Page 37 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

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NAOMI

“Usually returning to the scene can help jog memories,” I explain softly as Zasha and I walk the gardens a few days later. “But other than returning to the road where I hit you, I’m not sure how much help that would be.”

Zasha nods slowly, keeping pace with me but his head is low and his gaze fixed on the path we walk.

“And,” I add gently. “Given that you were tortured and you’re still recovering, doing anything to recover those kinds of memories before you’re ready could do more damage than we expect. You forgot for a reason and I think, given how the memories haven’t returned yet, we can rule out the car and link it to the trauma.”

“I suppose things will look different,” Zasha says finally. “Since what I do remember is snow, and now we have this.”

The trees around us fight to reclaim their leaves, and green grass stretches as far as the eye can see, weaving between cracked stone walls and trellis.

“That’s true,” I admit. “You escaped through a winter wonderland, not a springtime plain.”

An amicable silence falls. Birds dance and sing around us, gravel crunches underfoot and leaves rustle with the occasional light breeze. It’s peaceful, and from what little I know about Zasha, he probably needs it.

Even though my fantasy of a foursome with him, Fyodor, and Daniil remains burned into my mind.

Greedy.

“I want to offer my apologies,” Zasha says, breaking the silence.

“For?”

“Letting slip that we were all Bratva. It did not occur to me that it was a secret. Given Fyodor’s reputation, I presumed everyone here was part of this.”

“His family’s reputation,” I correct gently.

“Of course.” Zasha nods. He glances across at me, and his gorgeous, thick hair glints like silk in the sun.

“I’m the nanny, so they don’t run important things by me,” I joke softly, waving off his apology. Given the circles they all move in, I can’t blame him.

“Still, they clearly value you greatly and I am sorry if I marred their images in your eyes in any way.” His apology is surprisingly sincere.

“You haven’t,” I reassure him. “I mean, it’s a lot to take in, and I still haven’t quite made my peace with it, but I try to judge people based on what I experience, not what the world tells me.”

Zasha’s smile is full and bright, crinkling the corner of his eyes. “Admirable.”

I brush that off quickly. There’s nothing admirable about any of my actions. “Speaking of family, what about yours? You’d asked after them, I remember. Is there no one who will be missing you?”

Zasha’s smile vanishes, and his gaze fixes on something ahead. “My father is dead. My mother, too, and that was more recent. Things have been a struggle since then because my father’s death was…” Zasha pauses, and his shoulders bunch up. “Many were convinced it was an inside job so distrust ran rampant. My mother’s death was a—a shock, and so the responsibility to keep things together fell to me. I have been doing everything I can to keep our heads above water, including stepping on the toes of your boss.”

Zasha flashes me a smile but it lacks the same warmth as earlier.

“We’ve fallen far but I’ve been trying. It’s difficult to make a name for yourself in a world like this, and even harder to keep a name weighed down by reputation.”

“I can imagine.” Oddly, I wonder if my mother feels the same kind of responsibility there. “Is that what your deal was about? The important feeling you remember? Or some sort of secret that you might have forgotten that led to you being tortured?”

“You think I stepped on the wrong set of toes?” Zasha asks, slowly starting to walk closer to me. “Secrets are what make our world go around.”

“Maybe,” I muse. “It might be the key to finding who took you?—”

Words die in my throat as we turn the corner and Zasha darts forward, suddenly crowding me up against the wall. Stone bricks press into my back and cold moss scrapes against my hands when I press backward. My heart flies in my chest and Zasha places one arm above me, leaning in very close.

“Why didn’t you tell Fyodor that I asked for him on the road?”

“What?”

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