Page 91 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“You killed your father?” I ask. “Oleg Chernykh, Pakhan. You killed him?”

“Yes,” Zasha answers honestly and a flicker of pain ignites in his eyes like a candle. “He was abusing my mother in secret. When I finally witnessed it, I took it into my own hands and killed him.”

Understandable.

Fyodor and I nod.

“And yet your own mother could not forgive you, could she?” Vladimir wheezes. “She took her own life to get away from you.”

“You don’t know anything about her,” Zasha spits.

My God. Suddenly I’m seeing Zasha in a new light. Before, he was the irritating son taking over from his father and a thorn in our side as he tried to make a name for himself. Now I see that he was simply trying to keep his family together.

“You should have given up,” Vladimir continues. Then he pauses and coughs violently into his palm. Blood spots his skin, but there’s no sympathy for him—not from me.

“You should have let Ivan absorb your family, but no, you had to be all noble and try to keep your family name afloat. So yes, Ivan decided to kill you. He wanted to make you an example to any other smaller family that tried to stand in his way. We set up a deal to trick you and then, once we had your men, I was to take care of you.”

His beady eyes snap to Fyodor. His face is swelling from the blows to the point that his left eye is almost closed over, but the hatred shines through as clear as day.

“You. My useless son with no ambition or sense. Once you were dead, Ivan would marry Dariya and join both families. You may think us old but even now you all follow older traditions like that and no one would question. It was the perfect plan until that rat escaped. We had no idea where you crawled off to.”

Zasha lets out an unamused snort. “How did you find out?”

“A woman. A Yenin.” Vladimir coughs again, and this time blood stains his lips. “She crept out of the woodwork with a deal for Ivan. She would give us your location in exchange for wiping out the Dunayevskys. Little did she know she was making a deal where she had nothing to gain. As soon as we agreed, she gave Zasha up.”

A woman. From Vladimir’s earlier story by the pool, there’s only one person that could be. My heart sinks like a rock and the pistol grip becomes engraved on my palm.

“Naomi’s mother,” I grind out.

“Yes,” Vladimir wheezes. “She gave up her daughter too. Told Ivan everything about the plan.”

“And all along,” I spit. “She had no idea she was dealing with you, a Dunayevsky.”

“Nope—”

Suddenly, Fyodor starts to laugh. It’s a humorless sound, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. He tosses the pin onto the desk and takes a step back from his father, laughing continuously.

Zasha and I share a look of confusion. Has he finally snapped?

He laughs that dry, hollow noise for a few minutes, then wipes at his eyes. “You did all that work, made all these plans and hold so much stake in the old laws, but you’re missing one very fucking funny detail.”

All attention is on Fyodor and Vladimir no longer holds the confident look he once had.

“Dariya isn’t even my daughter.”

Zasha and Vladimir’s mouths fall open in shock.

“What?!” Vladimir screeches.

“She isn’t my daughter. Biologically. And in the event that I died, my most trusted guard has strict instructions to get her as far away from this estate as possible.”

Fyodor’s heavy, sad eyes lock onto me for a few seconds, then he looks at his father.

“My will states the truth for everyone, so if anyone did try to marry her then they would not gain control of this family. I saved her from the last family you ordered me to murder.” Fyodor laughs loudly, a chilling sound with the hollowness attached. “You would do all of this, and then have my will read, and everyone would have learned that she isn’t even mine. Ivan would have no one to marry for control.”

His laughter turns a touch maniacal and I worry he’s lost the last tether holding him to sanity. I can’t blame him. Dariya lies in critical condition at the hospital, likely due to his father who has been scheming with his enemy to kill him. On top of that, he’s lost Naomi.

“Fyodor—” I start to speak as Vladimir seethes by the desk, but his phone buzzes to life in my hand. Glancing down, one message blinks onto the screen.

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