Page 23 of Devil Seeks Nanny

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling more tears leak out of the corners of my eyes as I bend forward and prop my elbows on my knees, bowing my head so I can cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I mumble, my words muffled by my hands.

I’m sorry for going away to Los Angeles. I’m sorry for not coming back home as often as I should’ve. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry you’re not here anymore. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The sob that escapes me bounces off the walls and chokes me, pressing the heels of my palms to my watery eyes and letting my fingers bury into my hair, and I let it loose. I let out the tears I’ve been holding back for so long, the cries wracking my body and filling the once-silent house with the sounds of my uninhibited sobs. I can feel my body trembling as I let the grief take over me in a way I haven’t allowed it to since dad’s passing.

It hurts, this pain in my chest. Unrelenting, unforgiving, stealing all of my breath.

I let it consume me. I cry and cry and cry until my reddened eyes begin to feel heavy, and I fall into a pained slumber that serves as a little reprieve from this heartbreak.

Chapter 15

BRUNO

When my knock on the bedroom door goes unanswered, my eyebrows pull together, and, without preamble, I open the door and look inside the room. Everything is perfectly tidy; the bed is made, the curtains had been parted in the morning to let the sunlight in but now just show off the darkened sky, the dressing table has everything neatly arranged. It smells like coconuts, something inherently Diana. My frown deepens, teeth pressing together. No sign of her, though.

I pull out my phone, clicking on our messages. The tightness of my jaw intensifies as I once again take in my unread messages:

Where are you?

It’s getting late, Diana. When will you be back?

Are you safe?

This isn’t funny. Where are you?

All of my messages are left unread, and it only intensifies the sudden iron grip of worry that clings to me. It’s unlike Diana to not respond to my messages, and the longer they go unread, the more I want to track her the hell down.

Where the hell is she?

I think of her father, and the possibility that his death wasn’t an accident—that maybe someone had targeted her too—and the worry that rumbles in my chest explodes to the point where it threatens to make it difficult to breathe. It’s a jarring sensation, but it kicks my ass into gear as I head down the stairs, my footsteps thudding against the carpeted steps. The kids are in bed already, our long day together tiring them out, and as I open an app on my phone, I catch Raf’s attention just as he exits the living room.

“Everything okay, Boss?” he asks, frowning.

“I don’t know,” I say, clicking through the app. Unbeknownst to Diana, I have a tracker on her phone and car, which I’d had my guys plant the moment she had moved into my place. While I’m aware it’s an invasion of her privacy, I don’t give a fuck because it comes in handy in moments like this.

My jaw tightens when I see that both her phone and car are in the same spot, at an address I recognize. I look up at Raf, who’s eyeing me skeptically, though he looks ready to spring into action at my word. “I have to go check something. You’ll stay with the kids.”

It’s not a request, but Raf nods nonetheless, and I grab my keys before heading out. The drive doesn’t take long, and I feel just a fraction of relief when I see the familiar red Volks Wagon parked in the driveway of the two-story home. There’s a single light on, which I notice through a window on the ground floor. I get out of my car, taking in the quietness of the neighborhood. Taking note of the front yard, I see that the grass has grown without the maintenance it takes to upkeep the yard, and I wonder if Diana’s looking into it, or if she’s completely abandoned taking care of the house. Something tells me that’s unlikely, though.

When I step up to the front door, I give it a few firm knocks, waiting for her to open the door. When a few seconds pass without an answer, my eyebrows pull together, and I step off to the side to peer through the window, trying to see inside. Through a parting between the curtains, I catch sight of Diana laying on the couch. My muscles tense, but she seems to be asleep.

Stepping up to the front door again, I casually throw a glance on either side of me, making sure no one’s watching, before I take out the Swiss army knife in my pocket, the one my father had given to me when I was ten. In the next few seconds, I’ve got the door unlocked, and I walk into the dark and quiet house, the only light coming from the living room as I step inside.

My gaze instantly goes to Diana as she sleeps on the couch on her side, her body rising and falling gently with the steady breaths she takes. My footsteps are quiet as I walk further into the room, approaching her silently so I don’t startle her awake. But the closer I get, the clearer her face is, and I can easily make out the dried streaks of tears that run a course down her cheeks. Some strands of blonde hair stick to her cheek, and my fingers itch with the urge to reach out and brush them away, but I restrain myself.

Except I can’t. Because once I’m in front of her, I find myself crouching to my knees, eye level with her sleeping face. She’d been crying—for how long before she fell asleep, I don’t know. And the idea of her being this upset heats my blood, a primal urge to get rid of her pain rising within me before I can put a cap on it.

My hand reaches forward of its own accord, and my touch is featherlight as my fingers gently brush away her hair. My skin brushes against hers, electricity sparking instantly at the very first touch of her soft cheek, and my jaw tightens. Diana doesn’t stir in her sleep, and I allow myself the minutes to admire her in ways I’ve forced myself not to.

She’s beautiful—overwhelmingly so. Her cheeks always seem to be pink, even now as she sleeps, lips naturally pouty and slightly parted as she breathes. Her eyelashes, darker in color than her hair, are long and nearly brush against her cheekbones, and there’s a minuscule beauty mark in the corner of her left eye.

The dried tear tracks tell me she fell asleep while crying, and it doesn’t take a genius to know, especially when she’s curled up on the couch of her childhood home, that she had been thinking of her father. I want answers for myself and for her, especially when I see the pain that weighs her down so fiercely. I understand it. I’ve felt it myself before.

When Diana suddenly begins stirring, I’m on my feet in a blink of an eye, taking silent steps back to put some distance between us, so she doesn’t wake up to my face right in front of her. I don’t want to frighten her or make her uncomfortable. So, I stand by the TV, a good few feet away, as Diana’s eyebrows pull together as she shifts where she’s laying.

Moments later, her eyes blearily blink open, and I see the look of confusion pass over her face as she tries to make sense of where she is. It doesn’t take her more than ten seconds to realize, and I hear the deep breath that escapes her when she does. And it’s when she’s pushing herself up into a sitting position that she finally spots me.

“Oh, crap,” she gasps, startled, as she puts a hand to her chest. Her eyes widen, all sense of sleep disappearing as she gapes at me. “Wha—what are you doing here?”

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