Page 11 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

When they were younger men, it was obvious to anyone that Stanislav and Budimir Kovalyov were brothers. They had the same square jawline and hollowed-in cheekbones that I inherited.

The same bushy eyebrows. The same beer bellies. And the same intolerance for disrespect.

But as they’ve aged, they’ve begun to look less and less similar. My father, Stanislav, has shrank into himself, developing a slight hunch that has him looking up at the world through narrowed eyes.

Five years ago, his lustrous black hair fell out, a by-product of the cancer treatment. When it grew back, it came in stark white.

None of this has made him less frightening, however. He is still the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. And he still wears that title like a crown of gold.

With his curly hair and easy smile, Uncle Budimir is less imposing. But there’s a coldness in him that runs deep. He’s ruthless in a way that my father isn’t. The kind of man who is cruel just for sport, whereas my father is cruel only out of necessity.

“You look like shit,” my uncle remarks with a booming laugh.

I sigh as I slide into my seat. “Good to see you, too, Uncle.”

“Budimir is right. And you did not wear a suit,” Stanislav observes, his lips pursed up with displeasure. Thirty years in America, but his Russian accent is still thick and well-preserved.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m being strangled by a tie all night.”

“It’s not about whatyouwant,” Budimir replies coolly. His accent is slight. Only the faintest hint of the motherland still lingers. “Your father prefers you dress the part.”

I grit my teeth. “And what part is that, Uncle?”

“You are the heir to the Kovalyov Bratva—”

“You are not a child anymore, Artem,” Stanislav interrupts, his tone impatient.

Budimir shuts his mouth immediately. I’ve seen this happen so many times that it doesn’t stand out to me anymore. Stanislav is the older brother. He is the don. It’s expected that everyone else takes a back seat whenever he walks into the room.

But I’ve started to notice little things about my uncle lately. In particular, the way his mouth turns down at the corners every time my father cuts him off or overrules him.

Like it’s eating him up inside.

“So nice of you to notice, Father,” I answer sarcastically, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from my tone. “Seeing as how I’m thirty as of last month.”

Stanislav’s eyes narrow on me. “It takes more than age to be a man, my son.”

No one else says a word for the rest of the ride. We pull up at the back entrance of The Siren, the Bratva-owned nightclub where tonight’s meeting is taking place.

“Who will be at the meeting?” I ask, changing the subject.

Budimir answers first. “Don Maggadino and his sons. Gallo. Brooklier. And Dragna.”

“Dragna?” I repeat in surprise, sitting up a little straighter and turning to my father. “You actually invited him?”

“This is a meeting for all the cartels that answer to me,” Stanislav says, glancing out the window. “Dragna answers to me. Therefore, he will be at the meeting.”

“Yeah? Then why didn’t he tell you about the drug shipment from the Antonio cartel he was trying to import without our approval?”

A vein across his forehead pops a little but he keeps looking out the window. “I dealt with that.”

Budimir gestures for me to keep quiet. I ignore him. I’m short on patience this morning.

“He was trying to cheat you out of four million dollars!” I snap. “You’re going to reward that disloyalty by including him in a meeting? At the very least, he should be excluded from the inner circle for a while. See if that improves his attitude.”

My father sighs. “That would humiliate and offend him.”

“That is the fuckingpoint,” I growl.

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