Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2), стр. 22

Another whine. The mutt has snuck into the cabin. He’s sniffing around the pasta that’s stuck all over the floor.

Apparently, I upended the table last night. Both chairs still lay on their sides. The table, too. And pasta everywhere.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

The smell in here is mostly booze and sweat. Underneath it all, though, is a stink that set in weeks ago.

I need to fucking clean up.

I pick up one of the fresh bottles of whiskey, set one of the chairs upright, and sink into it. I crack the top and take a burning swig.

I don’t usually start drinking so early, but I’m feeling restless today. Worse than usual.

The mutt eagerly laps up the pasta.

I take another drink and set the bottle down on the floor. When it clinks, the mutt looks up with a startled little flinch and fixes his sad eyes on me.

“Don’t fucking judge me,” I snarl. “At least east I don’t look like you do.”

The dog starts wagging his tail and pads over to me. I don’t touch. I don’t want the mongrel to get too comfortable with me.

I don’t mind him eating shit off the floor, but I’m in no position to look after anything.

The whiskey settles my nerves. I get out of the chair and survey the cabin.

It looks like a fucking shithole. Mostly because it is. I know where all the important shit is—the whiskey and the weapons—but the rest of it is a haphazard mess.

Sighing, I right the table and the other chair back to their normal positions. One of the table’s legs is crooked, but I’m in no hurry to fix it.

Then I move around the cabin and straighten what I can.

The place is nowhere near clean, but it’s the most I can bring myself to accomplish right now.

When I’m sick of trying to fix this unfixable chaos, I grab my jacket.

The dog perks his head up.

“Don’t even fucking thinking about it,” I tell him. “You’re not coming with me.”

He actually lets out a little whine, as though he’s understood me perfectly.

“Too fucking bad,” I reply. “I’m not your damn owner.” I glare down at him. “Nobody would want you anyway.”

The dog just blinks at me.

“Yeah, now you decide not to understand me.”

I wonder if I should be concerned that I’m talking to a fucking animal. It feels inconsequential, though, given everything I’ve lost.

I’ve had three months to think on all those losses. And what I’ve decided is that they were all necessary.

I needed the bullshit to be stripped away. For my vision to be cleared.

I needed a reminder of who I am and what my purpose in life is.

Had I really been prepared to give up my claim to the Bratva?

Yes, I had been.

And for what?

A woman.

A woman with dark hair and hazel-gold eyes and a smile that was so pure that it made me aware of just how tainted my own soul was.

She was not for me.

She was never been meant for me.

A wife? A child? A family.

These are things that belonged to other men. Normal men.

But I am no normal man.

I am Artem Kovalyov.

I am Don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

That is my only purpose in life.

Until death absolves me of my responsibility.

I head out of the cabin. There’s a black Jeep parked right outside the porch. I’d nabbed it about a month ago, a few miles outside of Devil’s Peak.

I have grown unreasonably attached to the vehicle, but that won’t stop me from changing it in a few weeks.

I’m not going to let sentiment rule me any longer. I have made too many weak decisions to repeat them.

So as soon as I feel myself longing for something, fitting in with something… it gets tossed.

I climb into the Jeep. The dog watches me from the porch, chin on his paws. He already looks too fucking comfortable.

If he’s still here when I get back, I’ll fire a few warning shots to scare him off for good.

I’m interested in company. Not even the four-legged variety.

I drive fast down the trail to the village. I take the turns recklessly, but I’m confident I can drive this path blindfolded now. It’s so damn familiar to me.

My time here is ending soon.

I needed these few months to recover. I was too wrecked from Budimir’s attack to do anything else.

But now, after months of intense training, my body is at its peak physical shape. My mind is in a stronger place, too.

I’m focused. I’m determined. And I’m thirsty for blood again.

I park in a tight space outside the bookstore that Esme used to frequent. I catch a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror and I pause for a moment.

My beard is now my dominant feature, swallowing the bottom half of my face and casting attention to the dark circles under my eyes.

I barely recognize myself. But maybe that’s a good thing.

I get out of the car and head straight to the grocery store. I’m running low on supplies and I need to replenish.

I hunt regularly, so I’m good with food.

But alcohol is something I can’t forage for in the forests around the cabin.

And God fucking knows I need that. It’s the only thing that gets me through the nights.

I can feel eyes lock on me as I stride around the grocery store, throwing things into my cart. Anyone in my path clears away instantly, before they even meet my gaze.

I like it this way.

I’m standing in front of the liquor section when I feel someone walk up to me. My body clenches in response to the unwelcome attention.

People have started calling me El Ruso Loco. The Crazy Russian.

I like that, too.

But apparently, word hasn’t gotten to quite everyone just yet. Either that or there are still people in this town who are fucking clueless.

“Hello, Artem.”

I smell her before I look up at her. That thick, floral scent laces the air around her like an aura.

Aracelia.

I groan inwardly, but I keep my eyes dark and my expression impassive as I