Page 81 of The Bratva's Nanny
“No fucking way,” he muttered.
The photograph moved toward me, and…the world around me came to a halt.
My arms dropped limply to my sides, and I gaped at the beaming face like it was a horror from the past.
The same photograph I’d kept locked up for six years.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Her favorite “He Is Risen” white t-shirt and blue jeans. And the cross necklace sitting pretty around her neck. The necklace I’d gifted her because she never stopped babbling about the cross and Heaven and how much she loved me.
Lorelai Fanning.
When I looked back at Benjamin, it was with a fiercer determination to have his head. “You better have a fucking good explain for having this in your possession because I’m starting to think you mysteriously had something to do with her death.”
Now, his gaze was a mix of pain and hurt, like a wound that had been ripped open and left to bleed. His face twisted into a grimace, like he was struggling to contain a cry of anguish. His lips trembled, and his jaw clenched, as if he was fighting to keep his emotions in check. The muscles in his face were taut, like cords stretched to the breaking point.
Then, he spoke. And nothing prepared me for such an impact.
“Why the fuck will I kill my own daughter?”
Chapter Twenty-Four – Maria
“Why the fuck will I kill my own daughter?”
That had come out as soon as I barged in. Imagine my shock when I learned that the same former notorious criminal from the 1980s was the actual grandfather of my precious Polina.
It felt like I’d fallen into a parallel universe where the most estranged plots occurred.
The revelation rocked me to the core.
It hit Roman hard, too. I could tell; I saw the mix of emotions spread across his face: confusion, anger, disbelief. And that was a lot, coming from a man who might as well have had statues as his ancestors.
I laid low, rolled like a hero in an action film, crawled like a soldier in enemy territory, and finally hid behind one of the blown-up sofas with lots of white stuffing hanging out.
I wanted to feel guilty for doing the opposite—of the opposite—of Roman’s instruction. But how the hell did he expect me to just sit in the car and stay put while all the action went on inside?
I’d stuck my nose up, internally refusing to acknowledge that I was worried about him when the gunfire sliced through the air.
I’d refused to accept that my heart sank to my stomach in a sick, twisted way when neither of his men emerged from the house after half an hour.
I didn’t care; I’d tried to convince myself. I didn’t care about a man who had hurt me without a second thought—and who was probably bipolar due to his snap-like switches between moods. One minute, he’d look like he wanted to devour me, swallow me whole, and spit my remains to Hades, and the next, he’d be sitting there, missing the sound of my voice.
Absolute nonsense.
Except for one tiny factor: I did care.
I cared enough to throw caution to the wind, disregard safety measures, and run into the house like a mad woman searching for her long-lost treasure.
I cared enough to lie in wait behind a couch, listening—eavesdropping—on Benjamin narrating his story because I knew if Roman laid eyes on me, he’d be upset. And I didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was.
The old man’s voice cracked with emotion as he spoke of his daughter, Lorelai, and how he had failed her in every way possible.
“Just like you, I was too caught up in that life.” He shook his head. “I neglected her, abandoned her. I couldn't be the father she deserved. I didn't even give her my name.” He paused and sniffled. And Roman looked at him like he hadn’t seen a more appalling sight.
“I was too busy, too caught up in the violence and the power struggles. I didn’t even give her my name; I didn’t want a daughter in my life. I thought I was protecting her, but really, I was just running from my responsibilities. I was just cowardly, investing so much of my time in things that didn’t matter, and by the time I realized the damage I had done, it was too late.
“She grew up without me, living her own life, separate from mine. And I let it happen. My little girl was so beautiful, inside and out. She did everything right. Helped the poor and needy. Never held grudges. Went to church on Sundays. Believed this world could be a better place. She had a heart of gold. And I was too proud, too stubborn, to reach out and be a part of her life. Now, I’m left with the weight of my mistakes.
“As the years passed, I realized the error of my ways. I saw the harm I had caused, the pain I had inflicted on my own flesh and blood. And I knew I had to make it right. So, when your father kicked me out of Chicago, I took it as a sign. Decided to start afresh, beginning from scratch to see if I could erase my wrongs. But it was too late. My sins caught up with me. My Lorelai had moved on. I heard she found love with one of the Varkov men. Roman, the son of my enemy. And she had married him, unaware of the feud between our families.”