Page 163 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

“Fine. We’ll meet tomorrow,” Cillian says. “We need to figure out our plan.”

“You’re staying in the city?”

“As long as you’re here, I will be, too,” he replies soberly. I can tell from his tone that he isn’t going to budge on that.

“Fine,” I nod. “Find a phone. Make sure it’s untraceable. Send me a place and time for tomorrow and I’ll be there.”

To my surprise, Cillian steps forward and embraces me. “Take care of yourself, Artem,” he whispers in my ear. “I mean that.”

“You do the same,” I tell him. “You’re ugly enough without a bullet hole in the face.”

We both laugh as we separate. It’s the kind of parting I never thought he and I would share.

The kind where you don’t know if it may be your last.

We exchange one final nod. Then I spin on my heel and push through the front doors.

I take stock of my surroundings. There’s a park just a short ways down the block lined with trees. When I step around the side of the building, I see a dirt path leading from the fire escape Esme climbed down. It leads off into the shrubbery.

That’s as good a place to start as any.

I break out into a jog—just as I hear the jangle of the front doors opening again. I hurl myself behind a bush and peek back over my shoulder.

Borya and Evgeni are standing out front, chests heaving from exertion. Both hold pistols in their hands.

Looking for me, no doubt.

My blood boils at their betrayal. They were part of the older contingent of Bratva men. Had served my father for decades.

And yet, they’d turned before my father was even cold in the ground.

They’ll pay for that.

As I watch, they clamber into an SUV and peel away with a screech of tires.

Carefully, I slink back away from the sidewalk under cover of the trees. I find the dirt path again and turn the corner, only to come face to face with—

“Olezka.”

The guard’s eyes go wide the moment he sees me.

He reacts instantly. His hands flies to the gun at his hip, but I move faster. I launch my body into his in a full-on football tackle.

He stumbles backwards and rams into a thick tree trunk, abandoning his reach for the gun.

Then I grab him by the neck and snap his head back against the tree like a rag doll.

There’s a nasty crunch. When his head lolls forward, I can see blood smeared on the bark.

He struggles, so I land a punch right on his jaw. His eyes swim out of focus for a moment before they’re back, still determined and ready to fight.

But this motherfucker couldn’t beat me on his best day.

And today is most certainly not that day.

I punch him again, then I grab his shirt collar in both hands and headbutt him hard in the nose.

Another crack.

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