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

I walk a few miles down the road and catch a cab back into the city.

Now that I have guns on me, I feel much, much better.

I have the taxi drop me off at a bar that Cillian mentioned a few times over the years.

The pub is typically Irish in façade. It’s got a distinctive sign out front that says “O’Malley’s” in a swirling Gaelic script. The paint job looks a little old.

But other than that, the place looks relatively well kept. Completely innocuous.

I walk in, bag and all, and sit myself down at the bar directly in front of the bartender. The man has an impressive ginger beard, but his hair is dark brown, the exact same color as his eyes.

He casts an appraising glance over me. His eyes linger on my tattoos as though he’s looking for signs.

“What can I get you, friend?” he asks, though his tone doesn’t suggest we’re friends at all.

“Beer,” I reply. “Guinness is fine.”

“Coming right up.”

As he fills my beer mug up to the brim, I survey the barroom. There are three men occupying one booth and a few lone customers hunched over their alcohol at single tables. Drunks, by the looks of them.

The men sitting at the booth are eyeing me curiously. I get the sense that if I ask them the right questions, I might get the answers I need.

“New in town?” the bartender asks.

“Brand new.”

“Ever been to Dublin before?”

“I haven’t even been to Ireland before,” I reply.

He drums his fingers on the beer tap. “Business or pleasure?”

He’s trying to be casual, but I can sense the underlying interest in my answers. “For some, business is pleasure.”

“Talking about yourself there, lad?”

I have no trouble understanding his thick Irish accent. Probably because Cillian had the same one when he first landed in the States.

Of course, he’d worked hard to lose his accent over time, but it brought back old memories.

Memories that make me very fucking angry.

“I am.” Underneath the bar counter, I crack my knuckles and ready myself for a fight.

I haven’t drawn a gun yet. But the moment where that might become necessary is fast approaching.

The men at the booth are still staring daggers into my back. This is definitely the right place.

I just have to figure out where to poke.

“What’s your business then, friend?” the bartender pries. His tone is growing icier with each exchange.

I shrug nonchalantly. “This and that. But the reason I’m in Dublin at all is to do a favor for a friend.”

“Oh?” the bartender says, raising his eyebrows.

“Cillian O’Sullivan,” I say, raising my voice slightly to make sure the boys in the back can hear me. “Ever heard of him?”

The bartender stills instantly.

Jackpot.

“Can’t say I have,” he says. “Close friend of yours?”

“Very.”

“You haven’t touched your beer,” he remarks, pointing down at the full mug in front of me.

I look down at it as if I’m considering taking a swig.

But the truth is that I left my taste for alcohol back in Mexico. If I never drink again, it’ll be too soon.

That was the old Artem who drank until he didn’t have to face his demons anymore.

The new Artem looks his demons in the face when he buries a knife in their chest.

I raise my gaze back up to lock eyes with the bartender. Here we are—the moment where the violence starts.

I’m fucking ready.

“I’m Russian, friend,” I spit, purposefully emphasizing the term of not-so-endearment. “I don’t drink this Irish piss.”

The bartender’s fake smile drops at once. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

I smile coolly. “I think you heard me just fine.”

More to the point, the boys in the back heard me.

The bartender’s eyes flick over my shoulder. But I’m way ahead of him.

I already feel them coming, and I act before any of them have even realized that I’m far more than they bargained for.

Grabbing the hilt of the dagger I’ve had hidden against my thigh since I sat down, I turn and hurl it through the air.

The blade buries itself in the neck of the man closest to reaching me. His face freezes in shock.

He wasn’t ready to die.

To which I say—then he shouldn’t have come anywhere near Artem Kovalyov.

I don’t let any of his mates recover. I swing around, grab the hilt that’s protruding from the dying man’s neck, and step behind him in the process.

I use him as a deadweight human shield, just before the three men still standing reach for their guns.

That’s my window of opportunity.

I cock back and throw my knife a second time. The moment it leaves my hand, I grab the gun tucked in the back of my waistband.

The knife finds its home in a second man’s beefy neck. Struck an artery, by the looks of the blood spatter. He falls to the ground, gurgling. I let my human shield go and he hits the deck like a sack of potatoes.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The third sound is the man I’ve shot thudding onto his knees. He has just enough time left in his life to look down at the bloody mess where his beer gut once was and then back up to me.

Horror is etched in his eyes. Disbelief, really.

He looks like he wants to say something to me. Ask me who I am or how I managed to do this. His fat lips sputter with the word.

But then the clock of his life ticks down to zero and he collapses on top of his friend.

Goodnight, friend.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I turn slowly and turn my attention to the bartender.

His eyes are wide with fear as he realizes just how out of his depth he is.

“Drop your gun,” I order.

He was dumb enough to pick up a pistol from somewhere behind the bar, but not brave enough or fast enough to use it on me in the fight.

He does as I say immediately. The moment the gun is down, I saunter back over to the bar.

The other lone drinkers are nowhere in sight, clearly having raced out of