Page 37 of The Bratva's Nanny
Beside me, he cleared his throat and spoke to me like I was nothing more than a nuisance—a piece of gum stuck underneath one of his bloody expensive loafers.
“You can speak now. It sounded urgent.”
On a very regular day, I would have never subjected myself to be the object of this man’s scrutiny. My pride wouldn’t let me. But today was not any regular day. Today, I needed this powerful mobster's help; if deflating my ego, which was twice the size of a hot air balloon, was necessary to get it, then I was willing to use a stack of pins.
I took out my phone from the back of my pocket and handed it to him, making sure the text on the screen was visible.
“You don’t want to fucking play games with me, Maria. It’s the end of the month. I want my money now, or else. x Your nightmare.”
Roman didn’t have to read the words aloud or request to hear the background story. He didn’t have to say anything; his concern was as obvious as the black modern-century globe lamp posts lined up on either side of the driveway outside.
The anger clouding his eyes, the strong clamp of his jaw, and his curled slender fingers over the pink glitter pouch of my phone were enough to tell me that he didn’t take well to the message.
Why, for the life of me, I could not understand.
But I didn’t wait for him to ask questions. I didn’t wait to know why he seemed to care all of a sudden. Swiftly, I spun on the couch, scooting close enough to see the storm raging in the deep, dark depths of blue. His anger scared me, chilled me right to the bones.
“Roman….”
The roll of his name on my lips startled us both. I hadn’t meant to call him that—out loud, that was. Boss, Mr. Varkov, or even sir might have been more appropriate.
But I had the permission to, or didn’t I? He’d given it to me himself.
Unafraid, I continued, “My sincerest apologies for sending you a message like that. So abrupt, unplanned, and maybe insensitive. You could have been in the middle of something important, for Christ’s sake. But this….” I swiped my tongue over my lips, feeling parched, and swallowed. “What’s happening is big. It’s important to me. You know about my father’s debt, so there’s no need to talk about that. I’m glad you know how genuine this is. You wouldn’t think I’m trying to scam you or play stupid games. However, you don’t know Finn. Finn’s the loan shark. He’s the one my father got a huge loan from and failed to pay back before he kicked the bucket. Now, the problem is, I promised to pay Finn back everything he owed him at the end of the month. Not my father, but me. He’s coming for me now. And I know I’m strong and everything; I can take down men twice my size. But Finn Jameson and his goons are, honestly, a lot more than I can handle alone.”
Roman was listening intently. He made no move, neither physically nor with words. Just sat still like a freaking statue, with a look that had danger signs blaring all over.
“Listen….” My words got stuck somewhere between my throat and my tongue. This was the hardest part: making the request. Begging. Appealing. Using the stack of pins to deflate my bruised ego. It took one deep inhale and exhale to flare up the courage. “I know I haven’t worked for a week. But I…I….”
It’s fucking harder than I thought.
“I need the money now.” The confession left me in one long breath. Relief flooded my chest, and I found it a lot easier to keep the humility going. “I’ll do anything. I’ll…I’ll keep working tirelessly, if you demand. Anything at all, you name it. I’ll scrub, clean, brush, fucking bake brownies from dawn to dusk if it makes Polly the happiest. Just…I just need to get Finn off my back.”
At that moment, I wanted to have an out-of-body experience. I wanted to know what I looked like, to be in Roman’s place and stare at me like he did. I wanted to know—no, scratch that—needed to know if I looked even half as desperate as I sounded.
Right now, I was willing to do everything to plead my case, to convince him of how badly I needed space to breathe.
After bringing Polly home from school, making her lunch, and bribing her with ten pints of strawberry ice cream to sit for homeschool music lessons, I’d tucked her into bed. I heard my phone chime three minutes later.
Like he waited in the shadows to catch me at my weakest, when I was most relaxed and unaware. That fucking bastard.
When I opened the text message, it felt like the world was spinning under me, like my life was slowly slipping from my grasp; the smallest thread of control I had on it was about to snap, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Only there was something I could do about it.
And his name was Roman Varkov.
He stared at me.
I stared at him right back, waiting patiently for him to make a move—to say something, do something. Then, he blinked, checked the silver watch on his wrist, and dialed a contact on his phone. On the second ring, the person at the other end of the line picked up, and, with his eyes never leaving mine, he spoke fluently—in that sexy voice of his—in thick Russian. And I wasn’t sure, but it felt like I understood every word.
Thirty seconds later, the phone clicked silently on the glass centerpiece as he set it down. “I’m going to take care of it. I’ll pay the bastard in full and toss in some extra change if he so requires,” he was saying, and then, he did the most unexpected thing.
In a blink, before I could process what was happening, his hands went up, and his fingers—those long, slender fingers—brushed my hair behind my ears so very lightly that I might as well have sworn that I’d imagined it.
Roman kept his face straight and gaze focused, like he hadn’t just initiated an action that sent my heart running and toppling over beats.
“I know men like him. He’s only trying to scare you to do his bidding.”