Page 6 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Everything around me slows. The fat snowflakes drifting down from above hang in the air as if suspended on wire. The rapid squeak of the broken windshield wipers pauses as if the cold is enough to freeze them to the windshield. It’s not until my own blonde hair whips me in the face that I notice the rising wind is the cause of this. February snowstorms can be a killer. My world grows from smotheringly quiet to deafeningly loud. The wind is fierce, whipping my hair back and forth yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the heap lying a few feet away.

How did this happen? I was driving safely, I had my eyes on the road and my?—

No.

I looked away. Glancing down through building tears, my phone remains clutched in one iron claw.

I was distracted. I did this.

Have I killed someone?

“Get up,” I whisper, my words stolen away by the wind before they even reach my ears. “Get up!”

The second I move, the cold makes itself known. It stabs through me like the precise glide of a razor blade and there’s no escaping it. As aware of it as I am, it remains secondary to the body slowly getting covered up by the heavy snow and the wild wind. Snow crunches underfoot as I walk, and I fight to keep my legs strong enough to make it to whoever I hurt.

He lies there, facing away and utterly motionless with a tattered white shirt that would be as crisp as the snow if not for the dark crimson soaked into it. His right arm rests away from his body, bent at an unnatural angle and my stomach rolls. Heat burns up the back of my throat.

Did I do that?

Is he dead?

“Sir?” The painful impact of my knees landing in the snow next to him barely breaches the shock soaking into my veins. “Sir?”

Reaching out to touch him, I cannot tell if his body is really as cold as ice or if my numb fingers are unable to detect even the slightest lick of warmth. The world around me blurs as tears flood my eyes and catch on my lower lashes.

“Sir?” I gasp, leaning forward and shaking him with what little strength seeps into my arms. “Please wake up, please wake up. Please, please. Oh my God…” The slightest movement sends a wave of bright red blood seeping through the snow between us and bile rises in my throat.

I’ve killed him, haven’t I?

I have to get help.

The police. I need the police.

Glancing down at my phone, tears land on the screen when I blink and bring the screen to life. Despite seeing the missed calls and texts from my mother, they don’t fully register as I tap at the screen, but nothing happens. My fingers are too cold for my touchscreen to register input and panic begins to rise.

What if I can’t get in touch with anyone?

What if he dies here because I can’t even work my phone?

“Siri,” I gasp out, bringing my phone as close to my frozen lips as I can. “Siri, call 911.”

The sweetest, smallest bubble of relief rises in my chest when my phone lights up with acknowledgment, even as Siri’s voice is snatched away in the wind. As the number dials, I lean forward and gently touch the man’s chin, turning his face toward me.

Barely three rings into the call and I speak again. “Siri, hang up!”

She does so and my screen goes dark once more as panic stabs through me, the strongest sensation to make it through the cold numbness swallowing me whole.

I know him.

What the fuck is Zasha Chernykh doing all the way out here in the middle of Dunayevsky property?

I’ve never met Zasha personally, but he was a late addition to the teachings from my mother. Ever since I was a little girl, my mother made sure I learned all the prominent members of the Russian Bratva inside and out so I knew who not to trust. If memory serves, Zasha only took over control of his family a year or two ago after the surprising death of his father, Oleg.

My knowledge of the Russian Bratva is a closely guarded secret, and I’ve worked hard to keep that secret as per my mother’s guidance while working as a nanny for Fyodor Dunayevsky—one of, if not the most prominent families in the Bratva.

The irony is not lost on me now as I kneel in the snow and face a terrible decision. My cover as just a regular person serving as a nanny would be blown the instant anyone knew I recognized this man. Calling the police would be the best and most natural thing to do, especially if I feigned ignorance.

It’s what any regular person would do in this kind of emergency.

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