Page 23 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“No worries. How is she doing?”

He glances over my shoulder and smiles warmly. “As talented as ever.”

My smile widens. “That’s great. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

When he leaves, I turn my full attention back to Dariya and interrupt her reading by lightly tickling her side.

“Did you hear that? You’re doing amazing!”

Dariya beams up at me with the toothiest smile and my heart soars. Out of all the things that have happened here that give me pause against my mother’s orders, Dariya is the strongest one. She’s adorable and utterly innocent. It doesn’t escape me that if my mother succeeds, Dariya will end up in the same place she was all those years ago.

Things like that make my decisions much tougher.

I focus on Dariya as she slowly reads to me, following along with the words and gently correcting her any time she makes a mistake, which is rare. She reads right to the end, then snaps the book shut with a laugh.

“Did you like that one?”

“Yes,” she declares. “I wish I could climb a beanstalk.”

“Well, you never know.” The book ends up on the side table, and I scoop Dariya up into my arms. “There’s all sorts of wacky plants around these days. I’m sure we could find you a beanstalk if we really looked for one.”

“Really?” Her eyes turn to saucers. “Not one that leads to a giant, though.”

“You wouldn’t like to meet him?”

“And be turned into bread?!” Dariya is so aghast that I can’t hold in my laughter.

“You’re right. Being turned into bread would stink. Come on, we can use some leftover dough to make something much better.”

I carry Dariya with me to the kitchen, keeping one eye on the clock. It’s late enough that I really should consider putting her down to bed soon, but with how tense things have been with my mother, I need to earn back some brownie points.

As if tending to Dariya can ever make up for my undercover role here.

“What are we going to make?” Dariya hurries over to the pantry and pulls out her stool as I gather the leftover dough from the fridge.

“How about…tarts? You like strawberry tarts, right?”

“Yes!” She claps her tiny hands together. “Yes!”

Within minutes, the familiar scent of raw dough tickles my nose as Dariya works her fists into the piece I sectioned off for her. Her technique is really improving and when I stand next to her, my chest aches with a pull of yearning. Doing this with my own mother when I was so little was such a simple time. I didn’t know the darkness of our family’s past, and the hardest thing I faced was waiting for the tarts to cool before I could eat them.

How different life is now.

“Am I doing it right?” Dariya uses her whole upper body to knead and her hair falls forward in the process. Abandoning my own dough, I scoop her hair back behind her ears and secure it in place with two hair ties.

“You’re doing amazing. Just keep doing that and once it’s as soft as I taught you, you can roll it out.”

“Okay!” Her little face scrunches up with concentration.

Taking my spot on the opposite side of the counter, I turn my attention to the puree that we’ll drizzle over the fruit. We fall into an amicable rhythm while Dariya fills me in on her day. She recites wild stories of hide and seek, coloring, an adventure escapade with her teddy, and, of course, boring school with the mean tutor.

As we chat, she rolls the pastry and I whip up the puree to the right temperature. While the pastry cases bake in the oven, filling the air with the warm scent of dough that feeds the blossoming warmth in my chest, we wash up and I tell Dariya an abridged version of my day. She’s intently curious about my mother but the pastry cases are ready to be filled before I need to give any details.

Several spoonfuls of cream and delicately placed strawberries later, the tarts are almost complete.

“I’m so hungry,” Dariya whines, shamelessly licking the cream from the spoon. “Can I give one to Daddy?”

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