Page 66 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

It’s funny how things turn out.

The sun sets low over the city, peeking between the gaps in the buildings and stretching its long, golden fingers to where we’re parked just outside the mayor’s office. Reaching for the sun visor, I flip it down to avoid the glare—even with my sunglasses, it can be a bit too much.

They’re as much a part of me as any other clothing and a stark reminder of what I suffered. What I nearly lost.

“Are you ready?” Fyodor drops his hands from the steering wheel and starts slowly pulling on a pair of black leather gloves.

“No.” I don’t think I will ever be ready, but that isn’t going to stop me from doing what I came here to do. Thanks to Zasha recalling shit from ten years ago, I finally get to put a bullet in the skull of the bastard that bailed on me and got me sent to prison.

He’s sitting pretty inside with a cushy fucking job in the mayor’s office.

“Changing your mind?” Fyodor flexes his fingers, making the glove fit snuggly.

“No. But…this is big. If I get caught, they’ll cart me back to prison.”

“You won’t get caught.”

“I might. And if you get caught with me…” I’m not trying to talk myself out of it, but part of me is trying to talk Fyodor out of being here with me. I don’t want to put him at risk, especially with Dariya and Naomi needing someone to look out for them. We can’t leave all that to Zasha—as stable as our alliance currently is, there’s no guarantee that it will last.

“You won’t get caught,” Fyodor repeats, his tone firmer this time. His hands land on his thighs. “I’m here for you, and that isn’t going to change.”

“But—”

“No.” He fixes me with a steady stare. “You’re my brother, and this is a huge part of what causes you to suffer. I’m here for it. I’m here for you. And you’re not getting caught.”

“Are you saying that as the leader of the most prominent family in the Bratva?”

“I’m saying it as your friend.” Fyodor’s lips twitch slightly. “And yes, I have influence. So trust me.”

“I do.” Inexplicably.

Fyodor has been there for me from the moment I reached out. He’s cared for me, supported me, and given me purpose. If there’s anyone in this world I would be happy to die for, it would be him.

“Then I’m here,” he says softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Confronting the man who was supposed to be my brother all those years ago is daunting. He exists atop those steps, safe behind those walls, ripe for the killing. And yet something keeps me in the car. A part of me is not ready to face him. I know Fyodor will sit with me all night. He’ll even drive me home and come back with me the next day.

But I can’t put this off any longer. I need to see him. I need to look into his eyes and learn why he betrayed me that day, and why I had to face those ten long years in prison for something that was supposed to be a smooth hit.

We sit until the sun’s golden reach vanishes beneath the horizon and the world around us grows colder and darker. Silence draws in around us like a cloak, and only when the air in the car turns cool do I finally reach for the door.

We enter through the rear entrance and stalk slowly down the hallways. Each door carries a nameplate and I scan each one in turn, searching for the name Henricks. It’s surreal to think that this guy’s life has turned out so well, and the price was merely betraying me.

Who has that kind of power? The kind of influence to give a cushy mayoral job as payment?

Fyodor clicks his tongue behind his teeth, drawing my attention to a single door at the end of a short corridor. Henricks’s name is emblazoned in black across a gold sign. As we approach, the low sound of music playing is broken by some off-tune whistling.

Fyodor hangs back, hand clasped over his wrist at his waist, giving me free rein. A silent supporter.

I take a deep breath, and the tension building in my chest eases just a fraction. It’s not enough to stop me from feeling smothered, but it keeps the dizziness at bay. Then, I lift my leg and kick the door in with one swift movement.

The portly man inside nearly falls off his chair in fright. He clutches at his tie, bunching the fabric up in his shirt while his mustache trembles back and forth.

“For heaven’s sake, what in the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

I stalk inside and slam both hands flat on his desk. Pens and other stationary jump at the impact and Henricks’s eyes widen in terror.

“Hey buddy,” I sneer slightly. “Remember me?”

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