Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) by Nicole Fox (best books for 20 year olds .txt) 📕

“Don’t you dare stop playing,” he hisses.

I swallow. Where is a dark-eyed savior when I need one?

Far away. Too far to help.

I’m on my own here—as always.

I keep playing like he wants. That’s the only way to survive in Joaquin’s world.

Obey or face the consequences. No other choices exist.

“That dress is hideous,” he continues.

He’s smiling the whole time, but his words are pure venom.

“I told you to dress to impress tonight. And you took that to mean that you should dress like a fat old woman whose pussy dried up a decade ago?”

I swallow hard for a second time. It’s painful.

I’d picked a billowing lilac dress for the party. It was pretty, but it did little to emphasize my shape. The hemline was long and the neckline was modest.

Of course, I hadn’t exactly picked the dress to be modest—though that didn’t hurt.

I had picked it because it was the only thing that allowed me to breathe. All my other cocktail dresses had made me feel constricted and claustrophobic. Far too tight, too confining.

“It’s Zuhair Murad,” I tell him. Mostly because I don’t know what else to say.

“I don’t give a fuck what it is,” he snaps. His smile falters for a split second before it’s back in place again. “It makes you look like a forty-year old spinster.”

He stands there for a moment glowering, like he can’t decide which aspect of my appearance to insult next.

Before he can, someone approaches.

Papa’s demeanor shifts at once. Just like that, he’s back to being the consummate host. The perfect gentleman.

“Ah, Juan! Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Esme.”

I recognize the man instantly.

Juan Garcia. A local senator with a filthy reputation. His name has been tied to several national scandals in the last few years, each uglier than the last.

He’s a stout man, eye level with me in my three-inch heels. He looks even sleazier in person than he did in the tabloids.

Curled mustache. Scraggly beard. Dyed-black hair that’s scarcely more than a few wisps like dying weeds on his shiny bald head.

“What a beauty,” he murmurs.

He ventures so close that I feel the need to scoot away.

Of course, I know that if I do, Papa will rage at me later for it. So I stay where I am and keep my good-daughter mask on.

“Señor Garcia, it’s lovely to meet you,” I say, offering him my hand.

He takes it, but he doesn’t shake it. He just holds my hand in both of his, one finger rubbing back and forth against my knuckles.

“You make me sound like an old man,” he says with a mousy smile. “I insist you call me Juan.”

“Juan, then.”

He moves even closer to me. My skin crawls.

“I hope to get to know you very well, my dear.” His voice is a raspy purr.

And then to my utter relief, he lets go of my hand.

But not before he leans in and gives me a kiss on my cheek.

I imagine a rash erupting where his lips have been.

“I’ll be in touch,” he tells Papa, before moving across the room.

We stand still, smiling politely until he’s gone.

Papa’s smile drops from his face as soon as Juan disappears into the next room. He looks at me pointedly, but he doesn’t have to say anything for me to get the drift.

That wasn’t a casual meeting.

It was a first step towards an arranged marriage.

I feel bile rise up in my throat. The urge to throw up is so strong that it takes me by surprise.

“I just… I feel a little sick.”

Papa’s eyes churn. “If you embarrass me tonight, girl, you will live to regret it.”

I swallow hard and stare right back at him.

We’re in a crowded room filled with people he wants to impress. That knowledge gives me a false sense of security. It makes me brave.

That is going to cost me.

“I won’t marry him,” I say, my voice strong and steely.

He narrows his eyes and moves a step closer. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“He’s old and gross,” I continue, noticing a few of the women watching us closely. “He’s had several wives, children that are older than I am, and if the papers are to be believed, he’s sexually assaulted at least half a dozen different women. I’m not marrying him. I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,” Papa says without blinking.

I suck in my breath, but my bravado vanishes.

I need an ally so badly in that moment.

Someone to protect me. To help me find my voice.

Normally, I’d want Cesar. My whole life, he was the wall that kept me safe from Papa’s wrath.

But strangely, the man I’m picturing isn’t my brother.

It’s a dark-eyed stranger with blood on his knuckles and lust in his gaze.

Papa reaches out and takes my hand at the elbow. He digs his nails in and squeezes so hard that a little cry of pain escapes me.

My eyes catch one of the women standing a few feet away. She’s older, elegant, beautiful.

For a moment, it seems almost like she’s going to intervene. To save me from Papa.

But then her eyes fall to the floor and she turns away.

Nothing has changed. I’m as alone as ever.

“Listen to me, you little whore,” Papa snarls in my ear. “You will do exactly what I tell you do to. Juan Garcia is one of the most influential politicians in Mexico. And if our interests are tied to his, our family and the business will be untouchable. So you will marry him. You will smile on the wedding day and tell people how lucky you are. And on the wedding night, you will get on your knees and suck his cock like he wants. You will make him happy or I will make you very, very unhappy. You understand?”

Silence. Tense and painful.

“You’re hurting me, Papa,” I whisper. Tears stud my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.

Papa’s gaze bores into me. “Do. You. Understand?” he hisses.

I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but before I can get the words out,