as though I’m brandishing a gun in her direction. “Don’t bite my head off.”

  I take another mouthful of soup-soaked bread and sway a little from side to side in the hopes of coaxing Phoenix to sleep.

  His eyes are tired but he just keeps staring up at me stubbornly.

  “Suit yourself,” I whisper to him, running my finger across his cheek.

  “Tonya?” I ask cautiously. “What happened with your daughter?”

  She looks down at her now-empty soup bowl. “Gave her up for adoption,” she says. “The closed kind. Nice couple. Fucking picture perfect. That’s the whole reason I picked them. Apparently, they’d been trying for ages to have a baby and it never happened for them. Fucked up.”

  “What was?”

  “Dunno,” Tonya says with a shrug. “The whole fucking situation. People like them who have their shit together and can’t have a baby. And then there’s people like you and me. Lives are shot to shit. Can’t hardly take care of our own damn selves, much less a little rugrat. And we still end up knocked up. Don’t have two pennies to rub together, but we got babies. That’s what’s fucked up.”

  The ring I’ve hidden in my bra pricks me right on cue. The diamond is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not more.

  And yet, I can’t bring myself to sell it.

  I can’t bring myself to let go of the one last thread that ties me to the past.

  “I used to have my shit together,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?” Tonya asks. “Had yourself a man?”

  I see Artem’s six-foot-three frame in my mind’s eye so clearly that for a second it’s as if he’s just walked through the door.

  Then I blink and his image fades, leaving me feeling cold and lonely.

  “Yeah,” I reply shortly.

  “He left you?”

  I shook my head. “I left him.”

  Tonya frowns. “Did he beat you?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Cheat?”

  “No.”

  She stares at me as though she can’t quite comprehend any other reason why a woman would leave a man who was still interested in sticking around.

  “Then why?” she demands, as though she’s owed an explanation and I’m obligated to give her one.

  “…It’s complicated.”

  She rolls her eyes. Hard.

  “That’s such a fucking crock of an excuse,” she says, practically snarling at me. “You know what my man did when he found out I was pregnant? He told everyone that I was a slut who fucked so many guys that he was definitely not the father.”

  “Oh, Tonya—”

  “Wipe that fucking look off your face,” Tonya says as she glares at me. “It’s fucking ancient history. I’m over it.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I considered an abortion,” she admits. “Made the appointment and everything. But… then I couldn’t go through with it. So I dropped out of school, had the baby, and handed her over to a woman who was ready to be a mom.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Who are you sorry for?” Tonya seethes. “My baby got two great parents and I… well, I got to live my life.”

  “Right,” I say. I don’t bother pointing out that she isn’t living much of a life at all.

  For the first time, I see Tonya’s eyes land on Phoenix’s pink cheek and linger there a
moment. Almost… tenderly.

  But then she notices me watching her and she turns her face away instantly.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she reminds me.

  But now I know that she’s just trying to distract me.

  I shrug and she cuts me off before I can even open my mouth. “And don’t tell me it’s complicated again.”

  “But it is.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I sigh. “He was… is a dangerous man,” I tell her.

  Tonya raises her eyebrows. “Dangerous?” she repeats.

  I nod.

  “So he did beat you?” she asks with confusion.

  “No, no it wasn’t like that,” I try and explain. “He was just… he was involved in… something that I didn’t want in my life.”

  “Like drugs and shit?”

  “Something like that,” I say. That’s the easiest way to explain it.

  “So he was an addict?”

  “No.”

  “A pusher?”

  “Jesus, Tonya, how many times are we gonna do this?” I say, getting a little testy myself. “Does it even matter at this point?”

  “Yes, it does,” she insists, with such passion that it takes me by surprise. “Don’t you get it? You had a man that wanted to stick around, wanted to provide for you and protect you. You say he’s dangerous—well, fuck, all the better to protect you, don’t you think?”

  When she puts it like that, it all sounds so straightforward.

  “He’s only one man,” I say softly. “At the end of the day, no matter how powerful, he’s only one man.”

  Tonya shakes her head in disgust. “You really are a fucking princess.”

  That pisses me off. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know enough,” she snaps back.

  “Yeah, just like I know you would have kept your baby if your man hadn’t turned his back on you,” I shoot back at her.

  I regret my words immediately. It was a cheap shot, a low bow, spoken in anger.

  She winces, confirming the truth of my assessment, but I still feel like the worst person alive. It’s the lack of sleep and the fear and the fact that maybe Tonya knows more about me than I know about myself right now.

  It’s all getting to me.