Page 77 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

“Mr. Kovalyov left this for you,” Crew Cut says. He passes me a folded note.

The second guard thumps in carrying a huge duffel bag.

“Is that where you’re going to stuff my body once you’ve murdered me?” I ask pleasantly.

Neither one cracks a smile, so I roll my eyes and open the note that Artem has left for me. His writing is aggressive yet sleek. Captures his personality perfectly.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, either. That’s also right on brand for him. No “Good morning, Esme,”or “Hello, captive.”

Just this:

I want you to go shopping today. The driver knows where to take you. You will be accompanied by Leo and Vlad the entire time. I’ve attached a list of items you will need. See that you get them all. If you don’t, then I will be forced to choose for you. Vlad will take care of payments with the contents of the duffel bag.

I glance at the duffel bag and then at blue-eyed Vlad. “Open the bag,” I tell him curiously.

To my surprise, he starts to unclasp the buckles and unzips it. This is the only instruction he’s followed to date.

When he does, I see stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills stuffed inside. It’s packed to the gills—which means there’s probably tens of thousands of dollars in that one bag alone.

I let out a low whistle.

Vlad doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, though. He just zips up the bag and gestures me out of the apartment.

Apparently, he has exit clearance, because his fingerprint opens the elevator doors. The three of us get into it.

“One happy little family,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath.

My jovial bodyguards don’t even blink in response.

20

Esme

The car waiting for us outside Artem’s condominium building is a luxury sedan limo. Papa used to own a similar one a few years back.

When I duck inside, I find a fully stocked minibar in the center console and a pair of designer sunglasses on the seat next to me.

Vlad and Leo get in the seats up front, leaving me to enjoy the rear compartment in silence.

I sit quietly as we drive through the streets of LA. When we finally come to a stop, Vlad gets out first and opens the door for me.

I step out onto the bright streets of Rodeo Drive right in front of a huge and intimidating Armani store.

“Go on,” he tells me. “We wait here.”

I find myself moving forward into the store.

The whole place drips of money and luxury. The floors are exquisitely carpeted, the air is perfumed, and the salespeople look like runway models.

In comparison, I feel like a hag.

The woman who walks up to me is a foot taller than I am in her six-inch heels. Her blonde hair is tied back in a sleek bun and the stunning ombre wrap dress she’s wearing complements her slender frame.

“Welcome to Armani, ma’am,” she says with a tight smile. “How can I serve you today?”

As ridiculous as it is, I find myself freezing up with self-consciousness.

The truth is I’ve never done much shopping. Deliveries of clothes came into my father’s compound regularly, but I never went out to purchase them myself. Strictly one way traffic.

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