Page 10 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Furious color floods her face as she leaps out of bed and starts stumbling around in search of her clothes, huffing in anger. She has to step over several empty bottles of whiskey to get to the sequined silver dress lying on the ground next to my bar cart.

She bends over to snatch up her dress and wiggle it on. I remember now why I picked her from the crowd last night: those tits are the work of a very talented plastic surgeon.

Once she’s grabbed her fuck-me Manolo Blahnik stilettos and neon-red Bottega Veneta clutch, she turns to me.

Her bloodshot eyes are rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner. “Do you even remember my name?”

I laugh out loud. “What doyouthink, princess?”

She glowers at me for a moment, too pissed for words, before storming past me and out of my bedroom.

I stand still, head pounding from last night’s booze, until I hear the front door of my penthouse slam shut.

Good fucking riddance.

When the apparently-not-a-hooker is gone, I head to the bathroom to survey the toll last night took on me.

I look like shit. I probably shouldn’t have gone so hard with the drugs and the drinking. It was a stupid thing to do the day before a big meeting.

My reflection stares back at me. Out of habit, I reach up and touch the scar next to my left eye. My body stiffens, and I force the hand back down to my side.

Not today. I won’t go there today.

The dream of Marisha had stirred old memories, ones I’ve spent several years drowning. But it only takes the smallest of reminders to make them resurface.

I don’t have time for distractions today, though. Father will be watching at the meeting. He has been watching me closely for the last few months. Testing me.

Tonight will be the culmination of everything.

I step into the shower and turn it on. The water is so cold that it stings, but that’s what I’m after—a little pain to keep my mind sharp, present, aware.

More importantly, it keeps the memories at bay.

When I’ve had enough, I dry off quickly and pull on a pair of dark pants and a long-sleeved henley shirt. My father prefers that I wear suits to these meetings, but I deliberately avoid them.

Fuck what he wants from me.

No one tells me what to do—not even my father.

Even if he is the don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

I roll up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircle my arms. My Rolex reads eight fifty-six in the evening—I’ve slept the whole day away—which means my ride will be pulling up in front of the building in exactly four minutes.

Father is never late.

I head downstairs to the lobby in my personal elevator. The elevator doors peel apart in the main foyer to reveal a straight-line path towards the glass entrance of the building.

“Good morning, Mr. Kovalyov,” the concierge greets, just as I spot the top-of-the-line Range Rover that my father favors pulling up in front of the building.

There’s no denying the luxury SUV is a sleek ride. Even at first glance, it’s intimidating as fuck. And that’s without knowing about the performance tread tires, the bulletproof ballistic glass windshield, or the high-powered automatic weapons stashed in various compartments around the vehicle.

That’s all by design. My father is not one for traveling unprotected.

In his case, it is more than justified. When you’ve survived as many assassination attempts as he has, investing in proper protection just makes good business sense.

I see only my own reflection in the tinted window before I open the back door and duck into the car.

My father and uncle are waiting for me inside, both dressed in sharp gray suits and open-collared white shirts.

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