Page 32 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“All I knew, all I had was the thought to get here. And, somehow, I did.”

“Why?” Fyodor demands without missing a beat. “We are far from friends. We are certainly not allies. Why did you want to be here? Is there a rat here? Were you on your way to sow seeds of discourse and set me up for your death?” Fyodor inches closer. “Is this all a ploy to get close enough to kill me?”

“Kill you?” I gasp. “Fyodor, what are you talking about? You’re being so stupid!”

Fyodor snaps upright like something affixed to his spine, then turns toward me angrily. “Excuse me?”

It’s easy to play the role of not knowing about the Bratva here, though seeing Fyodor angry sends a pulse of static through my chest.

“Look at him! He’s a beaten man and I know I partly helped with that by hitting him with the car, and I may not understand why his family is so important or why you two don’t like each other, but you’re a decent man, Fyodor. He’s clearly weakened and the only ploy here is a desperate man seeking help. And you help people.” It takes all my strength to keep my voice steady. “So help him.”

Zasha laughs suddenly, a silky sound weakened by the roughness of his current state and all attention slips back to him.

“I don’t know why I came here. I don’t remember. I can’t think of anything that would make me willingly walk into the jaws of the Dunayevsky family, but here I am. Everyone in the Bratva knows there’s no decency here, that there’s only blood and death. Hell, maybe that’s the answer.” He lifts his head and sadness bleeds from his eyes. “Maybe I came here for a quick death.”

The tension in the room suddenly becomes smothering and it’s not until Fyodor and Daniil slowly turn back to me that it clicks what’s going on.

Zasha mentioned the Bratva. The one detail I’m not supposed to know.

It’s almost too easy to put my nerves into the faux shock on my face. My mouth drops open and my eyes widen, gaze remaining fixed on Zasha. I fear if I look anywhere else, the lie will slip.

“The … Bratva?” I ask softly. “You mean the … the Russian mafia?”

I stand abruptly, and the horrified, shocked reaction I’ve rehearsed a thousand times finally comes into play.

“You mean I—I’m working for the mafia?!”

Zasha’s head dips forward and a tired laugh escapes him. “Oops.”

12

FYODOR

“Naomi, let me explain!”

She was never supposed to find out this way. Part of me hoped she would never find out at all, but I knew that was just a fool’s hope. Something I clung to when I watched her bond with my daughter and breathe new life into this house. She was supposed to remain the one statue of normality that I wanted in Dariya’s life to keep her upbringing as wholesome as possible.

Free from blood and death and every dark scar that taints my own childhood.

“Leave me alone!” Upstairs, Naomi tries to slam her bedroom door in my face but I take the hit, not even feeling the pain of the impact. Her eyes swim with tears as she strides across her bedroom to the far end, stopping near the window.

I follow her until she spins to face me and points at me. “Stay the hell away from me!”

I halt at her demand, her distress visible across her beautiful features. A few hours ago, I gave into my obsessive desire for her and fucked her like she was mine to have and love. In this moment, I ache to return to then, back to before Zasha opened his mouth and ruined everything.

“I’m sorry.” The word is unfamiliar on my tongue, but for Naomi, I’ll make an exception. “I lied to you. It’s one thing to work for someone you think is just obnoxiously rich. It’s another to find out they’re a career criminal.”

“Oh, you think?” Naomi snaps, hastily wiping away a few stray tears.

“Please.” I’m half unsure why it’s so important that she listens to me. Usually, I excel at keeping control of a situation, but this is different. One wrong step, and Naomi could slip through my fingers, and I don’t want to become the bad guy, forcing her to stay here so she doesn’t say a word to anyone.

“You lied to me!” She throws her hands up and a humorless laugh escapes her. “I thought I was working for some rich asshole like you see online. The rich are too busy with work to care for their own kid and you know what? I didn’t even mind that because it got me a job that paid so fucking well and I almost admired how you wanted a normal poor person to raise your kid. It’s fucking cliché but hey, if I could give your daughter some real depth then maybe she wouldn’t follow in your footsteps. Instead”—Naomi gasps—“instead, you’re a criminal. And not even a normal one, you’re in the fucking mafia!”

Her words cut deeper than I expect and something tightens around my heart, slowing the beats.

“You’re right.” Of course she is. I raise both hands, palm up. “But it’s not what you think?”

“Oh sure, I haven’t seen a tommy gun anywhere but I think I get the gist.” More tears slip down the apples of her cheeks, and she hastily wipes them away and sniffles. “Go on then. Explain it to me and then leave me the fuck alone.”

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