Page 229 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Laughing, I head down to the car. It’s amazing how my mood lifts every time I’m near the cabin, and how quickly it deteriorates the moment I leave Esme behind.

It’s like the second I lose sight of the lodge, my mind shifts back to its old ways. To tactics and alliances and violence. So much violence.

I maneuver the car down the winding track that leads to the town.

As I drive, my mind ticks off the names of all the men who have pledged their loyalty to me. They have all risked their lives and the safety of their families in order to do so.

I vow never to forget that. I owe them a debt of gratitude. I plan to repay it the moment I take back control of the Bratva.

My hands clench around the steering wheel as my mind settles on my uncle. The betrayal was all the worse because of our blood ties to one another.

But I’m starting to realize, that blood counts for nothing.

Cillian is more family to me than Budimir ever was.

I comb through every single past memory I have of Budimir, and when I do, I see each encounter and each conversation with new eyes.

I remember how he used to whisper in my ear before every meeting with Stanislav, giving me advise that directly contradicted with my father’s views.

He used to set me up.

And, fucking fool that I was, I played right into his hands.

I’ve always considered myself closer to my uncle than my father. Now, I see that I was being played from the beginning by a man too cunning and too greedy to settle for second fiddle.

Your time is coming, old man.

I will look down at your mangled body soon and smile.

62

Artem

The town near Devil’s Peak is a small one. There’s a few different restaurants, one bar, and an essential goods store.

Driving further will take me to a stretch of hilly land where the farmers live. They’re the ones who supply the local stores with fresh produce every day

But they also supply certain parties with items when someone needed something a little more… delicate.

Like I need today.

So I keep driving through the town and into the foothills beyond. I have to drive five miles before I find a sign pointing to “Granja Hueco de Cedro.”

Cedar Tree Hollow Farm.

I park right outside the main farm house just as a tall, burly-looking man steps out of the rustic structure. He’s wearing mud-stained blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a grey shirt that probably used to be white in its heyday.

“Hola,” he greets cautiously.

“Are you Guillermo?” I ask.

He nods and spits in the red dirt.

“I was told you had a range of exclusive products for special buyers.”

“Are you a special buyer?” he asks. His tone is guarded, neutral. A tough man if ever there was one. Life out here cannot be easy.

“I think I might be.”

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