Page 90 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“You lie,” Vladimir hisses.

“No I don’t,” Zasha snaps back. “For the first time, I remember everything. It was Ivan, and your father, that kidnapped me. Tortured me. Tried to kill me. What they didn’t count on was that I would escape, so they talked about their plan for a hostile takeover right in front of me.”

“A hostile takeover of this family,” I add, keeping my gun trained on Vladimir. “He wants you dead, Fyodor. He wants you dead because you ousted him and he can’t let go. And Ivan, well, we all know Ivan wants you dead because the scumbag is so power-hungry he doesn’t care who gets devoured.”

“They lie,” Vladimir sneers. “It’s all a lie because Zasha is a coward and can’t die with honor.”

“If you do not believe us,” Zasha says calmly. “Then believe this.” He tosses something up into the air toward Fyodor. For a moment, I don’t think he’ll catch it from how stoic he has been since we entered, then suddenly his arm darts up and he catches the small object as it glints in the air.

He breaks eye contact with me and stares down at the item, then he very slowly turns to his father.

“If they are lying,” he says, and his voice is more strained than ever. “Then why the hell are your men wearing Ivan’s pin?”

A pin? My brows pull together. The Bratva haven’t used pins like that to identify loyalty in so long, but given how stuck Ivan is in the past, it makes sense. I send a look to Zasha—good catch.

“You are forgetting,” Vladimir says angrily, shoving Fyodor’s hand away. “It was Zasha’s men that tried to kill you and put your daughter—my granddaughter— in the hospital! That pin is likely planted and you know it!”

My grip tightens around the gun. Of course he pulls the family card again. He’s going right for Fyodor’s open wound and using it against him.

“I have been thinking about that, too,” Zasha remarks. “I know my men. If they did believe that I was dead or in harm's way because of Fyodor, then a drive-by is not our style. It’s rather old-fashioned, actually, would you not agree?”

As Zasha speaks, Vladimir’s hand disappears under the desk.

“I would not be surprised if those men belonged to Ivan or to you yourself, Vladimir, because I know my men. While yes, they would come for me if they could, they are covert. They would not risk killing innocents just to save me. You and your pal Ivan are so stuck in the past that you cannot think beyond your archaic ways.”

I don’t trust it. Fearing Vladimir is about to pull a gun on Zasha, I surge forward and dive across the desk. Pulling his arm free from where it is hidden, where I expect to see a gun, I find a mobile phone clutched in his claw—his personal one, judging by the larger buttons.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Snatching the device from him, Vladimir tries to protest but his words fall on deaf ears.

Plan B is the last message sent to an unsaved number.

“What’s ‘plan B’?” I turn the phone toward Fyodor. “What the hell have you done?”

“You are a fool,” Vladimir sneers up at me. “You have no idea?—”

His words end abruptly when Fyodor’s fist slams into his face. He grabs his father by the collar and hauls him out of his wheelchair, shaking him violently.

“Enough!” Fyodor roars. “Enough with the games, enough with the lies! Tell me the truth, for once in your miserable life, tell me the goddamn truth!”

My instinct tells me to pull Fyodor back before he does something he might regret, but the moment Vladimir laughs, I resist.

No one is more deserving of Fyodor’s wrath.

A second punch collides with Vladimir’s jaw. Teeth and blood spray to the side and still, he laughs like a maniac. It’s not until Fyodor’s punches him three more times that the laughter stops. Fyodor dumps him back in his wheelchair, panting heavily.

“Tell me the truth, right now, or I swear to God I will just kill you here and now.”

Vladimir wheezes like the last puffs of an old air bag and grins a bloody smile.

“Fine,” he croaks, air whistling out of him with each word. “If you insist—yes, Ivan has been making moves for months, soaking up power wherever he can reach it. The countless smaller families he’s absorbed should have caught your attention, my boy, but you were too blind.”

“I’m not your boy.” Fyodor seethes.

“Until…you.” He points one haggard finger at Zasha. “Your little family remained so stubborn even after you killed your own father.”

Wait … Zasha killed his own Pakhan?

Fyodor and I turn to him, wearing our surprise openly. Zasha merely looks tired.

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