Page 202 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Then we head out of the motel room and downstairs to the lot where the cars are parked. I realize that I haven’t seen Cillian since yesterday.

“Where’s Cillian?” I ask, stopping at the foot of the stairs when I realize that I don’t see the white hatchback in the lot.

“He left late last night while you were sleeping,” Artem tells me. “The black car’s ours.”

He leads me to a black sedan that manages to be both boring and sensible, which is probably the exact reason why he picked it in the first place. He throws our one bag into the back seat and we get into the car.

“Where’d you pick up this one?” I ask.

“A few miles out from here, while I was on the coffee run this morning,” he replies without hesitation or apology.

Guilt rakes at my conscience, but I suppress the feeling. Stealing cars is one of my lesser crimes in any case. If I start feeling guilty about every single one of my sins, I won’t make it through the day.

A flash of unwelcome memory flits through my head. The image of a masked man whose eyes are fixed on me just before the light goes out from behind them.

I remember how hard I pushed that knife into him. The memory makes me shudder.

“Esme?”

I flinch at Artem’s voice.

His eyebrows rise at my reaction. “Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “Nothing.”

He keeps his eyes on me a moment longer before he pulls out of the motel and we start the drive out of the city.

We drive for about half an hour, mostly quiet. Anytime things get a little too bustling, he veers off into narrow little by-roads that seem to go on forever.

After a while, we stop in front of a secluded diner situated off the beaten track. Artem parks the car in the gravel lot and we walk inside together.

The interior of the diner is old school, neon and chrome and fluorescent everywhere. Barstools line the breakfast counter and little booths dot the outer rim of the restaurant. A few folks sit, nursing cups of coffee or stacks of pancakes. Hardly anyone looks up as we enter.

Artem and I find a booth away from the windows and sit down to the smell of bacon and eggs. Almost immediately after we’ve sat down, a waitress appears between us with a bright smile.

“Hey, guys,” she says—Midge, according to her nametag. “What can I get for ya today?”

She looks a young fifty, with curling blonde hair that’s only just starting to get grey at the roots. Her eyes slide right over me but they really pop when they land on Artem.

It’s amazing—and extremely annoying—how he seems to appeal to so many different women.

“Esme?” Artem says.

“Um… I’ll have the pancakes,” I say, choosing spontaneously. “And a coffee, please.”

“I’ll have the bacon and eggs on toast,” Artem tells her. “A coffee for me as well.”

She scratches our orders down on her pads and then hustles away. Artem and I sink into an easy silence as we look around at the rural folks enjoying their breakfasts.

In no time at all, Midge is back with a tray balanced on her shoulder.

“Here you go, lovebirds,” she says. “Breakfast is served.”

She sets down our plates and our coffees and heads back to the counter. I use my fork to cut out a sliver of pancake, dredge it through syrup and butter, then pop it into my mouth.

Is it the best pancake I’ve ever had?

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