Page 61 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I don’t know how or when that’ll happen. I know it won’t be easy.

But I know I have to try.

17

Esme

After a silent half hour of driving, we pull up in front of a mammoth building. I assume that my bindings will be removed, but none of the men in the car with me move to do so.

They just shepherd me out of the car and march me into the building like a prisoner of war.

No one in the lobby dares to look at me. Not the doorman or the concierge or a single living soul.

It’s like I don’t exist.

Like a bound and gagged girl isn’t being dragged through the building in the middle of the morning with a platoon of armed goons around me.

I assume we’re going to the massive elevator just next to the concierge desk, but a firm hand on my elbow steers me to the left until we arrive at a smaller, private elevator.

I’m pushed through. Artem steps in beside me. Turning around, I catch the blank gazes of Goons #1 and #2 and their buddies.

I do my best to scowl at them from around the ball gag in my mouth.

Wouldn’t want them to part ways thinking we were at the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The elevator doors close on their stony faces. Good fucking riddance.

I resist the urge to glance at Artem as we rise higher and higher. Can’t wait to say good riddance to him, either.

When the doors slide open again, I find myself staring into a lushly carpeted foyer with a gorgeous chandelier hanging over the entryway.

“Go on.” He prods me gently in the small of the back

I stumble out of the elevator, hands still cuffed in front of me. Behind me, I hear as apingas the elevator closes and retreats, trapping me inside yet another luxurious prison.

Smart money says those doors open only for Artem. Sure enough, when I glance over my shoulder, I see him tap in a couple of numbers on a security pad next to the doors.

Two-five-three-two-seven.

Was that it? Did I have the code? A brief moment of hope swells up in my chest.

Until I watch him press his thumb against the pad and the hopes curdles into disappointment.

Artem turns to me and reads me at once.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” he asks in a mocking tone.

The ball gag prevents me from replying, but if I could speak, I’d tell him what I’m thinking:I can always cut off your finger, you son of a bitch.

One corner of his mouth turns up in the ghost of a smirk.

“I wouldn’t try anything stupid. Follow me.”

The penthouse is massive, opulent, and completely devoid of color. Black granite, dark wood cabinets, paintings on the wall that are—I shit you not—just canvases painted delicately in various shades of gray.

It’s utterly lifeless.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from a blank bronzed wall that’s bare except for the two doors standing right next to each other.

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