Page 3 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I swallow my bitterness down.

Put your “good daughter” mask on,I remind myself,or there will be hell to pay later.

Just like that, I feel my mask settle into place.

Perfect smile, perfect daughter—that’s the motto that keeps me alive.

Papa won’t accept anything less.

I remind myself of who I am—or at least, who I’m expected to be: Esmeralda Moreno, princess of the Moreno cartel, the most eligible bachelorette in the entire Mexican drug world.

Then I push open the heavy door and slip inside.

Immediately, the chatter softens. Eyes turn to me.

Papa’s voice cuts across the room, booming and resonant.

“Ah, Esme! There you are.”

He gets up from his leather armchair and strides towards me, laying his hand on the small of my back and pushing me forward towards his guests as though he’s trying to feed me to the sharks.

To the suited men seated in the other chairs, he says, “Caballeros, meet my daughter, my pride and joy, Esmeralda Moreno.”

Pride and joy. That’s a lie. So misleading it makes me sick.

I can’t even begin to explain how fucked up our relationship is. How fucked up my father himself is.

But you’d never know it by looking at him. That broad smile, that fatherly hand on my back—it’s so fake, so staged that I want to puke.

If only these men knew what it was really like to be Joaquin Moreno’s daughter.

If onlyanyoneknew what he truly is like.

Papa’s guests stare up at me, each darker and slipperier-looking than the last. I trust none of them. Their honeyed smiles are normal enough, but their sharp eyes travel over my body without an ounce of shame.

They introduce themselves to me one by one, offering hands to shake and names I don’t bother trying to remember.

I study their accents with detachment. Colombian, I think. Probably the higher-ups from one of my father’s cocaine suppliers down there.

In other words, it’s business as usual in the Moreno household.

“Esme is a pianist,” Papa announces. He pushes me towards the grand piano over by the curtained windows. “Play something for us, cariña.”

I nod, smile still riveted to my face, and move towards the piano gratefully. Anything to avoid looking at their faces.

It’s easier to breathe when I’m playing. I’m more relaxed in those moments. I can close my eyes and be transported to another place. Somewhere I’m free.

I settle on the piano bench and poise my hands over the keys. I usually play Chopin, but today, I decide instead to perform Mozart. It’s more dramatic, more mournful.

Suits my mood.

My fingers meet the keys. One high, sweet note rises up, blissful and simple. Then the next. And the next. And the next.

I can hear the men’s murmurs but I ignore them. I don’t care if they pay attention or not. If they like it or not.

Because I’m not playing for them.

I’m playing for myself.

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