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

by Nicole Fox

  “Fuck,” I growl. My eyes close involuntarily.

  I’m not prepared for when she takes the entire length of me into her mouth, shoving me so far deep inside her that I hit the back of her throat.

  “Fuck,” I groan again. I lean forward to grip the wall with both hands.

  She doesn’t stop or slow down. She sucks me off, harder and harder until my hand lands on the top of her head.

  I want to come right in her mouth, but I stop the urge and pull her back to her feet. It’s been months since I’ve touched her.

  I want to be able to look my wife in the eye when I explode.

  I scoop Esme up and carry her to the low sofa that’s pushed to one corner of the apartment.

  Before her back even hits the cushions, I’ve pushed my cock deep inside her.

  She clings to me as I thrust into her. I want to take it slow, but I don’t have the restraint to manage that right now.

  This is a desperate fuck. A fuck months in the making.

  There’ll be time for lovemaking later.

  This is something far more primal.

  Her full breasts bounce in my face and I feel her body tighten as the orgasm rolls over her.

  Her nails dig into my back. I welcome the little darts of pain she’s sending through my body.

  “Fuck… Artem… yeah…”

  Then her walls tighten around my cock and they pulse violently as she comes. Her eyes roll back in her head. Waves rip through her.

  And the moment I see her face relaxed into the ebb of satisfaction, I let myself go, too.

  I erupt inside her. She rides the shock waves as we both pant deeply.

  Slowly, it recedes, though it feels like we’re coming together for an hour.

  Then her body relaxes underneath mine, and when I lift my face off her neck, I see the contentment draped across her features.

  She meets my gaze and gives me a dazed smile. I kiss her lips softly and push myself off her. I’m pretty damn sure the sofa is gonna collapse under our combined weight.

  She makes no attempt to move or cover herself up. I slump on the floor beside the sofa with my arm still draped over her breasts.

  My eyes rake over her naked body. She’s as beautiful as I remember, but there are small changes.

  She’s clearly lost a lot of weight since the baby.

  Her bones are much more prominent now. They cut sharp angles in her soft figure.

  But the most obvious change is the large Caesarean scar that adorns her lower belly.

  I trace the scar in the same way she used to trace the tattoos on my chest. She watches me quietly, but she doesn’t stop me.

  “You’ll need to tell me about it one day,” I tell her. “When you’re ready.”

  She sighs. “I don’t remember much of it to be honest,” she says in a detached voice. “I was unconscious for most of it.”

  My eyes meet hers, and I feel the weight of everything single moment I’ve missed in the last several months.

  “Was anyone with you?” I ask.

  “Geoffrey is the one who took me to the hospital,” she tells me. “You mentioned him earlier. The man from the bus station. But after that, I was on my own.”

  A growl rumbles deep in my chest. Anger and regret all mixed up in one. “I wish you didn’t have to do it on your own.”

  She turns her eyes up to the ceiling, and I know she’s blinking away her tears.

  “I made a choice,” she replies.

  I nod, but say nothing.

  Then I hear a sound that sends me shooting up to my feet. A long, drawn-out cry that punctures the silence like a lightning bolt across a clear sky.

  My son.

  Esme gets off the sofa and turns to me.

  “Do you want to meet him?”

  I just nod, feeling the enormity of the moment rushing to meet me.

  Once I see him, it’ll be real. It will change everything.

  It already has.

  Esme takes my hand and leads me to the room. The door swings open.

  As I expect, the room is a matchbox. There’s a low single bed, threadbare blankets, colorless pillows.

  And right next to all that sits a baby bassinet.

  I hear a string of gargling noises, punctured by a sharp cry every now and again.

  Then I see a little fist rise from the bassinet before disappearing from view.

  I freeze instinctively, but Esme moves forward. I watch as she stands over the bassinet and looks down with a transformative smile on her face.

  “Hola, little bird,” she coos, her tone thick with love. “Did you sleep well?”

  I see his hand reach for her. He grabs one of her fingers tightly. Esme leans in and kisses his brow.

  “I have someone special I want you to meet,” she whispers.

  Then she plucks the baby from the bassinet.

  I feel my heart churn in a way I’ve never actually experienced before. Time feels slower. All sound drops away.

  Esme steps back around, and for the first time, I’m given an uninterrupted view of my son.

  He’s small, but he fits perfectly in the crook of Esme’s arm.

  His face is turned up to her. Then she angles him in my direction and I see his face.

  My own features reflected back at me. The jaw, the nose, the brow—it’s Kovalyov through and through.

  All except the eyes.

  He’s got his mother’s eyes, soft and molten and as yet unmarred by the evils of the world.

  “O bozhe moy,” I breathe in Russian as Phoenix looks at me with something close to confusion.

  “He’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Esme asks.

  I nod and swallow. “He’s perfect.”

  “Here,” she says, moving closer.

  “What are you doing?”

  She smiles patiently. “I thought you might like to hold him.”

  Have I ever held a baby before?

  No, I’m sure I have.

  And even if had, this… this is different.

  I offer up my arms and Esme gently places the squirming baby into them.

  “Just relax,” Esme tells me as he fusses a little.

  I pull him closer to my chest and place an arm right underneath him, securing him in place. He seems to like that position better.

  After a moment, he settles a little.

  “You’re a natural,” Esme says.

  “Phoenix,” I whisper, testing how his name feels on my lips. I look up at Esme. “It suits him.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she agrees. “I know it’s not one of the names we discussed…”

  “It’s perfect,” I tell her with finality.

  She nods, and we just look at our son together for a few moments.

  “This is what I always wanted,” Esme says, putting her hand on my arm. “You, me, and Phoenix. Just the three of us.”

  I glance up at her, hating myself for having lied to her before.

  I know I need to clear things up, but I find myself looking back down at my son.

  I let myself get distracted.

  I let myself off the hook.

  But for one moment…

  One blissful, perfect moment…

  None of that matters.

  I have what I need right here.

  31

  Esme

  I wake from a restless sleep that leaves me with the vague feeling that I’ve been dreaming, even though I can’t remember what about.

  I’m settled in one corner of my small bed. Artem is taking up the rest of it. I don’t mind, though, especially because Phoenix looks so comfortable nestled against his Papa’s broad chest.

  He sleeps with his butt sticking up in the air and I smile to see Artem’s hand cupping it gently, holding him securely in place.

  They look so damn perfect.

  I can’t help but stare.

  I won’t lie: Artem’s appearance had taken me completely by surprise. I hadn’t been prepared for it in the slightest, and it had bro
ught up a whole host of emotions.

  Emotions that I’d been avoiding for so long.

  Emotions I never thought I’d feel again.

  I slip out of the bed and head to the kitchen. I make myself a cup of plain tea, a taste I had developed after Phoenix’s birth, and sip it slowly.

  It’s nice to turn my brain off. Even if it’s only for five minutes, the silence does me some good. Helps me reset, recharge, recalibrate.

  After I’ve finished my cup of tea, I put it in the sink and take a deep breath. The peace I found while drinking it vanishes as quickly as it had come.

  And my nerves are as unsettled as ever.

  My fingers twitch. I know then what I need, though it’s been so long that I wonder if I’ve lost the touch. I don’t know where I’d get that solution anyway, so I just put it out of mind.

  Maybe a walk might help clear my head instead.

  As I grab my coat, it strikes me that I have never been a part from Phoenix for even a single moment since his birth.

  I’ve never had the option of taking some time for myself because there was no one I trusted enough to leave Phoenix with.

  I peer through to the room and see that Artem and Phoenix are still fast asleep. Phoenix’s last feeding was an hour ago and he had nursed well, which means he shouldn’t get hungry for another two hours at least.

  I shrug my coat on and slip out of the apartment. I feel a fierce sense of independence as I walk down the stairs.

  It’s alarming how amazing it feels to be out on my own, no baby strapped to my chest or my boob.

  For the first time in months, I feel like a real human being. And every time a tiny pang of guilt arises, I just close my eyes and picture my son nestled against his father.

  Right where they both belong.

  I walk down the lonely street that leads to the apartment and take a sharp right towards the main drag of town.

  People are just filing out of their homes on their way to work. I find myself smiling at strangers. It’s ridiculous how happy I am right now.

  Because Artem’s back.

  Because I feel like myself again.

  Because it seems like maybe—just maybe—the world isn’t as cruel as I was starting to believe it was.

  I haven’t really made a conscious decision about where to go, but when I turn the corner and see the music store down the road, I feel the tug of fate.

  Like I had a destination in mind all along. Or that the universe had a destination in mind for me.

  I’m not sure which of those options I like better.

  I cross the street, slip inside the store, and I’m hit at once with the sensual sounds of classical music and a romantic, floral scent that complements it perfectly.

  I close my eyes and stand there for a second. It’s been how long since I’ve had an instrument underneath my fingers?

  Too long. Way too long.

  I remember Tamara lying in the sun on the beach during one of her trips down to Mexico. “Isn’t this amazing?” she’d murmured to me. “To just lie in the sun and soak it all up?”

  That’s how I feel in this store. Like I’m soaking up life, nature, beauty.

  It’s incredible.

  I don’t open my eyes until I start to sense that I’m being watched. When I do, I see a little girl crouched behind the grand piano and staring at me with that open, child-like curiosity.

  I’ve seen her before. She’s here most mornings and evenings with her parents, who own the store. Whenever I walk past this shop, she’s here.

  “I know you,” she mumbles to me.

  “Do you?” I ask with a warm smile.

  She has mousy brown hair that’s been braided into pigtails and tied together with neon pink scrunchies. Bright, observant eyes. A generous double helping of freckles.

  “You walk by here all the time,” she says, as if she’s informing me of that fact.

  “I do,” I chuckle. “I really like this store. It smells nice.”

  She smiles shyly. “I’m Katie.”

  “I’m Esme.”

  “Do you play any instruments?” Katie asks.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “Piano.”

  “Really?” she asks. Her eyes go wide with renewed interest. “I just started to learn, but it’s really hard.”

  “It can be,” I concede. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?”

  She twists back and forth, hands tucked behind her.

  “I bet you’re really good,” I coax. “Come here. Pop up on the bench and teach me something.”

  She can’t resist that. With a smile, she scurries around the piano. We settle down on the bench together.

  But Katie loses her nerve suddenly. She glances up at me, chin wobbling like she might cry.

  “Tell you what,” I reassure her, “I’ll go first. Okay?”

  She nods, a little appeased by that.

  I glance up and notice the man standing in the opposite corner of the store. He’s got the same mousy brown hair as Katie, though it’s wispier than his daughter’s.

  He meets my eye, and gives me a small nod of encouragement. so I assume it’s okay for me to play his piano.

  I turn my attention back to the instrument.

  It feels so good to have my hands poised over piano keys again. I didn’t realize I’d missed it this much. It’s like I can breathe again for the first time in a long time.

  I stroke the first key and it’s like I’m floating away.

  Everything nonessential fades.

  There’s only me and the music.

  I play the Nocturnes from Chopin and I let each note take me deeper and deeper, farther and farther, higher and higher.

  Taking me away to a time when I was still naïve enough to believe that one day, life might be as simple as the next chord.

  I remember a time when I could sit in front of my piano and play every day, when I still dreamed of playing piano in concerts all over the world.

  I remember a time when my brother was still my hero, my biggest motivator, and my biggest fan…

  Many Years Ago

  The keys clang. Wrong note. I yell in frustration.

  “What’s the matter, little bird?”

  I scowl and turn to face him. Cesar is standing by the window, looking at me with amusement.

  “I can’t get it right.”

  “You will,” he tells me confidently. “You just need to practice.”

  “It’s too hard.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he replies. “Which will make it all the more impressive when you master it.”

  I sigh and kick into thin air. My legs don’t quite reach the ground. That in and of itself is frustrating.

  “Papa wants me to play for his guests next week,” I admit.

  “Ah.”

  “I’m not good enough,” I say sheepishly. “If I make a mistake, Papa will be angry.”

  “Papa will deal with it.”

  Cesar walks forward and nudges at my shoulder. I move down a little so he can sit next to me.

  I don’t feel as frustrated when Cesar is here. He makes me less scared of Papa.

  “I don’t like when you go away,” I tell him. “Why can’t I go to your school, too?”

  “It’s only for boys.”

  “I want to be a boy.”

  “No, you don’t,” Cesar rebuffs quickly. “Trust me. You’re better off being a girl.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll fly under Papa’s radar,” he mumbles.

  I frown. That doesn’t quite make sense to me. But I’m only seven. Cesar says there’s a lot I won’t understand until I’m older.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Cesar says, shaking his head and smiling quickly. “Trust me, it’s better that you’re a girl.”

  “Fine. Okay.”

  He smiles and bumps his arm against mine. “One day, little bird, you’re going to be a fantastic pianist. You’re going to be a beautiful, strong woman and you’r
e going to choose the life you want to live. Not because you’re allowed to, but because you fought for it.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what you mean when you talk like that.”

  He laughs. “Sorry, I’m ranting now. Will you play me something?”

  “I’m not very good.”

  “So keep playing until you are,” he encourages. “Either way, I’ll listen.”

  I smile and start playing. This time, I get it right.

  “Are you crying?”

  Katie’s question jolts me back to the present and I try hastily to blink back my tears. “Sorry,” I say, smiling down at her. “I get emotional when I play.”

  “Why?” she asks, sounding dumbfounded.

  “The music helps me remember things about my childhood,” I admit to her. “From when I was your age.”

  “Like what?”

  “Memories of my older brother,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” Katie nods. “Where is he?”

  She’s a perceptive little thing and I don’t want to lie to her. “He’s… not around anymore,” I say simply.

  Katie nods so solemnly I almost laugh. “Do you miss him?”

  My answer is swift: “All the time.”

  And it’s true. I do still miss my brother, but my feelings go further than that.

  I hate him for leaving me with such a mangled, fucked-up image of who he was.

  In fact, I hate him for leaving me at all.

  “You play really good,” Katie tells me. “Like really, really good.”

  I smile. “Thank you,” I tell her. “That means a lot to me.”

  “I wish I could play like you.”

  “You will one day,” I tell her. “You just need to keep practicing.”

  “I don’t like my teacher,” she admits, leaning in a little and lowering her voice down to a whisper.

  I fight the urge to laugh as I lean in too. “I didn’t like my teacher, either.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “He was awful. He was really boring and really mean and he never smiled.”

  “Mine, too!” she chirps. “Maybe we have the same teacher.”

  That makes me laugh. “Maybe.”

  Her father comes over. “I hate to interrupt. But Katie, we’ve got to go to school.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Katie hops off the bench and scurries into the back to get her things. We watch her go, then I turn to the man and he gives me a kindly smile.