A Nanny For The Bratva Boss (Holidays With The Bratva #4)

Chapter 1

One

MAYA

I’m pathetic. Like, truly, deeply, embarrassingly pathetic.

It’s six-thirty in the morning, I’m standing in the front yard of my best friend’s pool house wearing shorts that show half my ass and a tank top with no bra, holding a watering can I filled five minutes ago, pretending to care about her flowers.

I don’t give a single fuck about these flowers.

What I do give a fuck about is the six-foot-four wall of solid muscle that’s about to jog past this gate in exactly three minutes.

Because Mikhail Maksimov runs every morning at six-thirty-three. On the dot. Shirtless. Abs glistening with sweat, tattoos on full display, that hard jaw clenched, those ice-blue eyes focused straight ahead like he’s running toward a kill.

And I’m out here like some thirsty groupie, waiting.

God, Maya. Get it together.

I adjust my bonnet and pretend to inspect a rosebush that’s probably dead.

I don’t know. I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned.

But Ana won’t be back from her honeymoon for another week, so she’ll never know I’ve been using her garden as a prop in my sad one-woman show titled “How to Embarrass Yourself in Front of Your Hot Neighbor.”

The sound of footsteps hits the pavement.

My heart kicks into overdrive.

Here he is.

I glance up, trying to look casual and/or surprised. Like I just happened to be out here watering plants at the crack-ass of dawn.

Mikhail rounds the corner, and sweet baby Jesus, it should be illegal to look like that.

He’s all brutal lines and raw power. Broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, a chest carved from stone, arms thick with muscle and ink. His dark hair is damp with sweat, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes… Yeah, they don’t even flick my way.

He runs past me like I’m invisible.

Nope. Not today.

I’ve been watching this man for three weeks.

Three weeks of stolen glances, late-night fantasies, and biting my lip every time he walks out on his terrace in nothing but low-slung lounge pants, coffee in hand, looking like he walked straight out of the Bratva edition of GQ, who doesn’t know how to smile.

Three weeks, and he’s never once acknowledged my existence. And now I’m done with this shit.

“Good morning!” I call out, my voice too bright, too loud.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

Just keeps running, his long, thick legs eating up the pavement, his breathing steady and controlled.

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Hey!” I try again, stepping closer to the gate. “Beautiful day, huh?”

Nothing. Not a grunt. Not a glance. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.

He just runs right past me like I’m part of the scenery.

My cheeks burn.

Why is that hot?

It shouldn’t be hot. It should be rude. Infuriating. A clear sign that I need to abandon this ridiculous crush and focus on literally anything else. Like finding a job, or figuring out how to afford my own place instead of mooching off Ana’s charity.

But noooo. My traitorous body decides that his complete and utter indifference is somehow the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. What is wrong with me?

I watch him disappear around the corner, my pulse still racing, my thighs pressed together like that’s going to help with the ache building between them. Newsflash: it doesn’t.

I let out a long breath and look down at the watering can in my hand.

“Well,” I mutter to the half-dead rosebush. “That went great.”

I walk back to the pool house, mentally kicking myself.

This is what my life has become. Twenty-three years old, broke as hell, living in my best friend’s pool house like some kind of charity case, and spending my mornings lusting after a man who doesn’t even know I exist.

A man who’s probably dangerous.

Because, let’s be real, Mikhail Maksimov isn’t just some rich guy living in a gated community. He’s Bratva. Russian mafia. I know because Ana’s husband, Dmitry, is part of the same world, and when I moved here, she sat me down and gave me the rundown.

“Mikhail’s family, but he’s… different. He’s quiet, keeps to himself. Don’t bother him, and he won’t… murder you?” She didn’t say “stay away from him” exactly, but the message was clear.

And yet here I am, bothering him. Or trying to, anyway.

I drop the watering can by the door and flop on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

This crush is going to kill me. Or maybe it’ll just die a slow, humiliating death on its own when I finally accept that Mikhail Maksimov will never look at me twice. Either way, I need to get a grip.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.

Ana: How’s the house? Missing you! Paris is gorgeous, but can’t wait to come home & hang. Have you seen you-know-who? ??

I groan and type back.

Me: If by “seen” you mean making a fool of myself, then yes.

Ana: Babe. Stop torturing yourself. He’s not even your type.

Me: You’re right. I prefer men who acknowledge my existence.

Ana: LOL. Exactly. Now go do something productive. Apply for jobs. Read a book. Touch grass. Anything but crush on the grumpy Russian.

I toss my phone aside and pull a throw pillow over my face.

She’s right. I know she’s right.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is him. His massive shoulders. That square, stubbled jaw. His huge hands that look like they could break bones or hold me down, whichever works for him… God.

I squeeze my thighs together again and let out a frustrated groan.

This is ridiculous. Mikhail Maksimov doesn’t want me. And I need to stop wanting him.

But by eight a.m., I’m perched on the little bench near the shared wall between our properties, with a book in hand, pretending to read.

But I’m not reading at all. I’m waiting.

Because every morning after his run, Mikhail comes out on his terrace with a cup of coffee. And every morning, I get a front-row seat to the show.

The wall between us is just low enough that if I stand on my tiptoes. Or, you know, sit on this conveniently placed bench… I can see right over. And what a view…

He steps outside, coffee mug in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of black lounge pants that sit dangerously low on his hips.

My mouth goes dry.

Christ.

His chest is a goddamn work of art. All hard planes and defined muscle, with tattoos snaking across his ribs, over his shoulder, down his arms. There’s a scar cutting across his abdomen, jagged and brutal, and I want to trace it with my tongue.

Oh, Maya.

He leans against the railing, his back to me, and takes a slow sip of his coffee.

I hold my breath.

This is the part where I should look away. Go inside. Stop being a creep.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Because even from behind, he’s devastating.

Broad back, muscles shifting under tanned, inked skin, that thick dark hair still damp from his shower.

He turns slightly, his profile coming into view, and my heart does a stupid flutter.

His chiseled jaw, his full lips that are set in a permanent tight line… I’m fucking obsessed!

He lifts the mug to his mouth, and I bite my bottom lip, imagining what those hands, those lips would feel like on my skin. Rough. Demanding. Taking what they want.

Stop it.

But it’s like I can’t. My body is betraying me, my panties getting damp, my nipples tightening under my tank top. Like I’m going to combust. Right here. On this bench. In broad daylight.

And then he turns. Just a fraction. And his eyes, cold and piercing blue, lock on mine.

Oh shit.

I freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just stares at me with an unreadable expression, his coffee mug still raised to his lips.

I should look away or wave… say something. Anything.

But I’m paralyzed. Like a deer caught in headlights. Except the headlights are a six-foot-four Russian mobster who definitely just caught me ogling him.

The corner of his sexy mouth twitches.

Did he just…? No!

The ghost of a smirk is gone before I can process it, and he turns back around, dismissing me as easily as he did on his run, and any other time we’ve crossed paths…

I scramble off the bench, clutching my book to my chest, and practically sprint back to the pool house.

Great, Maya. Just great.

I slam the door behind me and lean against it, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t burst out of my chest.

He saw me checking him out. He definitely saw me. And he didn’t say a word. Just looked at me like I was… nothing. Or something… I can’t tell. And that’s the problem.

Tomorrow. I’ll try again tomorrow.