Nanny for the Bratva Daddies (Forbidden Fantasies)

1. Naomi

1

NAOMI

“ Y ou’re supposed to sprinkle the flour, not eat it!”

Dariya’s adorable six-year-old face crinkles in utter disgust and she quickly retracts her flour-covered fist from her mouth, leaving a small trail of saliva clinging from her lip to her knuckle.

“Not good,” she groans and her cute button nose scrunches high.

Chuckling, I grab the cloth neatly tucked into my belt and quickly wipe her hand clean.

“No, sweetheart, not good at all. It might look like sugar but it’s definitely not the same.”

Dariya shakes her head so fiercely that her thick, brown hair threatens to escape the two large pigtails I wrestled it into this morning, then she reaches for the flour bag once more. I gently catch her wrist.

“Let me this time.”

She nods, her brown eyes widening as she watches me like a hawk when I take a small handful of flour and sprinkle it on the counter. The dough we worked on earlier sits nearby. Once the counter is suitably covered, I tear off a small piece and set it in front of her.

“Now, the flour is to make sure none of this sticks to the counter. Do you remember what I taught you last time about kneading?”

Dariya nods, blinking up at me with her adorably wide, toothy smile, and then she sticks her fists directly into the dough. It’s so comical that I can’t hold in my laugh. Placing my hands over hers, I carefully mirror the kneading motion, and I release her once she’s in rhythm.

“It’s so squidgy!”

“Yup. And it’s going to taste amazing. It might not look amazing but that doesn’t matter. Pasta’s all about the taste.” Keeping one eye on her, I turn my attention to the rest of the dough and set about rolling it as flat as possible. This isn’t the first time we’ve made pasta together but it is the first time I’ve let her take charge.

As much charge as a six-year-old can take.

“Did you do this when you were my age?” Dariya’s little fists thump lightly into her dough, and she leans so far forward that I’m no longer confident the dough is free from hair.

“A little older,” I explain. “My mother taught me. We used to cook together all the time when I was small. We’d make all kinds of things, but my favorite thing to make was definitely strawberry tarts.”

“Oh, can we make those?” Dariya’s head snaps up and I chuckle softly, spotting the flour dotting her apple cheeks.

Abandoning my dough briefly, I lean down to her level—which is around elbow height since she’s standing on her stool—and wipe the flour away.

“Of course.” Warmth blooms through my chest, matching the closeness of the oven-warmed air around us, and for a single moment, I forget.

I forget why I’m here.

I forget that Dariya is not actually my child and that life isn’t as simple as baking sweet treats and eating flour.

Reality returns quickly when the swinging door to the kitchen creaks into life, screaming as the bottom hinge complains loudly despite multiple attempts to fix it.

In walks Daniil Drugov, one of the most attractive men I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, and Dariya’s bodyguard.

Dariya waves at him with one dough-sticky fist. Daniil slowly lifts one hand and waggles his fingers back at her, then he retakes his position by the large bay window overlooking the garden and becomes the same statue he was before he left for the bathroom.

The late afternoon sun bounces off his skin, making it look infinitely more golden and darker than normal. A slicked-back mop of dark hair sits on the top of his head, bleeding into a faded side shave that seamlessly blends into the dark sunglasses hiding his honey-brown eyes. I’ve seen them only a couple of times as he wears those sunglasses as religiously as anyone else wears clothes.

Who even wears sunglasses inside anyway?

Hot Russian bodyguards, apparently.

His brow permanently bunches above his sunglasses; either he’s always annoyed, or he needs prescription sunglasses. The dusting of hair kissing his upper lip adds a shadow of definition to his pouty lips, and two silver studs glint in the sunlight from his left ear.

He’s the only guard around here who doesn’t dress in the same charcoal gray shirt and black suit. Daniil seems to favor blue and he’s never in a shirt. Always a blue vest with golden buttons and a dark blue suit jacket with a silver pin resting on the left lapel. The swirling dark ink of tattoos I only dream of seeing peek out from his wrists and chest, giving me a teaser of the gorgeous body that must exist underneath that clothing.

A body I’ve seen in my dreams.

I try not to look at him.

In the six months I’ve been working here, I’ve tried my hardest not to stare at him, but it’s almost impossible. He’s a work of art demanding my attention. Time and time again, I find my eyes drawn back to him like there’s a pull I’m not in control of, or I look for excuses to speak to him so that I can bask in his presence.

Giddiness sweeps through me like I’m a teenager, so I shove my hands back into the pasta dough and focus on kneading like my life depends on it.

“Naomi!” Dariya exclaims, catching my attention. “Why have you gone all red?”

The warmth in my cheeks reaches molten levels and I laugh tightly, then scoop up my dough and turn my back on Daniil to focus on the pasta press. “It’s all this kneading. It really works up a sweat.”

The softest of snorts from Daniil reaches my ears—which I’m pretty sure isn’t my imagination—and a prickling hot sweat stabs down my spine.

Oh, the innocence of children.

I keep my attention on the pasta press and try to ignore him as I feed the dough in one end and catch the smooth sheets out of the other. If Daniil were my only problem, maybe it wouldn’t be so embarrassing to let my mind run, but between him and my boss, Fyodor Dunayevsky, this house has more than its fair share of attractive men.

Clearly, the world of professional fixers attracts the brooding, muscular types.

Nothing makes me happier while simultaneously making me feel like a frumpy lump that stands no chance.

It’s not a good idea to date your boss anyway. I’ll have to settle for lusting over him—both of them—in the quiet of my room.

By the time the sun sets and dark sky rolls past the window, the pasta is rolled and it’s cutting time. Dariya takes great joy in selecting the bow cutter. Between the two of us, it doesn’t take long to stab out too many pasta pieces to count under the watchful eye of Daniil, who hasn’t moved an inch since he came back.

Each movement of cutting the dough and adding a little twist in the middle highlights the ache throbbing across my shoulders and upper arms. No matter how many times I do this, I can’t escape the pasta aches. Dariya seems to be in the same boat as her enthusiasm for twisting pasta shapes starts to dwindle. I just need to keep her attention until the pasta is ready to cook.

“So,” I say, nudging her gently. “Do you know what kind of sauce you want to eat these with?”

Dariya shakes her head and pouts. “Can I have both sauces?”

“White and red? I’m not so sure that would taste so good.”

“My arms hurt,” she whines and both hands flop to her sides. The tell-tale signs of an impending tantrum from hunger and tiredness hang in the air, so I change tactics.

“Y’know, Daniil,” I say, and like always my heart lurches faintly just saying his name. “You’re the one with all the muscles. Maybe you should be over here twisting the pasta instead of Dariya.”

Daniil doesn’t move. He doesn’t even make a noise, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect he’d fallen asleep and was hiding it behind those dark sunglasses.

Thankfully, Dariya catches on and she steps down from her stool. Daniil’s stoic aura lasts until Dariya reaches him and presses her flour-stained hands all over his pristine vest. Only then do those flat, pressed lips pull into a small smile. My heart skips a beat.

No one can resist Dariya. She’s too precious.

“Come and help us,” she demands, tugging at the hem of his vest. Daniil finally moves, dropping one large hand down onto her head and he lightly ruffles her hair.

“I’m no cook,” Daniil says.

A shudder of delight moves through my body at the raspy tones of his voice. I’m unsure if it’s the raspiness or the undertones of his Russian accent that I enjoy, but he speaks so rarely that I just can’t get over how good his voice sounds. Despite that enjoyment, I keep my head down and work my way through the last few pasta twirls.

“Please,” Dariya whines, batting his hand away. “My arms are tired and Naomi is right. You have all the muscles.”

“Oh, Naomi is right, is she?”

The way his voice slows when he says my name, like it’s some delicacy he wants to savor the taste of, is enough to make me dizzy. Blinking hard, I finish the last few pieces of pasta with less-than-perfect twists, then quickly dust off my hands on the towel.

“Daniil is too busy holding up the wall to help us,” I say, flashing my strongest smile when I finally lift my head. It’s impossible to tell where Daniil is looking through those glasses. I can pretend his eyes are roaming over my curvy body with the same appreciation that licks around his words, but that toes a dangerous line between fantasy and reality. Reaching the two of them, my lungs fill with the spicy-sweet scent of his aftershave as I scoop Dariya up into my arms.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up so we can eat.”

Dariya cuddles into me and as I hurry away, I swear my back ignites with the heat of Daniil’s hidden gaze.

“You can’t be tired already,” I tease, flicking some warm water at Dariya as she yawns wide enough for me to see every single one of her crooked teeth. “You haven’t eaten yet!”

“I’m sleepy,” she whines, tossing her head back and forth. Freshly washed and flour-free, her hair drapes down her back with only one pigtail still secure.

“Maybe I should dunk you into the cold water. Will that wake you up?” I descend on Dariya with gentle, damp fingers, prodding into her sides and ribs, resulting in squeals of laughter. She squirms in my grip, twisting this way and that. Her laughter is so loud I almost miss the jingle rising from the back of my jeans. I would have completely missed it had the vibration not started a moment later.

There are very few people who would bother to call me. I don’t have any friends who would be reaching out, yet my heart lifts with hope that it’s someone new. Perhaps an old acquaintance from school is looking to reconnect after all these years, or someone has dialed the wrong number.

I straighten up and seek out my phone.

No such luck. It’s my mother.

“Hello?” With one eye on Dariya, I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear and set about unraveling her remaining braid.

“About time.” My mother’s bitter tones grate through me like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you think I have time to hang about waiting for you to pick up?”

I fight to keep my face relaxed in the mirror for Dariya. “Sorry, I was busy.”

“You’re always busy,” she remarks sharply. “We need to meet.”

My heart sinks. “What?”

“You missed last week’s lunch. We agreed, remember? Every three weeks, no exceptions.”

Last week? Oh, right.

“I told you why I couldn’t make it.” Forcing a smile, Dariya’s braid parts smoothly between my fingers.

“That brat was sick. I’ve heard it all before. We have to meet up. Now.”

“Now? You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

My mind races. It’s already dark out and Fyodor is very strict about who can leave the property and when. “I can’t. It’s too late. Tomorrow?”

“No.” A sharp, biting sigh blasts down the phone. “Don’t make me come and get you.”

My mother turning up here had the potential to be so explosively disastrous that there would surely be no survivors.

“My live-in situation makes it a little difficult to meet your demands,” I say sweetly, smiling wider as Dariya’s curious eyes meet mine in the reflection.

“Make up a story. I don’t care. You have two hours.”

Fuck .

Sticking my head out of the bathroom, I yell for Daniil, who appears so fast that it’s hard to believe he was waiting in the kitchen this whole time. Asking him to watch Dariya, I hurry away through the corridors toward the back of the house, where Fyodor’s office is located. Keeping my mother away from here is a must, but there’s no way I can leave without permission first and the only one who can grant that is my boss.

“Mr. Dunayevsky?” I knock sharply on the large, smooth oak door to Fyodor’s office.

No response.

“Fyodor? Sir?”

Nothing.

My chest constricts. In a flash of boldness, I test the cold, ornate handle and to my surprise, the door swings open easily.

Inside, the scent of old leather mixed with the tart of alcohol greets me. In my next breath, the smell of old books tickles my nose, and underneath all of it is the familiar woody scent I’m so used to detecting whenever Fyodor stands close to me.

His office is empty. No Fyodor in sight.

Fuck .

How is it empty? Never in all the months I’ve worked here has it been empty. Whenever I’ve needed him, he’s been right here, working away as diligently as anyone.

Should I call him? That might be the only way for me to get permission to leave before my mother turns up here and ruins six months of my hard work. Hard work I’ve been doing for her.

My weight shifts back and forth, then tension snaps across my shoulders when I glimpse his computer.

I could do it.

Right now, I could sneak up and access that computer, ending my stint here and giving my mother what she desires.

I could do that right now?—

Just as I take a half step forward, a strong, warm hand weathered with callouses grasps my wrist and spins me around so fast that my breath catches in my throat. My chest seizes, and air remains trapped behind my tongue as I face Fyodor.

My boss.

His warm, woody scent with a hint of vanilla teases at my nose. If I could breathe, I’d breathe him in like an addict. Hazel eyes glint at me, reflecting the warm light from the desk lamp enough that the golden flecks around the outside of his iris sparkle. Dark curly hair frames his face, curling just below his ear. His golden skin, a few shades darker than Daniil’s, carries the wrinkles of age around his eyes and the corner of his full mouth. A soft five o’clock shadow hugs his sharp, angled jaw, and even now, I yearn to know what it would feel like to have that brushing against my skin.

Shadows dance lightly across his face, melting into the floral tattoos that cover his neck like a collar. They bleed down across his shoulders and vanish under the straps of his tank top, the only fabric preventing the leather of his suspenders from imprinting into his skin. Fyodor stands a full head above me and his muscles are so thick that he dwarfs me with just a look—that’s always made my mouth water. Carrying the extra curves that I do, I’ve never doubted that Fyodor could throw me over his shoulder like I was weightless.

“Naomi.”

His voice is so deep that it vibrates through me.

“Care to explain what you think you are doing in here?”

Oh. Right .

In just a few seconds, he distracted me enough that I forgot about my mother and my ability to breathe.

“Um,” I gasp, suddenly conscious of how my breath might brush against his skin with how close we are. “I need to nip out for a bit.”

“Out?” Fyodor’s grip around my wrist tightens, firm but not painful. “Has Dariya eaten?”

Of course, his first thought is his daughter. If I’ve learned anything about Fyodor Dunayevsky it’s that his daughter is the most important thing to him.

“No, but Daniil is dealing with that.”

Fyodor’s grip tightens further, then he releases me and steps away. The rubber band around my chest suddenly releases as if Fyodor’s lack of presence has finally given me permission to breathe. I turn on the spot, following him with my eyes as he returns to his desk.

“You can leave once Dariya has eaten and gone to bed.”

Knowing Dariya, there’s no way I can get her to eat her dinner, shower, get in bed, and then go out to meet my mother. Not in two hours.

“I’m sorry but I can’t. I really have to go.”

His leather chair creaks as it takes on his muscular bulk. Fyodor rests his elbows on the desk, clasps his hands, and stares at me over the top of his knuckles.

“It’s snowing.”

It sounds like concern, but it’s really just another way to say no.

I take a deep breath, and my tongue trembles from how hard my heart thumps against my ribs. “I really must insist. I’ve taken care of Dariya, and I—well, I’ve never asked you for anything, have I? But I have something I really need to take care of—a family thing.”

Fyodor’s dark brows twitch ever so slightly.

“And I can take one of your cars, which will be safe in the snow. So… really, I’m here telling you that I’m going out. I’m not asking for permission.”

An amused glint sparks in his eyes and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Fine. Daniil will escort you.”

Fuck .

Argument rises on reflex but I catch myself. Permission is what I needed, and I have it.

“Thank you, sir.”

I rush out of the office immediately, pushing all lingering thoughts of yearning desire from my mind. I have to get to my mother and I can’t have Daniil by my side, no matter how important Fyodor’s requests are.

“Daniil, I need you to watch Dariya until I’m back, okay?” Waving at Dariya who is now free of both pigtails, I hurry away before Daniil can respond. Not that I need him to. Dariya is his charge and he will stay with her regardless.

With the keys to one of Fyodor’s jeeps in hand, I throw a coat around my shoulders and hurry out into the snow without much thought. Never before has my mother threatened to come here. She’s always been so adamant about making sure we meet up outside of the property that her change in heart must mean something is wrong.

Or she’s just growing impatient. Something I find quite ironic, considering she’s been waiting over twenty-five years for her plan to come to fruition.

The snowstorm is a second thought as I race out of the estate, waving as casually as I can to the guards at the gate and taking the left road through the forest. It’s the quickest route back into the city and I’m already cutting it close. Windshield wipers squeak and scrape as they fly rapidly over the windshield, and snow falls in thick clumps around me. I can barely see five feet in front of me, but at this time of night, it hardly matters.

There’s never anyone on the Dunayevsky Estate other than Fyodor and his people. He’ll likely be pissed that I left without Daniil but I can deal with that later. My mother takes priority.

My phone blares into life and the shrillness cuts through the dull silence in the car, drawing me out of my thoughts. Slowing down a little, I glance away from the road and reach for my phone in my pocket. I really should put it in the hands-free slot on the dashboard.

Suddenly, the entire jeep shudders backward and I lurch forward, caught by momentum.

Before my face smashes into the steering wheels, the airbag deploys and explodes in my face. It cushions the blow, but pain still blasts hot through my nose. Slamming my foot down on the brake, the entire jeep lurches to the left, and my head snaps to the side, making contact with the door window. Sharp heat prickles across my scalp, and I grip the steering wheel with all my strength as, finally, the jeep skids to a stop.

Heart hammering and head swimming, my stomach lurches.

What the fuck? Did I hit something?

Please don’t tell me I just ran over a deer.

Shock takes over, dulling the pain, and even the chill of the air around me fades from sensation. Scrabbling for the door handle, my nails scrape across the wood until I locate the lever. As soon as it pulls free, I fight around the airbag to escape the jeep and misjudge just how high I am from the ground.

A soft squeal escapes me as I fall from the jeep, pain lancing hard on my hands and knees. My head spins harder, and my vision swims as a dull, soft silence envelops me. Snow falls around me, utterly undisturbed by my accident, and confusion washes over me as some of the snow between my hands begins to turn red.

I’ve never seen red snow before.

I lift my head and freeze.

A few feet away, surrounded by snow and illuminated by the headlights of the jeep lies a body.