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

by Nicole Fox

  But none of that accounts for the pride I’m feeling right now.

  That’s all about the woman standing next to me.

  “We came a long way to get here, Artem,” Kian says, his gaze constantly flickering around the club like he’s still sizing it up. “But I’m impressed with how you’ve handled things.”

  I just smile impassively. “When do you intend to return to Ireland?” I ask.

  “In three days,” he replies. “So I’ll be back here at least one more time before my flight.”

  “You are welcome anytime, my friend.”

  Kian looks around at the wide range of different crime families that fill the lounges in the VIP section.

  He’s stuck around for longer than I ever could have asked. He and his men have been invaluable in cleaning up Budimir’s many messes.

  “And apparently I’m not the only one,” he chuckles.

  “Being the don is not just about throwing your weight and watching the ants scatter to the wind. Diplomacy is needed. Intelligence is needed. Brute force is never enough to hold power. In short—I like having friends.”

  Echoing my father’s words does strange things to my heart in my chest. It feels like not so long ago that he was saying them to me himself.

  But they feel right on my lips. His crown feels right on my head.

  I’m where I belong.

  “Wise words,” Kian says with an inclination of his head.

  His blue eyes are alert as he gives the room another once over. He’ll be don one day, whenever Ronan decides to step aside.

  That doesn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon. Ronan might be getting along in years, but the man is made of steel.

  I’m sure he’ll live well into his nineties and until then, he will hold on to power.

  But that’s fine with me.

  Kian’s time will come. And for now, we are friends, allies, equals. It’s a good relationship between my Bratva and his.

  One that I intend to maintain.

  His parents couldn’t make it tonight, but they sent a bouquet of flowers to congratulate me on the opening of the club.

  The note in the arrangement said, “To a friend—With love, the O’Sullivans.”

  It was written in a looping female handwriting.

  Sinead, no doubt.

  Kian sees one of his lieutenants enter and excuses himself to greet the man. I take the opportunity to walk out of the VIP area towards my personal quarters.

  It’s past one, but the night has only just begun for many still here. The only thing I want, however, is my wife.

  “Esme,” I say softly,.

  All is quiet, so I move deeper into the room, but Phoenix’s cot is empty. I hear movement in the adjoining bathroom and I open the door and walk inside without knocking.

  Esme is standing in front of the mirror. Her eyes catch mine instantly.

  “Hola,” she greets with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  I walk up behind her and put my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. I’m already half-hard, and the moment her ass meets my crotch, I’m fully erect.

  “Where’s our boy?” I ask.

  “I had Talia take him home,” she says. “Adrik and Alexei went with them.”

  “Good,” I say, spinning her around so that she’s facing me. “Did I tell you how fucking beautiful you look in that dress?”

  She smiles, running her hand down the front of my shirt. “Hmm, I can’t recall,” she says playfully. “But you’re welcome to say it again.”

  I laugh. “More beautiful than a brute like me has words for. But honestly, you look the most beautiful when you’ve got nothing on.”

  “Well, then,” she says, pushing me back, forcing about a foot of space between us, “there’s no point in this dress staying on.”

  She undoes her halter neckline and lets the fabric slip off her beautiful breasts. She shimmies out of her dress and kicks it to the side on the terrazzo floor.

  She’s wearing a white lace bra that barely covers her nipples and a matching white thong that has me salivating instantly.

  She removes her bra slowly, while I watch with hungry eyes. The moment her panties are off, I pull her to me again and hitch her legs up and around my waist.

  I set her on the marble counter and she gasps slightly as her skin makes contact with the cool surface.

  Then she starts ripping away at my clothes, her nails grating over my skin.

  When I’m as naked as she is, I slip my finger inside her as her hand wraps around my cock.

  She’s so fucking wet. I groan with want. I feel her shiver against me as she grinds against my cock impatiently.

  I’ve explored her body in every single fucking position, in every single fucking way known to man in the last several months.

  But it’s not enough.

  It’s never enough.

  My desire for her seems to go on endlessly. No matter how many times I have her, I always want more.

  And the feeling seems to be mutual.

  “I want your cock inside me now,” she whispers as her tongue plays with my ear.

  I push her thighs apart and slide my cock inside her. She moans loudly, wordlessly, until her lips form the shape of my name.

  “Fuck me hard, Artem,” she groans.

  I breathe her in as I fuck her, watching as the waves of her hair toss wildly in the air with each thrust.

  I still remember the first time we’d fucked. Just like this. Hot and heavy and desperate in a club bathroom. Clinging to each other like we were the only things on earth that mattered anymore.

  That’s where it all began.

  And we’ve ended up right back here.

  I grab Esme’s face as I push into her, our lips are separated by half an inch. Her breath, hot and wild, mixes with mine.

  “Artem,” she whispers.

  “Esme,” I whisper right back.

  I press my lips to her neck, letting my tongue tease the sensitive skin at her nape. I feel her nails dig into my back, I feel her pussy clench around my cock and I feel her orgasm rear up to meet my own.

  And it feels like this moment has been a fucking lifetime in coming.

  It was worth the wait.

  Thanks for reading GILDED TEARS—but don’t stop now! Click the link below to get your hands on the exclusive Extended Epilogue to see Artem’s special surprise for Esme!

  DOWNLOAD THE EXTENDED EPILOGUE TO GILDED TEARS

  Sneak Preview of CORRUPTED ANGEL: A Dark Mafia Romance

  I found my angel.

  Then I broke her wings.

  Alexis should’ve never set foot in my world.

  Men like me stain girls like her. We take their innocence and tear it to shreds.

  She thinks she’s tough. She thinks she can handle me.

  But she doesn’t know just how deep my darkness goes.

  It was for the best that I claimed her for a night and left her behind.

  Anything more than that would have been cruel.

  I thought I’d seen the last of Alexis Wright.

  So imagine my surprise two years later when the door to my office opens…

  And she walks in.

  The girl I ravaged. The girl I devoured.

  Now that’s she’s in front of me again, I have just two questions for her:

  First—what is she doing here?

  And second…

  What does she mean, “our baby”?

  Alexis

  It is getting dark outside.

  I flick on the lamp at my desk and stretch up in my chair, trying to avoid the inevitable end-of-the-day hunch. My stomach grumbles and I slide open the bottom drawer of my desk, eyeing the goodies inside. Ah, yes, the good ol’ secret snack drawer. It’s a secret not because I’m ashamed of how much I snack, but because Vicky Oberman in the cubicle across from me will pop over the divider like a meerkat if she hears the tell-tale crinkle of a bag of chips.

  I pull out a packet of Twizzlers
and slide the drawer shut. I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen while I gnaw on the end of a stick of strawberry licorice. I told my fiancé, Grant, that I would be home late tonight because I wanted to finish up this story, but I’m not sure I can be bothered.

  It’s just a fluff piece—the unlikely story of how a community center caretaker found the exact skates he used to wear when he visited the center as a child. Mr. Finkel spent half of the interview reminiscing about how much everything used to cost in those days (a can of soda—a nickel; a hot dog—a quarter; two scoops of ice cream—ten cents), and the rest of the time talking about how kids these days have no appreciation for the luxury of having a community center to go to.

  Now, it is my job as the dedicated local news journalist to turn that pile of boring jelly into a thought-provoking article examining the role of community centers in empowering the youth of tomorrow.

  Or at least, that’s how I’ve decided to spin it. My editor, Debbie Harris, just wants me to write the story. In fact, her exact words were, “Nobody’s going to read it but that caretaker, so just make sure you don’t misspell the guy’s name.”

  Debbie makes no bones about how she doesn’t expend time or energy on the puff pieces when there are bigger stories to tell. I just wish she would give me one of those bigger stories. My work at the New York Union so far has involved precious little in the way of substance.

  “Wright!” comes a clipped voice from the entrance to my cubicle.

  Oh, boy. Speak of the devil.

  I spin to face Debbie, a Twizzler still hanging out of my mouth. She is a stern-looking Scottish woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair, black-lined eyes, and lipstick that is never out of place. She has a commendably infinite selection of bold-colored pantsuits. Today’s number is a fuchsia blazer and slacks with a bright white top underneath. She looks about forty-five, but in my two years of working for the paper, I have never heard her discuss her age. I heard a rumor that someone in the office tried to throw her a birthday party once and the person was never heard from again.

  “How’s the story going?” she asks in her thick Glaswegian accent.

  “Good.” I bite off the end of the Twizzler. “I was just—”

  She waves a hand. “Nope, all I need to know. I’m just here to give you your assignment for tomorrow.” She grins. “You’ll like this one.”

  My heart picks up. Debbie’s finally going to give me something meaty to sink my teeth into.

  “It’s a dog show!” she announces.

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed.” She leans against my cubicle wall. “You haven’t heard the best part.”

  I cock a brow, waiting.

  Debbie leans in a little. “All the dogs are celebrity impersonators.”

  “Debbie!” I groan, letting my head fall back in frustration. “That’s just more of the same crap I always get. Why would you get me all excited?”

  She kicks the bottom of my chair, startling me upright, then folds her arms and glowers at me.

  “You and your lack of patience again,” she scolds. “Do you know how lucky you are to even have this job? I’ve got a dozen résumés in the drawer who would love to write a story about a parade of dogs in wee outfits.”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

  She smiles and leaves.

  I know Debbie’s right, but I can’t help my frustration. As cute as the dog show does actually sound, I want to write stories that make a difference.

  The clock hits five-thirty and I start to pack up. I don’t feel like staying late today. I just want to curl up on the sofa with Grant and a big glass of red wine and watch some mindless TV. In fact, that sounds exactly like what the doctor ordered.

  It takes nearly forty minutes to get from the newspaper offices in Manhattan to our loft in Brooklyn. Grant is lucky—he was just made junior partner at a commercial law firm in downtown Brooklyn and his walk to work is less than ten minutes.

  It’s an unseasonably warm evening for November, but there’s still a bite in the air that makes me draw my coat closer around myself as I walk from the subway to our apartment building. I walk up the front steps and into the waiting elevator, dreaming of a full-bodied pinot noir.

  The apartment door is unlocked, which is surprising. As close as his office is, Manhattan law is no joke, and Grant works tough hours. He’d said he wouldn’t be too late tonight, though, so I wonder where he’s gotten off to. I drop my keys in the bowl and walk into the living room, expecting to find him there, but he is nowhere to be seen.

  “Grant?” I call. The aged floorboards whine under my feet as I walk toward the bedroom, dropping my bag on the sofa on the way.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  I’ve been arguing with Grant since we first moved in together about the mattress in our bedroom. He loves it, but I can’t stand the creaky springs. The thing is, though, that the springs only make noise whenever he and I get down to some adult business. Seeing as how I’m standing out in the hallway, I start to realize with growing horror that that means…

  Oh, Jesus.

  When I push open the bedroom door with fingers that suddenly feel pale and trembly, I’m greeted with something I never, ever wanted to see.

  The first thing I see is Grant’s pale ass, clenching as he thrusts.

  The second thing I see is the horrified face of the woman beneath him, who has just locked eyes with me and realized—way, way too late—that she’s made a big mistake.

  My jaw hits the floor.

  The woman tries to push Grant off of her and cover up with the comforter, but it takes the big oaf a second to realize what’s happening. When he finally does and looks up to see me standing in the doorframe, his face falls.

  “It’s not what it looks like!” he yells. He’s leaping out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers—the ones I got him for his birthday last year, I notice—and gesticulating wildly.

  Looking at him makes me feel nauseous, so I look at the girl instead. She’s huddled beneath the comforter. Her bottle-blonde hair is in wild disarray and her eyes are wide with shock.

  “It’s not what it looks like!” Grant repeats, like I hadn’t heard him the first time.

  For a second, I want to believe him. It would be so much easier to drink down his lies than to accept that my fiancé, the man I’ve spent every Sunday cuddled on the couch with for the past two years, has betrayed me in the worst way.

  But there’s no denying that it is exactly what it looks like.

  Anger fills my veins like kerosene. All I need now is a match.

  “Then what is it?” I demand, eyes widening. “Were you inspecting each other for lice? Did she lose an earring down your pants?”

  Grant rushes over. His sandy hair is standing up in wild tufts and there is lipstick smudged around his mouth. “Baby, let me explain!”

  The sight of those lips—the lips that I thought were mine alone to kiss—sets fire to my blood, singing my skin from the inside.

  He’s got big, soulful eyes. I remember falling for them, for him. They looked good in the candlelight at the Italian place he took me for our first serious date. Even now, part of me wants to soak up the emotion there and forgive him.

  I put that part of me in a box, lock it, and throw away the key.

  “Get out,” I demand coldly, jabbing a finger toward the front door. “Both of you need to get out right now.”

  My heart is trying to climb up my throat. I feel like I’m going to throw up. How could he do this to me? I am two seconds from completely breaking down, and like hell am I going to let Grant be here to witness that.

  Grant frowns. “But it’s my apartment.”

  “I said get the fuck out before I throw you out!” My raised voice does the trick. With a yelp, the woman runs past me toward the front door.

  Grant turns and reaches for a pair of pants. I must not’ve been clear; maybe he needs me to repeat myself one last time.
/>   “Did I stutter? I said, Get. The. Fuck. Out!”

  Hearing the venom in my voice, Grant abandons the pants and bolts out the door. Two seconds later, I hear the front door slam closed.

  I collapse in the hallway, like a puppet whose strings have been mercilessly snipped.

  The room seems to ring with the echo of my pounding heart. I am still and silent for a long time, my mind blissfully blank. I just stare at the wall, listening to my ragged pulse.

  I remember picking out the paint for the hallway. The color is called Gray Steel. After I moved in, I wanted to make it feel more like our home, rather than just his, but Grant liked everything the way it was. He wouldn’t let me move furniture around, or redecorate the living room, or reorganize the closet. He eventually relented and allowed me to paint this one hallway, where the walls had been scuffed in a few places already. I was given a few square feet to make my own. At the time, I was grateful for it.

  How could I not see back then that Grant wasn’t willing to make room in his life for me?

  My eyes sting with tears. I throw my head back against the wall. We were supposed to get married. After all the sacrifices I made for him, all the times I put him first, and now I find out that our life together meant fuck-all to him?

  I break out into wretched sobs. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, shoulders shaking, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. I’m not sure whether I’m mourning the loss of my fiancé or the loss of the life I’d planned with him—marriage, babies, a family of my own.

  Whatever it is, I lost something today. And goddamn it, it hurts.

  I have not the faintest desire to get out of bed in the morning, but I know that work is the only thing that will remove the image of Grant’s lipstick-stained grimace from my mind. So I slog my way to the office and finish up the community center piece. Then it’s time to check out the dog show.

  It feels good to do nothing. For a change, I’m actually grateful that Debbie loves handing me the nonsense assignments. I don’t have the brain capacity for legal drama or deep investigative reporting. A dog show of celebrity impersonators is about the most I can process right now.