Page 12 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

At last, Stanislav turns his gaze on me, but his expression is icy. “Being the don is not just about throwing your weight and watching the ants scatter to the wind, Artem. Diplomacy is needed. Intelligence is needed. Brute force is never enough to hold power.”

I’ve heard variations of this speech before.

Just like always, it takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.

“So that’s it?” I persist. “You’re going to look the other way and let him walk all over you?”

At that, my father’s eyes spark with a fiery anger I have not seen in a long time. That fire, that fury—thatis what has allowed him to reign supreme in the Los Angeles underworld for so long.

“Do you take me for a fool, boy?”

Boy. He called meboy.It is a slap in the face—he knows it, I know it, Budimir knows it. Hell, the driver in the front seat and the hot dog guy on the street corner probably know it too.

My anger swells up in my chest, but I bite it back and keep my mouth shut.

His gaze is still rooted on me. “Well?” he asks. “I don’t ask questions for the sake of hearing myself speak. Answer. Do you take me for a fool?”

I squeeze my fists at my side as tight as I can. “I take you for the don,” I grit icily.

“Good,” he nods. “As it should be.”

We clamber out of the Range Rover and into the side door of The Siren.

It’s packed to the rafters already. Lights arc across the ceiling. Bodies grind together on the dancefloor. Rising above it all is the thunder of the music.

But we don’t go out to the main dancefloor. One of the Bratva men on security detail leads us down a dark hall and up to another imposing iron door.

On the other side is where the meeting will take place. No doubt the other Family heads are already here. Father does not tolerate tardiness.

Just before the bodyguard opens the door for us, Father holds up a hand to signal for him to wait.

He turns to me and rests a wrinkled old hand on my wrist.

I frown in confusion. “What?” I ask.

He’s got that look on his face, the one I’ve learned not to like.

“You’re not coming in,” he says finally.

I blink. “What?”

Budimir lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, nephew.”

I shrug them both off and turn back to my father. “What the fuck is going on?”

“You’re not coming in, son,” my father repeats. “Not today. You’re not ready.”

I’m too stunned and furious to speak. He looks into my eyes and nods once.

Then he turns once more and walks through the steel door.

Leaving me alone in the hallway, with rage boiling in my veins.

Esme

Mondrian Hotel—Los Angeles, California

“Hey girrrl! The fun has arrived!”

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