Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) by Nicole Fox (e book free reading .txt) 📕

“Fine,” I sigh. “Let’s go dance.”

She squeals and perches on the coffee table, pulling items out of the bags. She has brought her entire makeup kit, as well as enough hair-styling tools to supply a pageant.

“What’s all this?” I ask suspiciously.

“This is your future.” She pulls a sparkly dress out of one of the bags with a flourish. “Gaze upon it with glee, for I am going to give you a makeover.”

I eye the dress. “That’s not going to fit me.”

Clara is petite, with toned everything and an ass that defies gravity. I run on the curvier side, with a flat stomach but flaring hips, thick thighs, and generous cleavage. I have the kind of body that looks great in pencil skirts and form-hugging jeans, but I’m dubious about the slinky number that Clara has picked out for me.

“It absolutely will fit,” she replies. “You can trust me. I’m enlightened.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously wise.” She fans out a selection of makeup brushes. “Now... Where to begin?”

Clara pokes and prods at me for the next hour. By the end of it, my face is so caked with makeup and my hair so full of spray that I question whether I will be able to keep my head upright. Clara announces in a singsong voice that she is finished and somehow goads me into the sparkly dress. Then she guides me to the mirror, and the first thing I see is her hopeful expression.

And then… Wow.

Clara has coaxed my normally curly hair into silky waves that cascade over the tops of my breasts. My blue eyes pop under thick black false lashes, with gold and purple eyeshadow and thick black liner on the upper lids. My lips are light pink and shiny, and my skin is flawless, like creamy marble.

And the dress… Damn, the dress. It clings to me in all the right places, with a deep V accentuating my cleavage and a fringe at the bottom that tickles the tops of my thighs when I move.

“I don’t even look like me,” I comment, turning my face from side to side, entranced by my own reflection.

“That’s not so bad, is it?” Clara brings the makeup to the mirror and bumps me out of the way while she starts on her own face. “Tonight you can be anyone you want to be.”

She’s right, I realize. I am transformed.

Maybe going out is a good idea after all.

Clara and I hit up a few bars on the Lower East Side before making our way to what she claims is the best club in all of New York City—Fiamma. Once we get inside, it is a veritable buffet of sights and sounds. Loud dance music pulses through the speakers and ultra-glam revelers pack the dance floor and wave their arms above them as neon lights slash through the crowd.

I had a couple drinks in the earlier bars, but I never drink to excess when I’m around Clara. She says it doesn’t bother her, but it doesn’t seem fair. I’m working with a bit of a buzz, so Clara and I skip the bar and head straight for the dance floor.

I don’t know the song playing but let the beat flow through me as I start to dance, winding my hands toward the ceiling and rolling my hips. It feels good to dance. I lose myself in it, swaying and twisting and tossing my hair. Clara and I make eye contact and break into giggles. It is the first time all day that I have felt truly alive.

I look over my shoulder to see how crowded the bar is, and my eye lands on a man cutting through the crowd a few feet behind me. My breath catches.

I’m just drunk enough to have one crystal-clear thought amidst the chaos: That is one fine specimen.

He must be around 6’5” as he towers above the crowd of high-heeled glamazons. His dark hair feathers around his face and the nape of his neck. It’s the kind of hair that looks silky to the touch, and my fingers twitch at the thought of running my hands through it. His full lips are set in a hard line, as though annoyed at having to swim through the sea of bodies. He glances over, and for a second, our eyes meet.

My heart skips a beat and I go still, like a deer in the headlights. His eyes are dark pools that draw me in until I feel as though I’m drowning. He looks away, and I snap back into the present, realizing that for the past few seconds, I’ve forgotten to breathe.

The man disappears without so much as a backward glance. Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all.

Clara pokes my shoulder. “You okay?”

I nod and go back to dancing. “Sorry. Got distracted.”

“By that hunk of man meat?” She licks her lips. “I don’t blame you.”

I dance until my feet ache, and sweat shimmers on my chest. I even indulge in a little bump-and-grind with a few guys who come my way, but the second any of them start asking too many questions, I grab Clara and we scoot into another part of the crowd. I just want to have fun, and at the moment, the idea of chatting up any guy is the opposite of that.

Clara and I hit the bar and I order drinks. She starts to drift off in the direction of a sexy guy with a very impressive afro and I have to wrangle her back to my side as she has my wallet and phone in her purse.

We hit the dance floor again and the guy comes over, performing silly dance moves like some sort of mating ritual for Clara’s approval. It works. One second I’m shimmying with my best friend, the next I’m sipping a drink next to her while she and the hot rando paw at each other like teenagers.

I scan the club, my vodka cran tasting increasingly bitter with