Page 86 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Fuck.

“Fucking fuckitty fuck fuck!” I sob, slamming my hands against the wheel over and over. Fyodor’s heartbroken, angry eyes flood my mind, dancing between Daniil’s broken voice and the sound of the gunshot near Zasha.

Is he dead?

Such a thought causes my heart to physically throb and my sobs become gasps. I need to breathe and think, but nothing comes. Nothing but despair. In minutes, Vladimir was able to single-handedly dismantle my family with a lie of my own doing, and I have no one to blame but myself.

And my mother.

The sky is pink by the time I pull up outside her house. It wasn’t my plan to come here but sometime between when my tears dried and numbness took over, this was where I came.

It’s the only place I have left.

Dariya is injured. Fyodor and the others know the truth. I should be dead. I almost want to be. Slowly, I climb from the car, and one hand moves to my abdomen. Will any of this affect the baby? Is it too small, or is it already at the stage where it can tell something is wrong?

What the fuck am I going to do?

Barefoot, I trudge up the steps to my mother’s front door and pull the stained, dirtied silk robe tighter around my naked body.

Never did I think I would end up back here.

If there is any comfort to be had, it’s here. I ring the doorbell and wait.

My mother answers within thirty seconds and her calm face immediately sours when we lock eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” she snaps, dragging her sharp eye up and down me. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

“Mom—” My voice breaks and while I have no tears left to shed, emotion swells behind my eyes and my nose throbs.

“Naomi?” For a split second, there’s a whisper of comfort in her tone but it vanishes quickly. Her sharp nails dig into my arm when she drags me inside and the door slams behind us.

“What a state you are in,” she mutters, glancing me up and down once more. Then she turns and heads for the kitchen.

I follow like I’m ten years old again, home from whatever class she dropped me off at. The nostalgic scent of cleaning chemicals mingling with stale Chinese food drags me back to my childhood, and my body aches for any kind of comfort from her.

A hug. A touch. Anything.

I won’t get it. I burned my bridge with her but she’s my only port left.

“Everything is falling apart and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Sit down,” she snaps, pointing at the table. “Tell me what happened.”

I sit slowly, huddling in the silk gown and pressing my knees tightly together. The numbness gives way to a full-body chill that causes me to tremble where I sit.

Do I tell her everything?

Fuck it.

What do I have left to lose?

“Someone tried to kill Fyodor yesterday,” I begin, my voice rough.

My mother doesn’t react, busying herself with making a pot of tea.

“They shot his daughter instead.”

Her hands pause, fingers delicately holding two tea bags over the pot. It’s only for a second, then she continues working.

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