Page 3 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Dariya cuddles into me and as I hurry away, I swear my back ignites with the heat of Daniil’s hidden gaze.

“You can’t be tired already,” I tease, flicking some warm water at Dariya as she yawns wide enough for me to see every single one of her crooked teeth. “You haven’t eaten yet!”

“I’m sleepy,” she whines, tossing her head back and forth. Freshly washed and flour-free, her hair drapes down her back with only one pigtail still secure.

“Maybe I should dunk you into the cold water. Will that wake you up?” I descend on Dariya with gentle, damp fingers, prodding into her sides and ribs, resulting in squeals of laughter. She squirms in my grip, twisting this way and that. Her laughter is so loud I almost miss the jingle rising from the back of my jeans. I would have completely missed it had the vibration not started a moment later.

There are very few people who would bother to call me. I don’t have any friends who would be reaching out, yet my heart lifts with hope that it’s someone new. Perhaps an old acquaintance from school is looking to reconnect after all these years, or someone has dialed the wrong number.

I straighten up and seek out my phone.

No such luck. It’s my mother.

“Hello?” With one eye on Dariya, I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear and set about unraveling her remaining braid.

“About time.” My mother’s bitter tones grate through me like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you think I have time to hang about waiting for you to pick up?”

I fight to keep my face relaxed in the mirror for Dariya. “Sorry, I was busy.”

“You’re always busy,” she remarks sharply. “We need to meet.”

My heart sinks. “What?”

“You missed last week’s lunch. We agreed, remember? Every three weeks, no exceptions.”

Last week? Oh, right.

“I told you why I couldn’t make it.” Forcing a smile, Dariya’s braid parts smoothly between my fingers.

“That brat was sick. I’ve heard it all before. We have to meet up. Now.”

“Now? You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

My mind races. It’s already dark out and Fyodor is very strict about who can leave the property and when. “I can’t. It’s too late. Tomorrow?”

“No.” A sharp, biting sigh blasts down the phone. “Don’t make me come and get you.”

My mother turning up here had the potential to be so explosively disastrous that there would surely be no survivors.

“My live-in situation makes it a little difficult to meet your demands,” I say sweetly, smiling wider as Dariya’s curious eyes meet mine in the reflection.

“Make up a story. I don’t care. You have two hours.”

Fuck.

Sticking my head out of the bathroom, I yell for Daniil, who appears so fast that it’s hard to believe he was waiting in the kitchen this whole time. Asking him to watch Dariya, I hurry away through the corridors toward the back of the house, where Fyodor’s office is located. Keeping my mother away from here is a must, but there’s no way I can leave without permission first and the only one who can grant that is my boss.

“Mr. Dunayevsky?” I knock sharply on the large, smooth oak door to Fyodor’s office.

No response.

“Fyodor? Sir?”

Nothing.

My chest constricts. In a flash of boldness, I test the cold, ornate handle and to my surprise, the door swings open easily.

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