Page 227 of Gilded Tears (Kovalyov Bratva 2)

Pure fucking bliss.

That is probably the best part of my new reality.

Esme.

Phoenix.

Our family.

Being don wouldn’t be so sweet if I didn’t have the two of them with me.

“The cars are out front, boss,” Adrik says, snapping me out of my idle thoughts.

I nod. “Before we leave, sit down for a moment,” I say, looking towards Vasyl and Alexei. “You two as well.”

The three of them sit down, forming a lose circle around me. I open a fresh bottle of whiskey and pour out four glasses.

It’s the first drink I’ve had in months. These days, my drinking has become sporadic. It’s something I engage in on special occasions.

The last time I was drunk was when I’d been in the mountains. Almost a year ago now, drinking away my losses, drowning my demons.

I don’t need to do that anymore.

“We’ve got our shit together,” I tell my underbosses. I pick up my glass of whiskey. “We’ve solidified control of the West Coast and we’ve eliminated threats to the Bratva. But we’ve got more to accomplish. I have plans for all of us.”

Adrik smiles and raises his glass. “To the future of the Bratva.”

We raise our glasses and I take a sip of the rich, bitter whiskey.

“Our future would not have been possible without the sacrifices of others,” I say. “So I propose another toast. To Stanislav,” I say, raising my glass.

My men murmur and toast to Stanislav.

“To Maxim,” I continue.

“To Maxim!”

“To Cillian.”

“To Cillian!”

“You’re really going to toast to me without me?” comes a familiar voice from the doorway. “Pretty damn rude, I’d say.”

I turn.

And the whiskey glass falls from my hand.

It hits the ground and shatters, but I don’t notice. Don’t give a damn.

Because there’s a ghost in the room.

Or at least, I thought it was a ghost.

But Cillian O’Sullivan looks very, very real.

He’s Flesh and bone. Warm. Living.

He’s got a cane in his hand and he leans on it a bit as he crosses the distance between us.