Page 166 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Tall. Broad. Dark-haired and—

Wait, no. His hair is too shaggy and the wrong shade of dark. And Artem Kovalyov would never be caught dead in a pinstripe suit that faded and old.

But I don’t let my guard down just yet.

The man’s weathered face is kindly, but just because he doesn’t look the part doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.

“Here you go, hon,” he says, stretching his hand out towards me.

I flinch back, wondering who he works for, already planning which direction I’ll dive if he tries to grab me.

That’s when I notice the five-dollar bill in his outstretched hand.

I look up at his face and realize he’s giving me a sympathetic smile.

He thinks I’m homeless.

I’m so shocked by this realization that I actually reach up and take the money.

“Thank you,” I whisper automatically, not sure why the gesture touches me as much as it does.

“Go get yourself a nice warm meal, dear,” he tells me. Then he walks away.

A bubble of laughter rises to my lips. I must look like a real pile of flaming garbage if kind older men are out here dispensing cash to wretches like me.

I bury my hand in my hands as the laughter takes me over. It’s the kind of laughter that only comes to those who have nothing left to lose. Desperate, heaving laughter.

I let it run through me like a storm. When it’s gone, I look up at the coffee shop again. Maybe I’ll go get a piece of that cake with this five bucks.

The remnants of the laughing tears stain my eyes.

So when I first see him, it’s too blurred, too much of a fragmented mosaic to seem real.

But then I wipe the tears away and it all resolves into perfect clarity.

There he is.

No false alarm. No mistaking the man.

I’d recognize those dark eyes in a room full of shadow.

The taint of furious betrayal lingers in the lines of Artem’s mouth. He’s standing on the opposite side of the street in a dark coat that acts as camouflage. Even from here, I think I can see blood on his hands.

What has he done to find me? Who has he hurt to track me down?

And what will he do when he closes the final distance?

The traffic on the road is light. It’s not going to take much for him to cross.

That means I have to go—right fucking now.

I dart up from the bench, still clutching my five-dollar bill, and run down the street without looking back.

My legs still feel drugged and heavy, but the adrenaline is loosening them up considerably.

The cold pavement slaps at the soles of my feet but I don’t let that stop me, either.

I don’t slow down.

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