Page 4 of The Bratva's Nanny

Yes, yes, yes, wherever Polina R. Varkov was concerned. The girl was an all-rounder.

She was bright and beautiful as always, with a wide smile spread across her face, blue eyes lit up, and long, shiny blonde hair held up in a sleek ponytail. Her happy-go-lucky, optimistic attitude often made my efforts as a tutor worth it.

If the others were lazy, she’d double her attempts, ask more questions, and practice harder.

She had a bit of sass sometimes. But who didn’t love kids with sass? I found them absolutely adorable.

When I took on the job, I promised myself not to have favorites. But Polly made it hard to keep that promise. She was the youngest of all my students but the smartest among them. And a fast learner, too. Her energy had probably hit sky level. But with all of these, the only “friends” she seemed to have were her security guards and her nanny. We’d gotten close over the session, but she never mentioned having friends.

I found it strange for a social kid like her, but her love for school drowned out her lack of age-group companions.

She was the very definition of the word “A-M-A-Z-I-N-G” and super fun to listen to.

During one of our sparring sessions, she went on and on about a book exhibition coming up in her school in four months. What six-year-old fantasized about book exhibitions like it was a trip to Disney World?

Polina did.

Her excitement was contagious and adorable. But most of all, I liked that I could make a meaningful impact on the lives of young children like her by teaching them self-defense.

When I was their age, I wished many times to have someone to teach, train, and look out for me. But that happened to be one of the privileges I’d been denied. And that was why I treasured my moments with my young students.

After closing the practice room, my next destination was the parking lot.

I hopped into my old Corolla—my sweet companion—and then shut the doors, turning up the radio. It was Flashback Friday on Hot Tunez FM, and they had one of The Beatles’ songs playing.

Mouthing a few lyrics, I dumped my duffel in the backseat and caught sight of the littered empty Starbucks cups on the passenger seat. Seeing the mess made me remember one of the moments in my life when I’d lived in my car. I liked to tag it as “My Dark Age.” Not the nicest time of my life.

I murmured a curse under my breath, gathered and tossed them into a plastic garbage bag, and adjusted the rearview mirror.

Behind me, the sun was setting. A blend of orange, purple, and blue skies held me in a trance until a rapt knock came on the window.

I rolled it down.

“Hey, George.” As in, George-the-manager. The same George who was sweet and nice and kind—and was such a fucking angel—in the eyes of everyone else but was a constant thorn in my ass. “What’s up?”

He lowered his buzzcut head—all full-bodied muscle of him—and squinted beady amber eyes. I liked to think that during his much younger days, he was a bouncer at a stripper club. Even at forty-five, he looked the part.

The corner of his lips curved up, the gesture stiff, and he eyed the radio. “The Beatles?”

My fingers curled around the wheel. Stalling was pointless when I could smell the reason for his sudden appearance from miles away.

“Yes, George.”

“‘Let It Be’?”

“I’m not sure, George. They’re not my favorite.”

He appeared to be heavily disappointed. Like, Who wouldn’t love The fucking Beatles? Newsflash, George: I cared more about grabbing a box of KFC chicken nuggets, beating rush hour, and going home to Netflix and a jumbo-sized cherry cola than memorizing the song list of a twentieth-century band. Today was my off day at Rosy’s Diner, and I had every intention of making the most of the extra time.

“Oh,” he sighed.

“Yeah.”

I drummed my fingers on the carbon fiber wheel cover.

Pregnant silence settled between us for a few uncomfortable seconds before he made a gesture with his shoulder and stared at me with seriousness. “The hand dryers, Maria. You’ve got to get them repaired soon. Orders from the management. Plus, you know the kids need it.”

Of course, that was the point: to remind me of the damages that had happened under my watch. I shouldn’t have been mad at him; he was only doing his job, following up to ensure I fixed it. But....

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