Page 8 of The Bratva's Nanny

“Roman Varkov. What a pleasant surprise.” He patted down the scanty strands on his partially bald head and threw cautionary stares at the men behind him. “What do I owe the sudden visit?”

I massaged my temples.

The fucker thought I’d come all the way to play games.

I tilted to the side and reached for the cold steel hooked between my belt. If it wasn’t clear before, my intentions were made obvious now. But I didn’t take it out. My finger lingered just low enough to pass the message.

“Pleasant surprise, Martin?” I waved a hand around the room. “There are possibly over two hundred people here. Do you honestly believe that I came here to fuck around?”

He played the same card, keeping his defenses up. “I have no idea—”

“If you want my advice, I’d say keep the fucking drama aside. We can do that next time, if you live to see another day.”

Now, his fear was visible. He rubbed his palms against his shirt, and a sweaty handprint remained after he dragged it away. His anxiety heightened my irritation.

Martin Claude owed me money. And it was more than enough to make me want his head rolling like the fucking dice on the tables. He’d come to me on his knees, in complete submission, sniveling like a fucking pig, seeking protection, weapons, and a ridiculous amount of cash.

A successful businessman never passed up a promising deal. And the deal with Claude was a good one.

That was until the bastard thought he could get smart with me. He upheld his end of the deal and paused after making only half the returns. And he’d paused for six long months already.

Wrong fucking move.

No one played stupid games with me and made it out unscarred. He didn’t know it—not when I had on a poker face to keep him unsuspecting—but he’d dug his own grave.

I drummed my fingers on my knees, trying to hold on to every tiny fucking thread of patience I had left, when I made a subtle motion with my head. “You’ve been hiding.”

“Hiding?” He released a laugh that sounded in between a choke and a sob. “What...what are you talking about?”

I scoffed. “Playing that fucking card now, are we? Is this how you want us to do it, Martin?” I sat up. “Fine. If you want it the hard way, I’ll give it the hard way.”

“Look, Roman. I don’t want any trouble.”

I adjusted in my seat and took some time to scan the luxury casino. It was fancy, classy, and somewhat impressive.

“Good thing you’ve got running here.” I nodded toward the establishment. “From what I see, it won’t be too far-fetched now to believe this used up the rest of it. Where is it?”

He was swallowed again and scratched his brow. “I’m—I’m not sure what you’re talking—”

“The fucking money, Martin!” He visibly trembled and shook in his fake leather boots when I slammed a hand down on the poker table. “I’m not messing around. You have five fucking minutes to drop the rest of what you owe me. Don’t test me.”

Surprisingly, the bastard was not as cowardly as I’d pegged him to be. He wore confidence on his sleeves.

Behind him, Lev’s brows went up.

Someone was getting bold really fast. Too fast.

“The rest of your money, Roman?” Anger flashed through his eyes, and he clenched his teeth, muttering, “I don’t fucking owe you anything.”

Kian raised his arm, ready to hold our little friend’s head in a deadlock. But I shook my head and shifted forward on my seat.

“Say that again, Martin.” I grinned. “I dare you.”

He moved back, but his confidence didn’t waver like I expected it to. “Give me one bloody reason why. Why should I pay when one of my men ended up fucking dead? I came to you for protection, and oh, here’s the very funny part: You fucking killed him.”

“Is that it?”

Martin looked on the verge of choking in awe. “Is that it?”

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