Page 35 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Almost there…

And then the shrill ring of my phone scythes through. The vision disappears.

In its place is what was there before—nothing but pure darkness.

“What?” I bark into the phone.

“That’s no way to talk to your father or your don,” Stanislav breathes wearily.

“I didn’t know you missed me so much that you had to call so soon after I left.”

“Don’t be smart with me, son. I have a job for you.”

“No thanks. I’m busy.”

“It wasn’t a question, Artem. The job is in Mexico. You leave tomorrow. You will need to prepare.”

My scornful laughter sounds utterly wrong in the silence of the graveyard. “Is this a fucking joke? I’m not going to goddamn Mexico.”

On the other end of the line, Stanislav growls under his breath like the old Russian bear that he is.

“I’m only going to say this once, Artem: do not mess this up. You’re going down to Mexico to get something very, very valuable. We cannot afford to lose this. Not after…” He sighs again before finishing, “Not after what happened with you before.”

Then he hangs up.

And the darkness descends once again.

10

Esme

The Moreno Compound, Mexico

Another day in hell.

At least it’s pretty here.

The grand sitting room glitters like everything’s been painted in gold.

Every chandelier has been lit. Every surface is gleaming.

Waiters in waistcoats circulate with trays of crisp champagne and five-star hors d’oeuvres.

The guests are dressed for the occasion—although even now, I don’t know what that occasion actually is.

The men wear suits and watches worth a mortgage. The women are in cocktail gowns and enough jewelry to fill a museum. Both sexes have applied far too much perfume.

And they won’t stop fucking staring.

No matter what I do, I feel their eyes on me. The women are curious, scrutinous, sometimes jealous.

But the men… the men look at me like they want to tear me limb from limb.

I can’t stand their stares. After everything that happened four months ago, even a friendly male gaze makes me shiver and twitch.

The piano is my only shield. My only safe space. The one thing that allows me to keep myself from sweating, screaming, panicking.

But I know it won’t last. I’ve been playing for almost a half hour now.

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