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

by Nicole Fox

  As predicted, it is very twee. My favorite is a greyhound dressed like Ziggy Stardust, who howls into a microphone on command. He doesn’t end up winning anything, which is disappointing. The winner of the best costume category is a poodle with a laconic grin who goes by “Pawl Newman.” Second place goes to a weiner dog in a sparkly jumpsuit and a ginger wig who the owner would have us believe is Elton John. I leave thinking that Ziggy was robbed.

  I head back to the office to start writing up the piece, wondering if this is it for me. Am I doomed to spend the rest of my days writing articles that nobody will read until I eventually retire to become a childless, angry cat lady? There has to be more than this.

  During the day, I text my best friend, Clara Fitzgerald, to update her on the latest in my love life. She tries to call me several times during the day, but I don’t answer. When I finish work at five-thirty on the dot, I call her back.

  “Finally!” she groans. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “Sorry. It’s just been a busy day.” I fish a chocolate bar out of my purse and start munching on it on my way to the subway.

  “I can’t believe Grant. What an absolute pig.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “Look, I’m going to lose you in the subway soon. Can I call you later?”

  “No need!” Clara says brightly. “I’m on my way over to your place now.”

  “Clara …”

  I really don’t feel like company tonight. It’s Friday, which means there will be a movie on TV and I can be as hungover as I want in the morning. There’s a bottle of wine on the rack that Grant’s boss got us for our engagement that we were supposed to wait until the wedding to drink. That bad boy’s getting cracked. I’ve also got a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer. My evening is set.

  “Oh—I’m losing you,” Clara hisses into the phone. “Can’t—cutting out.”

  “Clara!”

  “See—soon!”

  She hangs up and I curse under my breath. Clara is very kind, and wise, and unbelievably forgiving, but she’s also the pushiest person I’ve ever met. She seeks to control everything in her environment, which I know is something that has come out of two hard years of sobriety but still frustrates me sometimes.

  Still, I guess it will be nice to spend some quality time with my best friend. I’ll need to move out of Grant’s apartment soon, so it could be fun to do a little damage to it.

  Clara is waiting in front of my building when I get home. She is holding two big shopping bags and bounds up to me, throwing her arms around my shoulders. One of the bags smacks against my spine.

  “Ouch,” I complain. “What is that? A bag of bricks?”

  Clara chuckles. “Just you wait.”

  We head up to the apartment and Clara sets the bags on the kitchen island, then throws herself across the sofa. Her mass of golden curls spills over the armrest and she tilts her head back to look at me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  I sigh and slump into the armchair opposite. “Weird.”

  “Maybe a little free?”

  “Nope. Just weird.” My head lolls to the side and I meet her gaze. “We had a plan, Clara. Grant and I had a plan. After we got married, we were going to travel, and then we were going to start our family. Grant wanted a girl first, but I wanted a boy, a little fella I could dress up as a sailor and teach to always be polite. He’d be the kind of kid that would call adults ‘ma’am’ and ‘mister,’ and everyone would fawn over how cute he was.”

  “Were you planning to have a child in the 1950s?” she asks skeptically.

  I frown. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  “You can still have all that,” Clara says. “You’re only twenty-six. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and it’s better to start fresh now than spend the rest of your life tied to a man who was never going to put you first.”

  “You’re right.” I look back to the ceiling. “I’m just scared to start over.”

  “If life didn’t scare you, it wouldn’t be worth living.”

  “I’m sure that will be comforting in a couple of weeks, but at the moment, I just …” I look over at her. “I don’t know. I’m hurt.”

  Clara sits up, green eyes twinkling with something I can only describe as mischief. “You know what I hear when you say that?”

  “What?”

  “That you need a distraction,” she says. “Let’s go out tonight.”

  My eyebrow raises skeptically. “Out?”

  “Yeah. Like to a club.” She folds her legs under her, looking every bit the yoga instructor she is. “Yes, let’s go dancing! I’ll tell you the same thing I told my students today: if all else fails, feed your soul with deep stretches and heavy bass.”

  “You did not say that to your class.”

  “I did, too.”

  I chuckle. “Okay, sensei. All the same, I think I’ll nama-stay home.”

  “Please come out with me?” She pouts her pink lips. “It’ll be good for you. Now that you’ve kicked Grant to the curb, you can actually have a little excitement in your life.”

  Clara always thought of Grant as boring, with his long monologues and predictable patterns. He was the sort who adhered to a weekly schedule like his life depended on it—CrossFit three times a week, his favorite cop drama on Tuesday nights, fish for dinner every Friday. It’s ironic that after years of being able to tell the time based on his movements, he would throw me a curveball so unexpected that it would knock me on my ass.

  “Grant was boring, wasn’t he?” I realize out loud.

  Clara nods. “An absolute snoozefest. A pretty face, but very little going on upstairs.”

  “Very little going on downstairs either,” I remark. “I can’t imagine that floozy was with him because of his commendable ability to fall asleep almost immediately after ejaculating.”

  She snickers. “That’s the spirit!”

  “Ugh. Why was I even with him?” I scrub a hand over my face. “I think on some level I always knew I was settling. I’m just annoyed that it took this happening for me to realize it.”

  Admittedly, I was always curious about the concept of having a spark in a relationship. It was something I never felt that Grant and I had. I presumed that what we did have—comfort and security—was better. Stronger. More stable.

  Clearly, Grant didn’t think so. With my blinders off, I realize I shouldn’t have thought so, either.

  “Your dad likes him,” Clara points out. “I think you’ve always been a little blind where your dad is concerned.”

  “Dad only likes him because he’s also a lawyer,” I reply. “He just likes having someone around he can talk torts to.”

  I haven’t even told my dad the news yet. In fact, I’ve hardly spoken to him lately. He’s been busy defending the innocent, and I’ve been busy looking for new ways to describe canine outfits. I always worry that my dad judges me for not living up to my potential. I hate the thought of disappointing him.

  Clara shoots to her feet and goes to the island, grabbing the bags she brought before setting them down on the coffee table. “Let’s do something fun. You remember fun, right?”

  “I just don’t know if I’m in the mood, Clara …” I eye the bags suspiciously. “Plus, don’t you think a club will just be a den of temptation to you?”

  She waves dismissively. “Please. I am so Zen these days that the thought of alcohol doesn’t even faze me. I just want to dance with my best friend and help dig her out of the misery spiral she’s about to sink into.”

  “Who said anything about a misery spiral?”

  “I see you glancing over at the freezer.” She flattens her lips. “If I don’t get you out of here, you’ll end up watching terrible romcoms until you pass out in a puddle of melted ice cream.”

  I am annoyed that she has anticipated my evening plans so astutely.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Let’s go dance.”

  She squeals and perches on the
coffee table, pulling items out of the bags. She has brought her entire makeup kit, as well as enough hair-styling tools to supply a pageant.

  “What’s all this?” I ask suspiciously.

  “This is your future.” She pulls a sparkly dress out of one of the bags with a flourish. “Gaze upon it with glee, for I am going to give you a makeover.”

  I eye the dress. “That’s not going to fit me.”

  Clara is petite, with toned everything and an ass that defies gravity. I run on the curvier side, with a flat stomach but flaring hips, thick thighs, and generous cleavage. I have the kind of body that looks great in pencil skirts and form-hugging jeans, but I’m dubious about the slinky number that Clara has picked out for me.

  “It absolutely will fit,” she replies. “You can trust me. I’m enlightened.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculously wise.” She fans out a selection of makeup brushes. “Now... Where to begin?”

  Clara pokes and prods at me for the next hour. By the end of it, my face is so caked with makeup and my hair so full of spray that I question whether I will be able to keep my head upright. Clara announces in a singsong voice that she is finished and somehow goads me into the sparkly dress. Then she guides me to the mirror, and the first thing I see is her hopeful expression.

  And then… Wow.

  Clara has coaxed my normally curly hair into silky waves that cascade over the tops of my breasts. My blue eyes pop under thick black false lashes, with gold and purple eyeshadow and thick black liner on the upper lids. My lips are light pink and shiny, and my skin is flawless, like creamy marble.

  And the dress… Damn, the dress. It clings to me in all the right places, with a deep V accentuating my cleavage and a fringe at the bottom that tickles the tops of my thighs when I move.

  “I don’t even look like me,” I comment, turning my face from side to side, entranced by my own reflection.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?” Clara brings the makeup to the mirror and bumps me out of the way while she starts on her own face. “Tonight you can be anyone you want to be.”

  She’s right, I realize. I am transformed.

  Maybe going out is a good idea after all.

  Clara and I hit up a few bars on the Lower East Side before making our way to what she claims is the best club in all of New York City—Fiamma. Once we get inside, it is a veritable buffet of sights and sounds. Loud dance music pulses through the speakers and ultra-glam revelers pack the dance floor and wave their arms above them as neon lights slash through the crowd.

  I had a couple drinks in the earlier bars, but I never drink to excess when I’m around Clara. She says it doesn’t bother her, but it doesn’t seem fair. I’m working with a bit of a buzz, so Clara and I skip the bar and head straight for the dance floor.

  I don’t know the song playing but let the beat flow through me as I start to dance, winding my hands toward the ceiling and rolling my hips. It feels good to dance. I lose myself in it, swaying and twisting and tossing my hair. Clara and I make eye contact and break into giggles. It is the first time all day that I have felt truly alive.

  I look over my shoulder to see how crowded the bar is, and my eye lands on a man cutting through the crowd a few feet behind me. My breath catches.

  I’m just drunk enough to have one crystal-clear thought amidst the chaos: That is one fine specimen.

  He must be around 6’5” as he towers above the crowd of high-heeled glamazons. His dark hair feathers around his face and the nape of his neck. It’s the kind of hair that looks silky to the touch, and my fingers twitch at the thought of running my hands through it. His full lips are set in a hard line, as though annoyed at having to swim through the sea of bodies. He glances over, and for a second, our eyes meet.

  My heart skips a beat and I go still, like a deer in the headlights. His eyes are dark pools that draw me in until I feel as though I’m drowning. He looks away, and I snap back into the present, realizing that for the past few seconds, I’ve forgotten to breathe.

  The man disappears without so much as a backward glance. Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all.

  Clara pokes my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I nod and go back to dancing. “Sorry. Got distracted.”

  “By that hunk of man meat?” She licks her lips. “I don’t blame you.”

  I dance until my feet ache, and sweat shimmers on my chest. I even indulge in a little bump-and-grind with a few guys who come my way, but the second any of them start asking too many questions, I grab Clara and we scoot into another part of the crowd. I just want to have fun, and at the moment, the idea of chatting up any guy is the opposite of that.

  Clara and I hit the bar and I order drinks. She starts to drift off in the direction of a sexy guy with a very impressive afro and I have to wrangle her back to my side as she has my wallet and phone in her purse.

  We hit the dance floor again and the guy comes over, performing silly dance moves like some sort of mating ritual for Clara’s approval. It works. One second I’m shimmying with my best friend, the next I’m sipping a drink next to her while she and the hot rando paw at each other like teenagers.

  I scan the club, my vodka cran tasting increasingly bitter with every sip. I don’t even realize what I’m looking for until I see him—the hot guy I maybe made eye contact with earlier. He’s leaning against the wall near the VIP area, scrolling through his phone.

  I don’t get him. He doesn’t seem to belong here. He’s too serious, and he looks too bored. He’s wearing a slim-fitting black suit, with a black shirt and a red tie. It’s bold, but he’s not peacocking. He’s just... being.

  As though he can feel my gaze, the man looks up from his phone. His gaze skewers through me from across the room. A blue light splashes across my face, and I have no doubt that this time he is looking at me. Everything seems to slow down around me and my pulse races. His mouth lifts ever-so-slightly in a smirk. My mouth is dry, and I down the rest of my drink in one gulp. When I look back up, he is already walking up the stairs into the VIP area.

  I turn back to Clara and grimace. She and her new friend look as though they’re trying to eat each other, but at least she’s having fun, I suppose.

  Clara breaks away and whispers something in the guy’s ear, then comes to talk to me.

  “Hunter and I are going to get out of here,” she says. “You’ll be okay to get home, right?”

  I nod, forcing a smile. “Sure.”

  She smooches my cheek and grabs Hunter’s hand. The two of them disappear within seconds. It’s almost impressive, or rather, it would be if it weren’t so annoying.

  I heft a sigh and glance down at my empty drink. I’ll grab one more for the road. There’s a bottle of wine waiting for me at home, and if I’m remembering correctly, I’ve got a big bag of Doritos in one of the cupboards.

  I squeeze my way to the bar and order another drink, swaying to the music. The bartender, a gorgeous redhead covered in tattoos, hands me my drink, and I take a sip absently as she keys it into the till.

  Only then do I realize that my wallet disappeared from the club at the same time that Clara did.

  Gabriel

  The bass vibrates through the floor, but it’s a lot quieter up here than it is in the club below. I am sitting in my usual booth at Fiamma, my favorite club out of all the bars my family owns in the city. It’s a good place to conduct business. There’s little chance of being overheard, and my father would never set foot here, preferring to keep to the old drinking holes he and his friends spent their youths in, shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke.

  To my left sits Vito Gambaro, my best friend since grade school. He will be my consigliere, my right-hand man, once I take control of the syndicate. For now, he’s my most trusted confidant, and the only person in the organization who I know without a doubt expresses loyalty to me and me alone.

  Across from us sit Dom Rozzi and Diego Berdini. Dom is a good capo but takes his pleasures in the sim
ple things in life, not caring much for politics or strategy. He thinks with his muscles and his dick, and doesn’t like any problem he can’t fix with his fists. True to form, Dom is staring lecherously at a pair of long legs that saunter past. Diego chuckles.

  I lean toward Vito. “Is the meeting set?”

  Vito glances at Diego, but the older man is too distracted by Dom’s drooling to notice our sidebar. “Yeah. They’ll meet with us at the docks tomorrow.”

  I sip my whiskey. “Good.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Vito asks.

  I send him a dark look.

  Vito is immune to the power of my glares and leans closer, lowering his voice. “Your father will be livid if he finds out.”

  My father is the don of the Belluci crime family and Vito is right—he will be downright furious if he learns that I am making plays behind his back. Unfortunately, it is a necessary evil. If my father has his way, he will bring ruin to the family and end a generations-long dynasty of power. He has always been a greedy man, but as of late, his greed has begun to consume him. I intend to prevent that from destroying us all.

  “He will come around to see that it is the best move for the business,” I state. “He may act like one, but my father is not a fool.”

  I hope that is the truth. Lately, his actions have shown otherwise.

  We Bellucis command the majority of the docks, a vital piece of real estate for any criminal organization. The Irish mafia, run by the Walsh family, controls a small chunk for themselves. My father has been gearing up to wrest control of the docks from them entirely but cannot see why that is a bad idea. The Walshes are strong, and I suspect that they have another power backing them as they have had a recent surge in resources and capabilities. The don is blind to this. He refuses to think of the Walshes as anything other than the tick on our back that they have been for the past couple of decades.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Diego interjects.

  I look over at the older man. His dyed black hair is slicked back from his forehead, and fine lines furrow his face. Beneath his suit, his arms and chest are covered in faded tattoos, a map of the tumultuous life he has led for so many years.