Page 2 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I sigh. “Never mind. Gracias, Sofia. Tell Papa I’ll be down soon.”

I expect her to nod in her usual respectful manner and walk away, but she continues to stand there in her black and white maid’s uniform, wringing her hands together nervously.

Not a good sign.

“Is there something else, Sofia?”

“Señorita…” Her tone is apologetic already.

I frown. “What else does he want?”

Sofia raises her brown eyes up to meet mine. She is a little paler than usual, which is pretty standard when my father is in the house. We all walk on eggshells whenever he is around.

“He also said would like you to wear a dress,” she finishes, lowering her eyes again. “‘Something a man would like,’ he said.”

So he wants to impress some unspecified male guest or guests.

That’s not a good sign at all.

I offer Sofia a forced smile. “As Papa wishes, he shall receive. Gracias, Sofia.”

With her task completed, relief washes over her face. She hurries down the long hall towards the kitchen.

I close the door with another sigh and head to my walk-in closet.

It’s large enough to be a room in its own right. A large center island holds my basics, jewelry, and underwear. Opposite the island is an elaborate dressing table, over which hangs a back-lit mirror.

The racks hidden behind mahogany panels are loaded with tons of designer clothing. Probably half a million dollars’ worth of the finest fashion the world has to offer.

I’ve hardly worn any of it.

Why bother? I never leave the grounds.

But tonight is different. Something is happening. I don’t like it at all.

I pick a sleeveless vintage Prada dress with a high neckline and slip on a pair of Jimmy Choos with a one-inch wedge.

Before I go downstairs, I step in front of the full-length mirror to make sure I’m dressed for the part. Papa would be furious if I’m anything less than dazzling.

The jade of the dress brings out the tiny flecks of green in my hazel eyes. My dark brown hair cascades in messy waves down my back and my cheeks still retain a little color from my morning run. I add a pair of diamond studded earrings and smear a little nude gloss onto my lips.

And then the transformation is complete.

Abracadabra, presto change-o: the don’s daughter.

His beautiful, caged bird.

It makes me sick to my fucking stomach.

When I’m done, I leave my bedroom and begin the trek to the formal sitting room.

The Moreno household—more like a fortress, really—is a sprawling labyrinth, so it takes me almost five full minutes to get there. I pass tennis courts, swimming pools, several lush gardens, and both kitchens. All filled with the nicest things money can buy.

Drug money, to be specific.

I hear the voices of laughing men when I reach the brass-studded door to the sitting room. I rest my hand on the doorknob, but before I open it, I take a moment to breathe and gather myself.

Cesar’s face from that Paris photograph is still floating behind my eyelids. Laughing, care-free.

---