Page 36 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I have shown that I’m an exceptional pianist. I have proved Papa’s boasts.

And yet, it won’t be enough.

He will want more of me soon.

As my fingers race across the keys, my mind flies back across the weeks and months, back to that one rogue night at the nightclub in Los Angeles.

That memory makes my heart race too.

I still can’t believe my luck. Somehow, in my state of flustered panic, I had forced Tamara to her feet and dragged her out of the club and onto the street.

I’d hailed a cab and we’d gone straight to my hotel room, where my guards had been waiting for me.

Apparently, neither one had wanted to get the Miguel treatment, so they agreed to conceal the fact that Tamara and I had given them the slip.

Fine by me.

But even after I had settled Tamara into bed next to me, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Not that night. Or the next. Or the night after that.

Sleep’s been pretty elusive ever since then, actually.

“Doesn’t she play beautifully?”

The voice is soft and low and comes from a few feet behind me. She’s not talking to me, though. I can’t see who it is, but I imagine her staring at my back, pitying me.

“She’s certainly a pretty little ornament,” another woman replies to the first. This one’s voice is deep but still manages to sound feminine, even sultry.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, I’m not being cruel. Isn’t that what we all are? Ornaments?”

“Hmph. She just looks very young,” the first female voice continues.

“She is. Barely legal.”

“It won’t stop Joaquin from pawning her off when the time comes. He’s the most ambitious man I’ve ever met.”

I close my eyes, trying to drown them both out.

Just breathe, Esme.

That’s what Cesar would tell me if he was here. He always knew how to calm me down

So I do that.

For a second, it even works.

The room around me fades. The sound of the guests’ voices—all of them speaking pretty lies, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, corrupt men plotting the lives of their wives and daughters without ever consulting the women themselves—all of it recedes into the background.

But as soon as it’s gone, something comes in its place.

And just like that, in my mind, I’m back in The Siren’s bathroom.

The distant sound of the club’s music throbs against the tiled walls. My skin heats up. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

And there he is.

The man with the dark eyes and the cruel, arrogant grin.

---