Page 130 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

She rolls her eyes, but there’s another blush just underneath it. She finally manages to get her dress back on—without a shred of help from me—and then we make our way back to the house.

Our feet sink into the fine sand as we walk and Esme bumps into me a little. I reach out to steady her.

But afterwards, I find it difficult to pull my hand away.

So I don’t.

My fingers snake down to find hers. I can feel her surprise, her hesitation, in the tense way she’s grasping my hand back, but a few seconds later, she relaxes and returns pressure.

When we get up to the house, Esme turns to me, and there’s a bright hopefulness in her eyes that I haven’t seen before.

It makes me feel hopeful, too.

“There’s sandeverywhere,” she says, and we both burst out laughing. Her hand stays clasped in mine. “Can you give me a few minutes? I want to shower before breakfast.”

“Of course,” I nod, releasing her fingers reluctantly.

She gives me a thoughtful parting smile and heads upstairs. I watch her go, memorizing the way her hips sway ever so slightly when she moves.

I go to the kitchen and check my phone resting on the island. I frown when I see that I have four missed calls from Cillian as well as a text.

Artem, call me as soon as you get this message.

He probably just wants to tell me about the threesome he scored last night or something equally idiotic. But with Esme still showering, I decide to humor him.

I dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“So how big were the tits?” I tease. “I’m sure some kind of Guinness World Record, right?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Oh, so it’s abadmorning-after report,” I continue. “You ended up with someone’s granny? Did she at least bake you some—”

“Artem,” my best friend interrupts in a voice I’ve only ever heard from him once before—when he found me after Marisha was killed.

Dread pools in the pit of my stomach at once.

“What’s wrong?” I demand hoarsely. “What’s happened? Tell me what the fuck happened.”

“Artem, my brother…” Cillian says again.

There’s no trace of laughter in his tone. Just pain and sorrow.

“If you don’t fucking spit it out—”

“Your father is dead, Artem.”

I grip the phone a little tighter. That can’t be right. I must’ve misheard him. Because if Stanislav is dead…

“You’re the don now.”

35

Esme

The water feels amazing against my gritty skin. I wash off the last remnants of sand and step out of the shower.

Once I’ve toweled off, I stare at my naked body in the mirror. Almost four months in, my pregnancy is still not too obvious, but I’m seeing more and more changes with each passing day.

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