Page 29 of The Bratva Bosses' Nanny

I blush again.

Nikolai, with a hint of irritation, excuses himself to check on the delayed dessert. “I’ll go check on it,” he mutters, quickly dressing and leaving the room.

I’m left alone, my heartbeat still echoing in my ears. I rise from the bed, my legs feel like they’ve been through a marathon, shaky and unreliable. And that’s when it happens—Nikolai’s wallet slips from the edge of the bedside table, spilling its contents across the floor.

A picture flutters down, landing face up. It’s a man, someone in his late 30s, with a striking resemblance to... Wait—Is that girl Alina?

Who is this man?

Curiosity overcomes me, and I pick up the photo, studying the faces. That’s when the door opens.

Chapter 12: A Night Alone

Nikolai

I stride back into the room, a laden silver tray in hand, expecting to see Emma waiting. Instead, I’m met with a sight which has my blood running cold. There she is, a photograph clutched in her hand—a photograph no one was supposed to find, especially not her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I bark, the tray clattering onto the table as I approach her.

She jumps, her eyes wide with shock or fear—perhaps both. “I swear, your wallet fell, and when I picked it up, this photo was there. I didn’t mean to—”

“Who have you told about this?” I demand, snatching the photo from her grasp. My mind races with the implications, the potential breach. She’s seen him, the man with Alina. “Who is he, Nikolai?” she asks, her voice trembling but insistent. I’m torn between the urge to protect my secrets and the ridiculousness of the situation.

“How could I have told anyone?” she answers, and I want to believe her. But trust is a luxury I can seldom afford.

“That man,” I start, struggling to keep my voice even, “is not your concern.”

“But he’s with Alina in this picture. I deserve to know if she—”

“You deserve?” I cut her off, my voice rising despite my attempt to control it. “You have no rights here, Emma. You’re here to do a job, not to dig into our lives.”

Emma looks genuinely taken aback. She spins, opens a drawer and pulls out a towel to cover herself. “No rights, huh? Is that why you kissed me? Is that why you brought me here?”

Her words sting, slicing through the tension and hitting a nerve. I stand there, the anger in her voice echoing around the room, a reminder this isn’t just about the photograph or the secrets it holds. It’s about us, about the line we’ve crossed and can’t seem to navigate back from.

I run a hand through my hair, frustration brewing beneath the surface. “Emma, that’s not—”

“It’s exactly that, Nikolai,” she cuts me off, her voice rising. “One minute I’m valuable, the next I’m just the help with no rights.”

“You are valuable. That wasn’t a lie. But this,” I gesture to the photo, now lying discarded on the floor, “is bigger than any of us.”

Her shoulders droop, the fight draining out of her, but the towel is clutched tight, a barrier not just for modesty but for whatever might come next. “I understand the need for secrecy, Nikolai. I do. But you can’t keep me in the dark. Not if you want me to stay.”

I let out a heavy sigh and gesture to the plush seat across from me. “Fine. I’ll tell you who it is. Sit.”

Emma obeys, perching on the edge of the seat, the towel drawn tightly around her.

“That’s Sergey,” I begin, my voice steady despite the churn of emotions. “Alina’s father.”

Her eyes flicker with recognition, then fill with more questions. “That’s all you need to know,” I say, closing the door on that chapter of our lives.

Emma doesn’t settle for it, though. “What happened to him?”

I look away for a brief moment, finding the words. “He’s dead.”

“How did he die?” Emma’s question is direct, her eyes searching mine for something, maybe honesty, maybe reassurance.

I can’t meet her gaze, my eyes dropping to the floor. The silence stretches, a gulf widening between us with each passing second.

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