Page 11 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“Lift your arm for me, dear.”

Ester, Fyodor’s family doctor, taps me gently on the shoulder and quickly draws me out of my spiraling thoughts. I’ve been replaying the crash over and over in my mind ever since I sat in Fyodor’s warm jeep and it isn’t easy to think of anything else.

She taps my shoulder once more, and I drag my gaze from a spot on the wall to her kindly blue eyes, which twinkle with age and more experience than I could ever hope to gain in any field. Then I obey and lift my arm until pain twinges across my ribs, and I can’t lift it any further.

“Ow,” I murmur softly.

Ester nods and grips my wrist. “The bruising looks worse than it is. The seatbelt did its job, but I wouldn’t go playing volleyball any time soon.” She chuckles, and something about her mirth is so jarring.

How can she be so calm and sweet when I ran someone over? When someone—someone hugely important—could die because I glanced at my phone? Lowering my arm when she prompts me to, my hands land back in my lap and I close my eyes. Pain throbs through my skull, amplified by the deft stitching of the wound I received along my hairline from cracking my head into the car window.

It’s better than it should be. Ester’s skill is unparalleled and while I know very little about her, Fyodor trusts her. I met her just once before, a few months ago when Dariya fell ill with the flu, and Fyodor was so worried he got her round-the-clock care. Ever the doting father. Now an accomplice.

“The man.” My throat pulls sharply when I speak and I open my eyes. “Is he going to be okay?”

Ester scribbles something onto the chart in her hand, her wrinkled lips pursing into a small O as she does so. Then her attention is on me, and she smiles that sickly sweet comforting smile once more.

I don’t deserve kindness.

Not after what I’ve done.

“My team is working on him now upstairs,” she says gently. “I won’t know all the details until I speak with them, but Fyodor insisted I treat you first.”

That would warm me in any other situation.

“I do know, from my evaluation, that the majority of injuries are not consistent with being hit by your car.”

My heart stops. “What? How—how can that be?”

Ester shrugs once, causing her shawl to slip an inch down her shoulder. “Now, I want you to take these painkillers. Two every six hours because they are strong, but if you feel like they aren’t helping with the pain, just come and see me, okay?”

Her avoidance of my question is hard to follow as my mind reels with the revelation. Zasha was already hurt before I ran into him? Holding out my hand, I silently accept the painkillers Ester drops into them and her voice fades a little as my focus slips.

“Get some rest, my dear. Fyodor is taking care of everything.” Her weathered old hand gently pats my cheek with the motherly affection I’ve craved since a child.

Then she’s gone, leaving me to the deafening silence of my bedroom broken only by the sluggish ticking of my bedside clock and the occasional rattle of the windows as the storm rages outside.

I didn’t cause Zasha’s worst injuries? The revelation doesn’t make sense. Every time I close my eyes, the thump of the jeep rings in my ears and all I see is his body lumped in the middle of the road, soaked with crimson.

Maybe Ester is lying to try and soothe my guilt.

Maybe Fyodor ordered her to.

I can’t think of any reason why Zasha would be out there, already hurt. Did he murmur the name Fio because he was looking for help or naming his attacker? Is that why Fyodor was debating just leaving him in the snow?

They probably didn’t realize I could hear them over the dying wind, but I heard every word.

The pills slip past my lips and I swallow them dry, wincing as they cling to my throat all the way down. With my mind in turmoil and guilt still clinging heavily to my heart, sleep is impossible.

I need a distraction.

Slipping from my room, the guard outside my door merely gives me a concerned glance, but he doesn’t stop me from walking down the hall. The noise of the storm is almost completely muted within the hallway, and I sink my toes into the thick carpet with every step. My search for a distraction takes me right to Dariya’s room. She’s already been put to bed but that doesn’t stop me from cracking open her door and peeking inside.

A glimpse of her asleep with her thick hair spread across the pillow and one arm flung wide is enough to calm my mind for a few minutes. She looks so peaceful. Oblivious to the real world around her.

I close my eyes, and Zasha’s body leaps to the forefront of my mind. The door handle cuts into my palm, and sweat slicks down my back, causing my T-shirt to cling uncomfortably to my skin.

Is this normal? I could ask anyone here, but I know there is no one that could give me a real answer. They’re all mafia, after all. I’m sure they’re more than used to death and pain.

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