Page 20 of The Bratva's Nanny

I sidled to a corner and watched them effortlessly lift my possessions up the winding stairs. Certain that I was no longer in their way, I followed closely behind them, heading to what would be my new comfort space.

My eyes wandered around the hallway like they had done in the living room the night before. I felt my lips pick up into a smile at how beautiful the house was. Only days ago, I could only ever dream of living in a mansion like this: real-life, fancy-schmansy water fountain outside, gravel driveway, indoor artificial fireplace, and modern décor that created a façade of normalcy. And the list went on and on.

It had only been one night, and I was already impressed. I was drawn to the simple elegance, which forced me to relax even if I didn’t want to.

He might have been the darkness himself, but I had to admit, he was neat and freakishly organized, so much so that I believed he had OCD. His style would have gotten an A-plus-plus.

Looking on the bright side, it was almost like I had walked into a dream where my life had more color, more fluff in my pillow, multiple choice options for breakfast, and more money in my account. But a part of me missed the actual normality of the life I’d led before: PMAA, the kids, and maybe even a little of George and his constant “fix the hand dryer” nagging.

We passed more doors and wall ornaments, and my eyes caught the large monochrome portrait hanging on the wall there. My feet stopped moving.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. So beautiful, yet so cold.

It was him.

Dressed in his regular dark suit, seated on a Windsor chair, like an Armani model who was asked not to smile for five million bucks. He’d put in the extra effort. I couldn’t help it; I walked closer and traced my fingers over the image of his firm jaw and deep-set eyes.

They held no emotion. No life. No feelings. No love.

I secretly wondered how it was possible for anyone to live their lives in such a melancholic bubble because this man made it look too easy.

I remembered our conversation from last night. He’d said they were a Russian crime family like he was reading his resume as a sixth-grade math teacher. His confidence was frightening, and his arrogance a terror weapon.

Who shot a man down with no iota of remorse, excellent aim, and without blinking, like he had eyes everywhere on his head doing the job for him?

This man did.

And that icy stare of his projected through the portrait reminded me of the first time our paths crossed.

***

Eighteen months ago….

I sat in the reception, repeatedly mumbling a bunch of question-and-answer rules I’d memorized the previous night. The interview was due to start in half an hour, and I was feeling hopeful.

I was officially six months out of living in my car. Could have done a small celebration, but I couldn’t afford throwing anything that would involve a cake and crates of beer.

Plus, I didn’t have friends.

Instead, I got a comfortable single-room apartment that was way better than the shitty Airbnb I’d lodged in after moving out from my dad’s after the funeral, but I later realized that nights at Rosy’s weren’t bringing in enough to take care of myself or settle the sharks.

Hence, the quick submission of my application at the five-star hotel, Hamilton, the minute I heard there was a vacancy for a receptionist.

My nerves were all over the place.

I rubbed my clammy palms on the sides of my black knee-length skirt several times and made multiple trips to the bathroom to check for wrinkles on my two-dollar pressed shirt and possible particles of green hanging in my teeth (because I’d had broccoli for breakfast).

My hair? Check.

My confidence level? Needed to be boosted.

My teeth? No green.

The best impression of myself and what I had to offer the impressive establishment fully memorized? We were almost there.

I returned to the reception, ready to start another recital, when one of the security guards, dressed prim and proper in his uniform, brushed past me in a rush. He was talking into a walkie-talkie, brows drawn, expression sour and all, like there was a problem.

And it didn’t help when he confirmed it.