Page 5 of The Bratva's Nanny

Damn sure the kids didn’t need the fucking hand dryers.

The follow-up was becoming pesky.

I flashed a brittle smile. “Sure, George.”

I revved the engine, put the gear in reverse, and switched from radio to Bluetooth, intentionally changing the playlist to something more modern.

He smiled. “Ah, so, you’re a Taylor Swift fan, then?”

“No, George. Not a fan either.”

When the car began backing out of the lot, George gaped.

He yelled, “Get it fixed tomorrow, Maria!”

“Bye, George!” I shouted back.

With a wave, I sped off.

****

Thanks to George, I couldn’t grab the KFC chicken nuggets or beat rush hour.

I got stuck in traffic and managed to get a bunch of insults hurled at my car. I was sensitive when it came to my sweet companion, so I defended its honor by throwing even more venomous insults back at the accusers.

The verbal brawl in traffic should have been some form of a harbinger, announcing subtly that I was bound to have a terrible night. But I was hopeful; Netflix, salted caramel popcorn, and cherry cola were still options. By the time I pulled up at my apartment building, I chose to see the bright side of things. It might not have been a lodestone for the finest people in town, but it was home.

I grabbed my duffel, straightened my leggings, and made the short walk to the elevator.

When I got to my door, I was going through a list of new techniques I’d compiled in my mobile notes to teach the class, and how to get the darn hand dryers fixed. Even then, I hadn’t realized something eerily off until I grabbed the knob.

It jiggled freely. That was strange. Very strange.

Alarmed, I glared at the wooden doorframe with the gleaming 102 room number and brass knob. The door was unlocked.

I took an impulsive step back with a firm clutch on the strap of my cross-body bag. And my back hit something solid. Almost as solid as the freaking wall itself. But I knew better. There was no way the wall smelled like it had a bucket of cheap perfume dumped on it, with a terrible blend of citrus and cigar. His scent was pungent, and it made me want nothing more than to shove him hard in the groin to have some personal breathing space.

“Open the door,” the monster snarled behind me, more puffs of smoke filling the vacant spaces and floating from behind my head.

From the corner, I saw more men appear, lining up in the small hallway. They looked like a bunch of hungry businessmen with rotten smiles and oversized suits.

I tightened my grip on the strap.

My heart hammered against my chest, but I kept a straight face. No way was I going to allow them to sniff fear off me. Letting that happen was giving them the upper hand. Being five-foot-six was also no limitation for me. I might have been slight, but if it came down to it, I was willing to bet I’d take down eighteen out of twenty men before their leader got to me.

“The fucking door, bitch.”

If circumstances were different, I would have taken out a tooth or two from the idiot standing behind me. But I had my back to him now; he had the advantage.

Reality check: There was no escape.

Sucking in a deep breath, I opened the door and entered.

“Looking beautiful as always, Maria,” someone inside greeted, and all the hairs at the back of my neck went on end.

At the sight of the tall man seated on my small couch with my cup of cherry cola in his hand, my blood pressure skyrocketed. Now, I had a death grip on the strap.

I narrowed my eyes at him and took a menacing step closer. “It’s you.”

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