Page 13 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I force a smile as my cousin Tamara bounces into my hotel suite at the Mondrian Hotel in Los Angeles.

Everything about Tamara screams “socialite party girl.” She’s wearing a black leather mini skirt and an oversized white linen blouse that hangs carelessly off one shoulder. It’s very Cali, very fashion-forward.

Classic Tam-Tam.

She pauses suddenly once she registers my glum face.

“Seriously?” she asks, pouting a little. “Is that the welcome you give your favorite cousin?”

“What makes you think you’re my favorite cousin?” I tease.

She wrinkles her nose and flicks her long, straightened black hair off her shoulder. “First of all, duh. And secondly, um, yeah, this is most definitelynotthe welcome you give your favorite cousin. I’m gonna go back outside and we can try this a second time, kay? Kay.”

I snort a laugh and shake my head at my ditzy cousin. Tamara is definitely a good time and I love when we get to hang out, but I’m just not in a very social mood today.

Not after what happened just before we left Mexico.

I’d planned on spending this whole trip cooped up in the hotel room. Still, a part of me is glad not to be alone.

I stand and give Tamara the hug she’s been waiting for. To my surprise, even when I try to pull away, she holds on to me, prolonging the hug a little.

“You okay, chica?” she asks as she releases me.

I frown. It isn’t like Tamara to get all serious right off the bat.

“I’m fine,” I reply with a shrug, even though I feel anything but fine.

Tamara’s voice drops low. “Has he been awful lately?”

She doesn’t have to say my father’s name for me to know who she’s talking about.

But I hesitate anyways. “Why do you ask?”

“Because of this.” She traces the bruise along my jaw tenderly with her fingers. Her eyes are wide with sympathy.

“Oh.” I’d forgot all about the slap. “It’s not a big deal.”

I can feel Tamara’s eyes on me for a moment before she opens the large, trendy leather bag she’s carrying. Her blonde highlights glint under the sunlight as she rummages through her bag.

When she comes up for air, she’s got a makeup kit in hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, confused.

“I’m gonna fix your face.”

“My face is fine,” I argue. “You can barely see the bruise anymore.”

“I beg to differ. Trust me, you don’t want that thing exposed when we’re hitting the clubs later.”

I laugh bitterly. “I hate to burst your bubble, but we won’t be hitting anything tonight except for an early bedtime.”

Tamara rolls her eyes and starts pulling out a range of different concealers and some blush.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Tamara…”

“Hush up, girl, unless you wanna get stabbed in the eye with mascara,” she says absent-mindedly.

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