Page 3 of The Bratva Bosses' Nanny

My head’s a fucking mess, gears spinning nonstop. Got a shit ton to sort before sunrise. Sure, we’ve got the basics down, but with a kid in the picture, everything changes. And hiring a nanny? That’s another layer of hell. We’re not like those other mob families, kidnapping or blackmailing folks into servitude.

Whoever takes the nanny gig has to genuinely give a damn about the girl, but also be disciplined enough to follow orders, no questions asked.

As I’m mulling it over, my phone screeches. My mother - I really fucking need to change that ringtone - calling me in all her shrillness.

“Scammer?” Nikolai asks. He’s been getting weird-ass texts lately. Thought maybe I was in the same boat.

“Nah, just my mom,” I say, and don’t pick up. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding maternal nagging to the mix.

I turn my attention to Nick. “We need to keep this quiet. No one outside this room should know about the kid.”

We can’t let people know we have a soft side, after all. We’re not some charity case adopting a stray. We’re the goddamn Bratva.

Nick gets it. “The fewer people who know, the better. Loose lips sink ships.”

But then he cocks an eyebrow. “So how the hell do we find a nanny without arousing suspicion? We can’t put it on Craigslist, for Christ’s sake.”

I smirk. “Grace’s network isn’t just inside the Bratva. She’s got ears and eyes in the civilian world too. I’ll give her the heads up, she’ll find us someone who can actually do the job.”

He nods. We’ve got a plan, and not a moment too soon.

I pause, then raise my voice, yelling towards the kid. “Hey, what’s your name again?”

She turns to look at us, this tiny little thing with big eyes. Empty eyes. “Come on, it’s the simplest question in English,” Nikolai mutters.

Frustrated, I switch to Russian. “Kak tebya zovut?”

And then, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Alina.”

There’s a silence that follows, filled only by the weight of her single word. “Alina,” I repeat, letting her name hang in the air. It’s a moment of clarity amid the chaos. “Okay, Alina. We’ve got work to do, don’t we?”

Nikolai looks at me, then at Alina. “Yeah, we do. We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do.”

Alina. So small, so innocent. How did she end up tangled in our fucked-up world?

Chapter 2: The Illusion of Control

Aleksandr

My eyes snap open to the soft light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains. I’m in my sprawling bed, king-sized and fitting for the man I am.

Sheets of the finest Egyptian cotton, walls adorned with artwork worth more than most people make in a lifetime. My bedroom is as expansive as it is luxurious, part of the mansion which serves both as my home and the unofficial headquarters of our Bratva operations.

Lying beside me, barely stirring, is a woman. Her skin, a beautiful shade of mahogany.

The red silk sheets cling to her form. For a moment, I let my eyes rest on her, admiring the curve of her back, the elegant line of her neck. But only for a moment. Sentimentality is a weakness I can’t afford.

I slide out of bed, not caring if I wake her and grab some clothes. In the grand bathroom, complete with marble flooring and a shower which could easily fit five people, I stand before the sink. I turn on the tap, let it run for a few seconds, and then splash my face with the icy water.

It’s a futile attempt to cleanse my thoughts, to wash away the haunting sound of a trigger pulled weeks ago. Sergey. The man I had to kill. My friend.

The echoes of that gunshot play in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, hear the deafening blast, see his eyes just as life leaves them. A traitor to the end, yet a man I once called a brother.

My hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. In a sudden surge of anger and a need to expel this inner torment, my fist flies forward, colliding with the mirror. It shatters upon impact, shards of glass falling into the sink and onto the marble floor. My hand is lacerated, droplets of blood mixing with the broken mirror.

“Fuck!” I stare at the destruction, my reflection now fractured, distorted in the shards of glass—each piece reflecting a different part of me. The ruthless leader, the betrayed friend, the protector of a fucking kid.

My chest tightens. Not from the pain in my hand, but from something deeper, something I’ve buried so far inside it seldom shows its face. Regret? No, regret is for the weak. Perhaps it’s the realization that despite all my power, all my control, there are things even I can’t change.

---