Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) by Nicole Fox (novels to read for beginners txt) 📗

drop a bottle of whiskey into my cart without acknowledging her.

“You’re not planning on saying hello?” Aracelia asks.

“Hadn’t planned on it, no.”

“Having a party tonight?” she asks with interest.

I pivot in place, turning the full force of my black eyes on her. “You’re in my way.”

“I think you’re in your own way.”

I roll my eyes. “Where’d that come from?” I demand. “Your self-help book of the month?”

“Just a personal observation,” she replies with a shrug.

The woman has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. She’s annoying enough to kill, but it really wouldn’t be worth the effort. I’d have to bury her body afterwards and it would just mess with my evening of drinking.

A man can fantasize, though.

“How’ve you been?” she persists.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I groan. “You’re making small talk?”

“You could use a friendly conversation—”

“We are not fucking friends,” I snarl.

I lean in so that my nose is inches away from hers. She stares back at me without any reaction. She doesn’t even take a step back.

She shrugs. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“It’s my fucking opinion.”

“Meaning what?” she asks. “Mine doesn’t count?”

Fucking hell. The shit I have to put up with.

“No,” I reply blackly.

“Why?” she demands. “Because I’m a woman?”

Her eyes flare with indignation. I notice a couple of people gawking at us from the aisles. That does remarkably little to help my mood.

“No,” I retort. “Because you’re fucking nuts.”

“You should look in the mirror before you go around throwing insults like that,” she says placidly.

One well-placed hit and she’d be out cold. It’d be so easy and the silence that follows would be so fucking welcome…

I try to walk around her, but she moves right in front of me, putting her body between me and the exit.

“Why don’t you come around to my place for dinner?” she suggests brightly. “You look like you could use a real meal.”

“I have food.”

“Alcohol doesn’t count as food.”

“Why the fuck do you even care?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I think Esme would want me to make sure you’re alright,” she says.

I freeze. My eyes narrow. Icy, flinty, furious.

“Fuck off, you crazy bitch,” I rasp.

Then I push past her so hard that she stumbles into the long shelves and upends several racks of beans.

Leaving the chaos in my wake, I head straight for the checkout counter and push my cart through.

“Hurry the fuck up,” I tell the pimple-faced youth who looks about ready to piss himself. I’m not sure how good his English is, but some messages are universal. He gets the gist of it.

He grabs the items from my cart, trying to be as fast as he can, but he’s so nervous he keeps stumbling, making silly mistakes and sweating through his green grocery store shirt.

“You have five seconds to finish up or else I’m gonna walk out of here with my alcohol and you’re gonna have to pay for it.”

His eyes go wide and the amount of sweat on his brow seems to double instantly.

“Do you have to terrorize the boy just because you’re mad at the world?” comes a sickeningly familiar voice.

Fucking Aracelia.

“Don’t you have a séance to go perform somewhere?” I ask. “A Ouija board that needs a friend?”

“Not today,” she replies seriously. “But if you’re interesting in communicating with someone, I can find the time for you.”

“Ti durak!” I groan in Russian. Shut the fuck up.

The boy almost drops one of my bottles of whiskey while he tries to run it under the scanner.

But my anger is directed at Aracelia right now. She’s standing behind me with a bunch of bananas in her arms. Cradling it like a fucking baby.

“You know where I live if you change your mind about dinner,” she says. As though we’d been having a perfectly civil conversation.

Then she pivots around and moves to the empty check-out counter next to the one I’m at.

I turn my attention back to the pimply boy in front of me.

“Didn’t I tell you to hurry the fuck up?”

He actually lets out a little whimper that reminds me of the mutt up in my cabin right now.

But before I can threaten his life, a tall woman emerges out of thin air. Clearly, she’s been watching the entire exchange.

She’s wearing a white shirt whose top two buttons have been opened out just enough to display the impressive cleavage she’s toting around. Her hair is dark and so are her eyes. She’s just the kind of woman I used to gravitate to back when I was still a fool who thought chasing pussy was a worthy use of my time.

“Let me handle this, Jorge,” she says smoothly. “Sorry about him, señor. He’s new.”

I just growl.

She looks at me through dark, interested eyes.

I know immediately why she’s taken over at all. This bitch is sniffing around for cock. Some women are just self-destructive like that.

“I can offer you a discount,” she says, ringing up the alcohol with impressive speed. “For the wait.”

“Fine.”

“If you’re in a hurry, you can give me your address and I’ll drive everything over in an hour when I’m done with my shift.”

Fuck, she’s bold. And it should have been sexy as fuck. But my cock has barely twitched.

“Is that part of the job description?” I ask.

“No,” she replies, meeting my gaze and offering me a seductive smile. “But I like to go the extra mile for customers I like.”

“You don’t like me,” I sigh. “Your pussy is wet for me. There’s a difference.”

She blinks at me for a moment in stunned horror.

I nod, satisfied with how that went. “Keep the change,” I tell her as I hand over a wad of pesos.

Aracelia is standing by my car when I re-emerge into the parking lot. She stares at me as I load the groceries into the back seat and send the emptied cart flying into the curb with a shove.

“Move,” I bark. She’s blocking the driver’s seat.

“Artem, I’m worried—”

My hand whips out instinctively. Finds that throat I fantasized about snapping.

I squeeze hard. Maybe too hard.

Aracelia tries not to