Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

me with work, sending terse email after terse email with vague instructions for endlessly complicated tasks. By closing time every day, which lately has been somewhere around 9 p.m., I feel like I’ve torn half my hair out trying to interpret his cryptic one-line messages correctly.

Babysitting, compared to this BS, would be a walk in the park.

I open the last envelope in the stack I’ve been going through, withdraw its contents, and then yelp like something shocked me. My jaw drops. “Wait, Mom, are you serious?”

“Charlotte, I am talking, can’t you see that I—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off. I hold the bill in my hand and brandish it like a weapon, even though she can’t see me. “You paid for another detective?”

“This was not a detective!” she protests. “This is a search-and-rescue agency. They specialize in retrieving victims from situations of distress, and—”

“Search and rescue?!” I’m practically screaming at this point. When did I stand up? I can’t remember, but the kitchen chair is knocked over, so I must have leapt to my feet. “Lila is not a fricking captive, Mom! She left on her own! She chose to leave!”

Silence. Then, sobbing.

Oh Lord. I’m gonna be paying for this one for the rest of my natural life. But honestly, that’s fine, because I’m sick and tired of being so sick and tired of my mom’s antics. This is, by my count, the eleventh time she has forked over a hefty sum to get some Joe-Schmo, retired-cop, wannabe-James-Bond-type to try and hunt down Lila. They’re sleazeballs who just type my sister’s name into Google and then shrug and give up when there isn’t an address attached before ambling down to the bank to cash my mother’s checks. But my mom believes in each of them with religious zeal. I’m pretty sure she’s still making payments to the third guy.

Number eleven, though, is the last straw.

I need money. I need to get a handle on my life. But most of all, I need a little separation from dear old Mama.

I’m going to take Kostya’s stupid offer. A few months of what amounts to basically paid vacation? No secretary BS, an excuse to dodge Mom for a bit, and a bump in my salary? Sign me up. I’ll deal with the sexual tension and the proximity to an asshole billionaire when the time comes to deal with those things.

I text Kostya’s private cell number.

I want quadruple pay. Not double.

His reply is immediate.

Done.

Kostya’s mansion expands over acres of manicured landscape.

Each one presents a thousand different dangers to a child. A pool without a gate. Second- and third-floor windows that open far enough for her to climb out and tumble to the patio below. Cabinets without child locks. Doors without alarms.

My list grows with each step I take toward the house. I left Tiana with Kostya so I could go back to my apartment and pack. It’s pathetic, but everything I own fits into four boxes and three suitcases. All of which I’m leaving in the car until tomorrow. No need for Kostya to see exactly how pitiful my life is.

I stand outside the door. To knock or not to knock? That’s the question I need answered presently. I’m going to live here, although I don’t have a key, so knocking makes sense, right? For now. Until I’m settled in. Or maybe I shouldn’t get settled yet? I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything at the moment.

Fortunately, the housekeeper pulls the heavy, metal-studded door open and waves me inside. “Miss Lowe,” she says simply. She introduces herself as Marianne. She’s an older woman, probably in her sixties, looks like she’s in her forties, moves like someone in her twenties, and frowns like she’s never known a smile. “You’ll need a code to get inside.”

“Oh. Right.”

She shows me the panel outside the door, disguised with a brick façade that matches the exterior of the house. It blends so well, I would’ve never noticed it if she hadn’t pointed it out.

“For now, you can use the one we give delivery drivers.” She punches the numbers into a keypad, and I make a note of the four-digit combination. “I’ll have Dmitri get you a personal code.”

Dmitri is the man in charge of house security. He spends his time in a basement room watching cameras that scan the entire property. I ran into him earlier when he helped Geoffrey and Marianne bring in all the purchases I made for Tiana. “Kostya is waiting for you in the hallway on the second floor.”

“The hallway?”

Marianne leads me up the stairs, and I see him, leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets.

I’ve spent the afternoon telling myself I’m not attracted to him, that he is an asshole and raging narcissist with control issues. Unfortunately, I’m not very convincing, and he’s a lot of man to be attracted to.

I clear my throat. He looks up and puts a finger over his lips. “She’s sleeping.”

His whisper is low and deep, soft, and my mind immediately decides it’s wildly seductive. My body responds accordingly. My heart palpitates. My palms sweat. My panties go damp. Shit, again. I can’t be attracted to my boss while I’m living in his house and responsible for his daughter. I will not let myself lose this job because I can’t keep it in my pants.

Time to remind myself of the mantra I practiced on my way over:

He’s an asshole.

He’s shady.

He’s using you.

It works. I smile back. Serene. Calm. No indication that, moments ago, I was about to dissolve into a puddle of horny girl goo. “Why are you in the hallway?”

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and shrugs. “Waiting for you.”

I swallow and switch over to a factual conversation. “I bought monitors and set them up this afternoon, so you can see and hear her when you’re not in the same room. Or when you’re at work, and she’s with me; or when she’s sleeping, and you don’t want to