Page 7 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

But I’m not a regular person and neither is he.

While Fyodor has hidden the fact that he is Bratva from me and has done an incredible job of acting like just a fixer for companies in trouble, I know he would hate any kind of police involvement on his property. It would be the one way the police could get a foothold into his life, and there’s no telling how awful that would be.

Never mind the terrible implications of a Bratva leader out here in the wilderness like this. Accusations would fly not just from the cops but every other family too. I’m pretty sure my mother would enjoy that if she wasn’t so set on her own revenge.

Police involvement would also put a wrench in my mother’s plan, and somehow, her fury scares me even more than the consequences of Fyodor finding out who I am and what I know.

Fuck.

A sudden sob escapes me as tears turn to crystals and scrape down my face. The world is as dead and as silent as the body in front of me and for one panicked, cold moment, I consider leaving him here.

It’s a single intrusive thought that forces me to turn and puke a foot away, coughing and gagging as the only warmth to reach me comes from the burning bile up my own throat.

I can’t leave him.

Turning back to Zasha, I delicately place two fingers on his bruised neck and seek out a pulse point, telling myself that I’ll make my decision once I know if he’s alive.

Nothing breaches the numbness.

“Fuck.”

I need to warm them up. I shove my fingers into my mouth and start sucking on them with all my strength, attempting to chase away the cold long enough to feel something. Anything. After a few long seconds, numbness gives way to an aching throb in my fingertips.

That’ll do.

Pressing my two fingers back to his neck, his cold skin shocks me and I nearly pull away. What stops me is the weak tremor fluttering against my fingertips. A heartbeat. He’s alive.

I focus on that flutter for as long as I can until the cold once again takes away my sensation.

I have to call the cops.

Suddenly, Zasha stirs to life, and pale lashes flutter open, revealing a pair of fogged blue-green eyes. He gasps wetly and blood spots his lower lip, causing me to jump in fright. A painfully haggard breath comes from him, a sound so loud that it cuts through the storm.

“Sir?”

His eyes sluggishly dart back and forth, then they land on me and widen.

Does he know? Can he tell that I’m the one that did this to him?

“I’m—I’m going to get you help, okay? It’s going to be okay, I promise. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” It’s surreal to feel my mouth move and yet no sound reaches me. Words of apology swept away in the storm, leaving me desperately hoping that he would hear some of it.

His lips move, pressing together and then parting, and the sudden touch of his frozen left hand against my thigh makes me jump. His touch alerts me to how violently I’m shivering, yet Zasha’s hand is calm and unwavering. Never have I seen someone in so much pain. Guilt carves me up on the inside. Is he past the point of freezing?

His lips move again. And again, making the same shape, but his words suffer the same fate as mine. I lean down as close as I dare, desperate to hear what he’s saying. The last plea of a dying man.

Breath with the barest hint of warmth ghosts across my frozen cheek. Then, one word catches my ear.

“Fio,” Zasha croaks so brokenly that the word almost just sounds like a whimper of pain.

Fio? Is he asking for Fyodor? The only person I’ve ever heard call Fyodor Fio is Dariya because she can’t say his name correctly.

Leaning back up, Zasha’s eyes close and his lips fall still.

I bring my phone close, and my decision is made.

“Siri? Call Fyodor.”

3

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