Page 16 of The Bratva Bosses' Nanny

The man at the door beckons us urgently. “We’ve got a car waiting.”

I barely have a moment to think, to process the fear and the chaos. I follow Dmitri’s lead, scooping Alina up in my arms as we head for the door. Her small body clings to me, sensing the fear and the rush.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The car we slip into is sleek, the kind of expensive luxury that seems out of place in a hurried escape. The windows are tinted so dark I’m surprised it’s legal.

I settle Alina into the back seat beside me, her small hand gripping mine, as the vehicle peels away from the mansion.

Every turn, every acceleration, has me on edge, expecting the worst.

Dmitri’s eyes meet mine, “No matter what happens, don’t leave Alina. You hear me?” His voice is firm.

I nod, “I hear you.”

He half-turns in his seat, reaching back to squeeze my hand, a silent vow passing through his touch. “Relax, Emma. I won’t let anything bad happen to you or her.” Despite the situation, his words are a balm, steadying my frayed nerves.

The connection lingers just a second longer before the car screeches to a halt.

I barely catch a glimpse of the driver’s panicked face as a deafeningbangechoes through the confined space, and his body goes limp, slumping against the steering wheel.

“Emma!” Alina cries out, her voice shrill with fear.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to her.

The doors are yanked open, and a rush of cold air sweeps in. Men in masks shout at us, their words a jumbled mess against the pounding of my own pulse.

“Out of the car, now!” one barks, his gun waving menacingly.

Dmitri’s grip on my hand is iron—brief but reassuring—before he’s wrenched away by the masked assailants.

He moves like he’s made for this—violent grace in a tailored suit—as he takes on the two masked men. There’s a flurry of fists and elbows, a dance of desperate survival. Dmitri lands heavy blows on one, then the other.

But numbers are against him, and more shadows join the fray. It’s a chaotic tangle, the kind of struggle that turns stomachs and freezes blood. I hear Alina’s whimpering sobs, feel her trembling against me.

“Close your eyes, baby,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I pull her face into my shoulder, away from the horror unfolding just outside the car.

The sound of fists hitting flesh is sickening. I scream, a hopeless, primal sound, as I hear the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. There’s a moment—a terrible, heavy pause—then the sound of a gunshot shatters the air.

I squeeze Alina tighter, a silent prayer on my lips, my entire being focused on shielding her from the madness outside.

Is Dmitri... dead?

Then, one of the attackers leans down, his eyes boring into mine through the slits in his ski mask. “Leave the girl, and you can walk away from this.”

Chapter 7: Damage Control

Aleksandr

I stride into the warehouse, the weight of this godforsaken role resting squarely on my shoulders. Of course, it’s me who’s got to do the dirty work, deal with her anger. The plan was Nikolai’s brainchild, but when it comes time to face the music, he’s conveniently elsewhere. How fucking typical. Leave it to Aleksandr to clean up the mess, to play the villain.

The space is cold, the air stale, echoing with the kind of silence that precedes a storm. There she is, Emma, blindfolded, her chest rising and falling with sharp, panicked breaths.

“What do you want from me?! Let go of me! What did you do with Alina?!”

I yank off the blindfold, and her eyes, wild with fury, find mine. “Alex... You son of a bitch,” she hisses.

“It was a test,” I say, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “And before you get on your high horse, remember you’re not the only one being tested here.”

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