Page 30 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

His scowl deepens. “If you think we’re going to The Siren again…”

“That’s exactly where we’re going.”

“You realize that in four fucking months, we’ve barely been anywhere else?” Cillian points out in exasperation. “Is there something there that you keep going back for?”

“No.”

Cillian eyes me closely. “You’re a good liar,” he says. “But I know you too well.”

“It’s a fuckingclub, Cillian,” I reply. “They’ve got good whiskey.”

“Yeah? And this has nothing to do with—oh, I dunno… some woman you’ve taken a liking to?”

“Watch it,” I warn.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been practically celibate these last couple of months.”

Fucking hell.I need to give Cillian more credit. He’s a lot more perceptive than I realize sometimes.

I roll my eyes. “You really should focus more on your sex life then mine.”

“What’s going on with you lately?” Cillian asks. His tone shifts from our normal bro-banter to something more serious. “For real, Artem.”

“Nothing,” I said, trying not to let my irritation show. “I’ve just been preoccupied with work.”

“Okay, brother. If that’s your story,” Cillian replies, letting it drop.

The screech of tires on gravel saves me from any further interrogation.

“They’re here,” I announce.

Two cars drive up at the same time. Standard wannabe-mobster bullshit—windows tinted too dark, no license plates, the backseat jammed with burly enforcers holding guns they barely know how to operate.

Fucking amateur hour.

We have intel that this is the third meeting between the Albanians and the Polish. Neither of the first two received permission from the Bratva, so Cillian and I have been dispatched to remind these bastards of the pecking order in this city.

Meaning: nothing happens without our say-so.

I stay rooted in my seat for now and let it get underway.

It’s a pretty straightforward exchange as far as drug deals are concerned. Two men get out from each vehicle and meet halfway.

Some macho banter. Some bullshit posturing. A briefcase changes hands.

That’s when Cillian and I get out of the car.

We saunter over, hands in our pockets, making no attempt to conceal our presence.

“What the fuck?” one of the Albanians snarls at his Polish counterpart. “You brought more men? This was not part of the agreement.”

“They’re not our guys,” one of the Polish men snaps back.

“Calm down, boys,” I call over. I enter into the circle of light where the two groups are standing. Cillian takes a stance right at my shoulder. “We’re not a part of this little business deal you have going. Unfortunately for you.”

The two Polish seem to know who I am—I can tell from the horrified look that passes across their face.

They understand that my presence here is not a good sign for them.

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