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

up. I slump on the floor beside the sofa with my arm still draped over her breasts.

My eyes rake over her naked body. She’s as beautiful as I remember, but there are small changes.

She’s clearly lost a lot of weight since the baby.

Her bones are much more prominent now. They cut sharp angles in her soft figure.

But the most obvious change is the large Caesarean scar that adorns her lower belly.

I trace the scar in the same way she used to trace the tattoos on my chest. She watches me quietly, but she doesn’t stop me.

“You’ll need to tell me about it one day,” I tell her. “When you’re ready.”

She sighs. “I don’t remember much of it to be honest,” she says in a detached voice. “I was unconscious for most of it.”

My eyes meet hers, and I feel the weight of everything single moment I’ve missed in the last several months.

“Was anyone with you?” I ask.

“Geoffrey is the one who took me to the hospital,” she tells me. “You mentioned him earlier. The man from the bus station. But after that, I was on my own.”

A growl rumbles deep in my chest. Anger and regret all mixed up in one. “I wish you didn’t have to do it on your own.”

She turns her eyes up to the ceiling, and I know she’s blinking away her tears.

“I made a choice,” she replies.

I nod, but say nothing.

Then I hear a sound that sends me shooting up to my feet. A long, drawn-out cry that punctures the silence like a lightning bolt across a clear sky.

My son.

Esme gets off the sofa and turns to me.

“Do you want to meet him?”

I just nod, feeling the enormity of the moment rushing to meet me.

Once I see him, it’ll be real. It will change everything.

It already has.

Esme takes my hand and leads me to the room. The door swings open.

As I expect, the room is a matchbox. There’s a low single bed, threadbare blankets, colorless pillows.

And right next to all that sits a baby bassinet.

I hear a string of gargling noises, punctured by a sharp cry every now and again.

Then I see a little fist rise from the bassinet before disappearing from view.

I freeze instinctively, but Esme moves forward. I watch as she stands over the bassinet and looks down with a transformative smile on her face.

“Hola, little bird,” she coos, her tone thick with love. “Did you sleep well?”

I see his hand reach for her. He grabs one of her fingers tightly. Esme leans in and kisses his brow.

“I have someone special I want you to meet,” she whispers.

Then she plucks the baby from the bassinet.

I feel my heart churn in a way I’ve never actually experienced before. Time feels slower. All sound drops away.

Esme steps back around, and for the first time, I’m given an uninterrupted view of my son.

He’s small, but he fits perfectly in the crook of Esme’s arm.

His face is turned up to her. Then she angles him in my direction and I see his face.

My own features reflected back at me. The jaw, the nose, the brow—it’s Kovalyov through and through.

All except the eyes.

He’s got his mother’s eyes, soft and molten and as yet unmarred by the evils of the world.

“O bozhe moy,” I breathe in Russian as Phoenix looks at me with something close to confusion.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Esme asks.

I nod and swallow. “He’s perfect.”

“Here,” she says, moving closer.

“What are you doing?”

She smiles patiently. “I thought you might like to hold him.”

Have I ever held a baby before?

No, I’m sure I have.

And even if had, this… this is different.

I offer up my arms and Esme gently places the squirming baby into them.

“Just relax,” Esme tells me as he fusses a little.

I pull him closer to my chest and place an arm right underneath him, securing him in place. He seems to like that position better.

After a moment, he settles a little.

“You’re a natural,” Esme says.

“Phoenix,” I whisper, testing how his name feels on my lips. I look up at Esme. “It suits him.”

“That’s what I thought,” she agrees. “I know it’s not one of the names we discussed…”

“It’s perfect,” I tell her with finality.

She nods, and we just look at our son together for a few moments.

“This is what I always wanted,” Esme says, putting her hand on my arm. “You, me, and Phoenix. Just the three of us.”

I glance up at her, hating myself for having lied to her before.

I know I need to clear things up, but I find myself looking back down at my son.

I let myself get distracted.

I let myself off the hook.

But for one moment…

One blissful, perfect moment…

None of that matters.

I have what I need right here.

31

Esme

I wake from a restless sleep that leaves me with the vague feeling that I’ve been dreaming, even though I can’t remember what about.

I’m settled in one corner of my small bed. Artem is taking up the rest of it. I don’t mind, though, especially because Phoenix looks so comfortable nestled against his Papa’s broad chest.

He sleeps with his butt sticking up in the air and I smile to see Artem’s hand cupping it gently, holding him securely in place.

They look so damn perfect.

I can’t help but stare.

I won’t lie: Artem’s appearance had taken me completely by surprise. I hadn’t been prepared for it in the slightest, and it had brought up a whole host of emotions.

Emotions that I’d been avoiding for so long.

Emotions I never thought I’d feel again.

I slip out of the bed and head to the kitchen. I make myself a cup of plain tea, a taste I had developed after Phoenix’s birth, and sip it slowly.

It’s nice to turn my brain off. Even if it’s only for five minutes, the silence does me some good. Helps me reset, recharge, recalibrate.

After I’ve finished my cup of tea, I put it in the sink and take a deep breath. The peace I found while drinking it vanishes as quickly as it