Page 28 of The Bratva's Nanny

Witnessing him commit murder twice in a year and a half didn’t rev my emotions as much as his refusal did.

With a short gruff that did absolutely nothing to relieve my angst, I sat upright. Sleep wasn’t forthcoming anyway.

Kicking my feet off the bed, I ambled closer to the window and leaned against the wall beside it, watching the world beyond. The familiar scene of Manhattan’s bustling streets—the twinkling city lights, car horns, and hushed voices in the night—stirred memories from when my life was normal.

I could almost picture myself hauling out the garbage in the alley, saying goodnight to Dorothy, Rosy’s sister, who seemed to savor her extended hours at the diner and, apparently, the attention of certain male customers, and walking over to my sweet companion to begin a quiet ride home.

I missed it: the nighttime shifts at Rosy’s and the daytime hours at PMAA. I missed being in control, but most importantly, I missed having a life.

Suddenly, I became overwhelmed by everything that was happening. Cian’s death at Hamilton, Polina’s kidnapping, my kidnapping—even if it was technically not a kidnapping. I’d been coerced to accept a job offer I could not refuse. It was a hefty, mouth-watering offer, no doubt, but it didn’t dispute that I’d been asked to leave my whole life behind and start anew without being given a choice.

Blackmail.

Evil.

The weight of my new reality crashed down on me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

And yet, the image of the man who had forced me into this dark hole of anxiety kept me up at night and left me sleepless.

As I looked beyond the velvety green drapes, he reappeared—just like he always did. He drowned out everything else from my mind and stood there, watching me with that infuriating smug look, like he always did. Every inch and every detail were as clear as they were in the light of day. His eyes were stark and cold and blue, like frozen oceans in the Arctic, holding back secrets that I knew I was better off not knowing about.

I saw his fingers and remembered them drumming slowly against the counter. They were long, slender, and clean, with no dark edges like I sometimes had after assisting Mario on kitchen duty to scrub pots and pans.

My mind drifted, and I wondered how those would feel if they curved around my neck or wound around my body.

I shuddered, but not in fear or disgust, rather in surprising anticipation as I felt my skin rise in goose flesh.

Deep down, I flagged a reminder: Roman Varkov was a bad man. A vicious murderer and mobster. He was the type of man parents warned their children to avoid. He was the type of man who could afford to have his head in the clouds and shadows on the street doing his dirty work for him. A dangerous man.

But the reminder proved to be useless.

It didn’t shield my mind against thoughts of the firmness and sharp edge of his jaw when it clenched, the tempting fullness of his lips that permanently stayed in a grim line, or the slant curve on his left eyebrow like he’d grazed it with a knife.

He might have been all shades of melancholy and danger signs, but nothing deterred my heart from skipping at how insanely hot he was.

I massaged my temple with a sigh.

I was fantasizing about my boss, the same boss that had dug up information about myself and my father behind my back and threw it in my face like I was a pauper wallowing in the shitty depths of poverty. I should have been infuriated.

I wanted to be, but instead, my annoyance worked up a raving appetite.

I muttered under my breath, “Great,” and moved away from the window. It seemed like I was going to have to take a short walk to the kitchen.

The door silently clicked shut behind me, and I allowed my feet to wander but took breaks in between to tour the house. When I got to the portrait, I paused, looked at it—admired every inch of it, as I’d been doing a lot—and was on my way again.

First thing to note: so many doors.

I was curious to know what lay behind those closed doors, so I tried the first one.

Locked.

The second one.

Locked, too.

And so was the third, fourth, and fifth until I gave up and went down the stairs. Fortunately, there was one unlocked door hidden behind the stairs. If anyone asked me, it was weirdly positioned, and I wasn’t very excited when I discovered it was the library.

I flicked on the switch.