Page 34 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

In the end, I shrug and rise to my feet.

My time as don will come soon enough. For now, I wait.

“Get some rest, Father,” I tell him.

Then I leave.

On my way out, I stop by the bar and grab one of the most expensive bottles of whiskey in my father’s collection.

I walk out of the mansion, whiskey in hand, and head straight for the garage. A little parting gift from me to me.

There’s always two security guards manning the massive garage that resembles a warehouse. They nod respectfully as I sweep past them.

But neither one has the balls to say a thing to me as I grab the keys of Stanislav’s favorite Mercedes and get inside.

I tear out of the garage and down the drive towards the black gates. I barely slow as I pass between them with hardly an inch to spare on either side.

From there, I go to the cemetery.

I park the car haphazardly across three parking spots, grab the bottle of whiskey, and clamber out.

It takes me only a few minutes to reach Marisha’s headstone. I don’t need light to find it. I could walk there in my sleep.

The stone is ivory marble and engraved, but I don’t bother reading the words. I know those by heart, too.

I sit down in front of the headstone and twist open the whiskey.

The first drink tastes like heaven. It burns, deep and glowing, the way only good whiskey like this can. Whiskey aged enough to reminisce about the old days.

About the way things used to be.

About Marisha.

The smog hides the stars, making the graveyard so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

Out of that darkness, a kind of hallucination appears. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or my eyes playing tricks on me.

At first, I think it’s Marisha’s face. That pale cheek, the light, tumbling hair…

But that’s not right. It’s not Marisha.

The hair is darker.

The eyes are bigger, more innocent, more pleading.

I’m not seeing Marisha at all.

I’m seeingher.

The girl from The Siren.

I’m just drunk enough that I try to reach out and touch her. Like it’s real. Like this isn’t all some fucked-up trick of the eyes and the alcohol and the remaining adrenaline from the showdown at the docks.

I want to touch that bronze skin again. Taste the sweetness of the girl’s lips.

I’m so close.

Almost touching…

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