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

“Whatever you say, bossman,” Cillian smiles. “Now that the old coot is gone, we can let loose.”

22

Artem

Cillian and I spend the next hour in the booth shooting the shit. That is, until the women show up and capture Cillian’s attention.

I, on the other hand, am not keen to entertain their advances.

Or anyone’s, really.

So I sit where I am, smoking and brooding and generally trying not to think of Esme, which of course means she’s the only thing I think about the entire time.

The party dies down slowly, as my men either go off to fuck the hooker of their choice or just drink and snort themselves into oblivion.

Cillian disappears for a bit with a voluptuous blonde.

When he returns, he has the biggest smile on his face.

“I take it she was a good lay?”

“Fucking hell, man, the sounds she made,” Cillian sighs. “Even when I stuck my cock in her mouth… You wanna try her? Name’s Ivory.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not taking your sloppy seconds.”

“Mate, she’s a fucking hooker,” Cillian points out. “That ship has sailed.”

“Cillian, I’m sorry, man, but I’m just not in the mood tonight,” I say, unwilling to pretend any longer. “The night ends here for me.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the party, though.” I stand, ready to duck out immediately. “You should stay and sample the rest of the goods.”

“Jesus, fine,” Cillian says, standing himself.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know, I know,” he says, cutting me off. “And yet, I am. This party’s pretty much over anyway.”

I shrug. He’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions.

The two of us make our way out of the club.

The line has long since vanished and the streets are practically empty. Since all our men are too drunk to drive, Cillian tries to hail a cab, but I stop him.

“Forget it,” I say. “Let’s just walk home.”

“You sure?”

“Fuck it. It’s a nice night.”

“As you wish, your highness. It’s your night. We’ll do things your way.”

We start walking, ears still pounding from the club. It really is a nice night. Clear, warm, quiet.

“What’re you eyeing me like that for?” I ask Cillian after a while. “Feels like you’re about to knock me out and steal my kidneys or some shit like that.”

Cillian shakes his head. “That’s one snazzy fucking jacket, man.”

I laugh. “You wanna try it on?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Hand it over.”

Still laughing, I remove the jacket and pass it to him. He pulls it on and laughs triumphantly. “Well, do I look like a fucking don now, or what?”

“You need to work out more, man,” I snort. “You don’t fill out that jacket like I do.”

“Asshole. You’re never getting this shit back now.”

We turn into a narrow alleyway so that we can cut across to the other side of the street. It’s only a block or two from here to my apartment building.

That’s when I hear two voices.

“… quickly… which one…?”

“…said it would be the one in the red jacket!”

Then, before either one of us can react, I see a tire iron swing out of the shadows and crash against the back of Cillian’s head.

It makes a sickening thunk. Cillian crumbles to the ground.

Fury burns through me as I whip around and grab the arm that holds the tire iron. I pull the son of a bitch out of the shadows and twist his arm before crashing it down against my knee.

The crack of bone snaps through the air, followed by an agonized scream.

I hear the second mugger curse in a panic, but I don’t allow him the opportunity to run. He’s holding a tire iron of his own, but there’s also a dagger in his other hand.

I headbutt him into a wall, snatch the dagger out of his hand, and stab him in the stomach in one smooth motion.

He lets out a pathetic little squeak as I bury it to the hilt. Blood oozes out, hot and thick.

I sneer at his wide, fearful eyes before he drops to the ground.

Then I turn to Cillian, who’s clutching the back of his head. His fingers come away sticky with blood.

He groans and rolls over to look at the limp, unconscious bodies of the two attackers.

“That’s a fancy knife,” he says with a pained whistle.

“Probably stolen,” I answer. “Come on, let’s go. Before we draw attention to ourselves.”

I help him to his feet. He’s breathing heavily, but he’ll be all right.

“Jesus,” Cillian mutters, as we walk out of the alleyway, trying to look calm and unflustered. “Fucker packed a punch.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. But your jacket nearly got me killed.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Right before they attacked,” he explains in a wheeze. “They said, ‘the one in the red jacket.’ Leave it to me to pay attention to the details.” He stops, shrugs out of the jacket, and hands it back to me. “You can have it back. I don’t like red anyway.”

“Not interested in being the don anymore?” I ask, half-amused and half-concerned.

“I never was,” Cillian sighs. “Another reason my family kicked me out of Ireland.”

“I thought they kicked you out of Ireland because you killed a politician’s son?”

“Fucking hell, I just got whacked in the head with a fucking tire iron. Do we really need to dig into my personal history right now? I could have brain damage.”

I grin. “How would we ever be able to tell?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, but he’s chuckling.

I’m laughing, but I am worried about the damage that initial hit has done to his head. He seems fine, but you can never be too sure.

“I’m calling the doctor. We need to get that wound checked out,” I tell him. “No arguments.”

“Fine,” Cillian concedes. “You fuss like my grandma.”

“You’re welcome by the way,” I prod. “You know, for saving your life.”

Cillian sighs dramatically. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”

I shrug. “Story of my life. I’m always saving your ass.”

23

Artem

“Well, Doc?” Cillian quips. “Will I live?”

Dr. Sokolov is on call for the Bratva twenty-four-seven. He’s