Page 6 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

He offers me his hand. I have no choice but to take it. He squeezes my fingers for a moment. It’s an old gesture, one that he hasn’t done in many years, not since I was a little girl.

“Did you have a nice run?” he asks casually.

I hesitate for a second before admitting the truth “I, uh… yes, I did.”

Papa nods. “Cesar liked late night runs as well.”

My face pales. He hasn’t spoken Cesar’s name in so long. It sounds so wrong coming from his lips.

Ever since the funeral, Papa has refused to speak my brother’s name. It’s like he blames Cesar for his own death. Despises him for it. All the pictures of him were taken down and his name became a dirty word.

As if he wanted his only son—my only brother—permanently erased from existence.

I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. I try to withdraw my hand from my father’s, but he doesn’t let go.

“You played well tonight, you know,” he murmurs. “The men from Colombia were impressed.” He’s smiling, but the warmth of it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Gracias,Papa,” I mumble, only because I know how irritated he gets when I don’t respond to him.

He tsks in annoyance anyway. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He’s still smiling, but I know that look of his—it’s a deliberate smile. He called me out here for a reason.

“Yes, Papa,” I say respectfully.

“My beautiful daughter,” he continues. “What a prize you are.”

I look down, say nothing.

“I’ve seen all the women in the world,” he tells me. “There are plenty of beauties out there. You are pretty enough, yes, but there are many women who are prettier.”

He reaches out with his other hand, grabs my chin, and turns my face side to side like he’s studying me for flaws.

He releases my chin and brushes back a strand of hair from my face. “I have good news for you, my doll.”

My body tenses up. This is it. We’re getting to the point of this late-night visit.

His grin broadens, but there’s still no warmth in his eyes. There never has been. It’s just like a wolf smiling at you before he takes a bite.

“The time has come,” he announces, “for you to get married.”

His words engulf me with ice-cold dread.

No. Please, God, no.

This can’t be happening. Not yet.

I thought I had longer.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Please, Papa, don’t make me get married.”

The smile never wavers off his face.

Not even when his hand rears back in the darkness and then swings through the air, making harsh contact with my cheek and the left side of my jaw.

The sharp crack of knuckle on flesh rings out.

He slapped me.

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