Page 39 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Victoria

I miss my dad. I didn’t think that would be the one problem with this arrangement that hit me the hardest, but everything here feels so lonely. So cold and remote.

I thought I liked order, a place for everything and everything in its place. But this house is that on steroids. Every surface is gleaming clean, not a speck of dust. The floors are empty, the walls mostly clear. Even the furniture looks kind of foreboding. Sharp edges, ultra-modern, hardly a speck of color no matter how hard I look.

It’s Matvei personified.

But just like him, the home is beautiful in that frigid kind of way. So when I put Niko down for naps, I find myself exploring. There’s always something new to find. Just yesterday, I discovered the small collection of first-edition Jane Austen books that he has. Something tells me the boss of the most dangerous mob family in the city hasn’t spent time in here reading romance novels, but I still find it funny that he owns them. God only knows how much they’re worth.

I seize the opportunity to sneak off back to the library and flip through Pride and Prejudice. I remember reading it for the first time when I was barely a teenager.

The world seemed like such an innocent place back then. Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy. So pure. So hopeful.

I was pure and hopeful then, too.

Their banter and constant battle of wits has to be my favorite part. They tear into each other again and again, but it’s because they’re both strong-willed and refuse to let the other best them. It’s the classic case of enemies becoming lovers, and it makes my heart swoon every time.

I try to get through as much as I can, handling each page with careful fingers, before Nikolas wakes up. When I hear his door open down the hall, I leave a sheet of paper in the pages and return it to the shelf, hurrying to get him ready for the day.

Nikolas still doesn’t say much most days. I still feel inexplicably sad when I see him, how serious he is all the time. I don’t know whether to chalk it up to maternal instincts or something more sinister; I just know that he doesn’t have the pep and sparkle I’d expect from a boy his age.

Again and again, I force myself not to think about why he’s here. I’ll just drive myself crazy doing that. Because I can’t fix it. I can’t save him. I can only care for him for as long as we’re both trapped in this icy, unfriendly mansion with this icy, unfriendly man.

He listens to me, although I’m always ready for the other shoe to drop. For the same things that drove out the other nannies to make me want to run screaming for the hills. I don’t have that option, of course, but I’m on edge anyways.

It hasn’t happened yet. This morning, as he colors at the table while I cook breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit slices—it feels almost domestic. Like he’s really—well, I shouldn’t say like he’s my little boy, but maybe like he’s just a normal little boy and I’m a normal nanny. Nothing sinister about it.

When I set the plate in front of him and he sees that I’ve arranged it to look like a vampire with two tiny strawberry fangs, I swear he even smiles a little.

After breakfast, he turns to me and says softly, “Can I play in my room for a little while now?”

I’m surprised by the question, because after breakfast we usually watch cartoons in the living room. Against my better judgment, I say, “Sure. Leave the door open. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

He nods before turning and running upstairs.

I clean up the dishes and head to the library again. It’s a good chance to get some studying in. I wade back into torts and contract legalese, slapping color-coded sticky notes in the margins whenever I have a question. Law school is right around the corner—assuming I ever get there. Assuming Dad pays off his debts.

I shudder. Those are bad thoughts. They won’t help me get through this nightmare. Better to focus on things I can control. Memorize facts, cook breakfast—simple, objective stuff like that.

Lost in the minutiae of offer versus acceptance, mutual assent, and the doctrine of contractualized legality, I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until I see them out of the corner of my eye.

I look up to find Matvei standing over me. Immediately, I jump.

“You’re home,” I say, snapping the book closed and shoving it in behind me.

Part of me feels like I just got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, doing something I shouldn’t be. The other is surprised to see him during the day. I can’t remember the last time that happened.

“I’m home,” he agrees. He then lifts his hand and shows me something small and metallic. “I’m home, and I found Nikolas upstairs. With this.”

“What is—”

Before I can get my question out, Matvei answers it by flipping the knife open and revealing the sharp edge to me. I feel my stomach sink to my toes. I was so careful with Nikolas. The past few days, I’ve been telling him to stay out of Matvei’s things when he’s not home, so he doesn’t hurt himself.

“I …”

“You what?” he asks, an edge of anger in his voice.

“I don’t know how he got that,” I say, hanging my head in shame. “He knows he’s not supposed to go through your things.”

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