Page 34 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

“You’re a criminal. You’re all criminals, even Zasha. And Daniil, right? Because he certainly didn’t seem surprised.” She wipes at her tears, and while some still escape when she blinks, she’s crying less now.

“Yes,” I answer around the lump forming in my throat. “Everyone here that you’ve ever come into contact with is.”

“Dariya, does she know?”

“I’m doing everything in my power to keep her out of this life until I have no choice. I want her to have the childhood I never had, that no child in the Bratva ever gets to have. That’s why I wanted an outsider as a nanny and why it was kept a secret. She deserves a normal upbringing.”

Naomi doesn’t speak. Her eyes are down, and while I give her time to process it, I can’t leave—not yet.

My knees ache as I kneel in front of her and take her hands in mine. To my surprise, Naomi doesn’t pull away. She lifts her eyes to meet mine.

“Now you know my secret. No one else in the world knows except Daniil. I’m telling you this because…because I want you to know that I trust you. My daughter adores you, and so do I. Ever since you came here, you’ve been giving her everything she needs and more, and I am so grateful to you. I am here—begging you to stay and think about this. What you might think of the mafia, or associate with it, I promise I am different. I am trying. I never told you—and never wanted to tell you because I wanted to protect you from this life like I am protecting Dariya. I’m sorry I lied but it was a necessity.”

Static buzzes behind my eyes. Deep down I know that if it comes to it and Naomi chooses to leave, I won’t let her. Now that she knows, she can’t ever leave but something about the curious look in her eyes tells me that might not be an issue.

“You hold my life, and my daughter’s life, in your hands.”

13

NAOMI

“You hold my life, and my daughter’s life, in your hands.”

Fyodor’s words haunt me over the next few days, right into the spring warmth of March, which chases away most of the cold winter snow. The image of Fyodor on his knees, spilling his deepest, darkest secret to keep me, flashes into my mind every time I take a moment to myself.

I can’t escape it, and I shouldn’t.

Would he still feel the same if he knew I was a liar? That most of what he explained to me about the Bratva, I already knew? Would he kill me?

Never did I expect Fyodor to be scared of losing me, even if it is only for the benefit of his daughter, but the lines are blurred now. We slept together, and that changed things enough that he placed me in a position of deeper trust and told me everything about his daughter. He still thinks of me as an ordinary woman swept up in the chaos of the Bratva and a completely unwilling participant in things I shouldn’t want to know.

Only, I’m Bratva, too, if I believe everything my mother tells me. And now I know his secret—a secret my mother will kill for. Like the good daughter she trained under her care to make people trust me and spill their deepest secrets, I should tell her. I should have called her the moment Fyodor left my room that night.

This is the kind of secret she’s hungry for. The kind that would destroy Fyodor.

I should tell her and let her carry out her desire to destroy the family that made her own childhood so horrific.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t then, and three days later I still can’t.

It’s a betrayal I can’t stomach and the core of my loyalty wavers.

Fyodor’s given me space to process and think, which has been amazing because for a day or two I was certain I would spill my own secret the moment I saw him and that would definitely ruin everything.

I need a plan, but my mind keeps drawing blanks.

Closing my eyes, crisp spring air fills my lungs. Birdsong fills the air as a watery sun bakes down on the garden, drawing flowers into bloom and teasing us with how gorgeous summer is going to be. Dariya’s laughter fills my ears, and in the distance, the wind chimes near the back door tinkle as the last cold breeze of winter darts through the garden.

It’s hard to believe there was a terrible snowstorm a couple of weeks ago that started all of this.

“Naomi!”

Opening my eyes, Dariya sprints up to me with her curls flying and her cheeks pink from exertion and cold. “Yes?”

“For you!” Dariya thrusts a slightly withered but delicately crafted flower chain into my hand and then sprints away again toward the guard she’d roped into find the prettiest flowers. Petals tickle my fingertips and my heart clenches painfully as if it’s trapped within a fist.

She’s so sweet, and she’s the main reason that I can’t make a decision. I’m torn between loyalty to my mother and protecting a child who isn’t mine.

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