Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (open ebook .TXT) 📗

else of it, but now that I’m here, in the literal and/or figurative lion’s den, his voice keeps creeping back.

Mobster. Allegations. Shoot-outs.

Now, my neck is on the line.

Red neon danger warnings flash through me, and my breath comes in short puffs. I can see a thousand ways that this can all go wrong. Tiana could fall off a horse. Fail a history test. Break out in a rendition of “Baby Shark” when she’s expected to sing the Russian national anthem.

I can feel the target on my back widening. I need to make a plan. Chart her life course so it looks like I have a clue about how to raise a child so Kostya will find my sister before my mom has a full-on psychotic breakdown.

But that will all have to wait, because if I think about it all at once, I’m about one tick short of a panic attack. First things first—right now, I need to sort out food for Tiana. In all my shopping yesterday, I didn’t think once about kid-friendly food and apparently, whoever shops for Kostya didn’t anticipate a tiny, picky guest either.

The refrigerator is packed full of fruits and vegetables, an assortment of meats and cheeses, vegetable juices, and two varieties of bottled water.

I add grocery shopping to my mental to-do list then pull out a carton of eggs, a green pepper, a red pepper, some sliced ham, and a package of cheese. What kid doesn’t like eggs … right?

After rinsing the vegetables, I go to the butcher block, pull a chopping knife from the slotted edge, and begin slicing the peppers.

“Good morning, Charlotte.”

His voice is soft, but I spin, knife in hand, and almost take out his left nipple. He pushes my wrist to the side and frowns as he gently liberates the knife hilt from my hand.

I could die. Right here on the ceramic tile floor.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “You startled me.”

The fact that I can speak at all, with my heart in my throat, is something that should earn me bonus points in the grand scheme of life. Especially with Kostya so close and so at ease, the usual worry lines on his face are absent.

I’ve never seen him so relaxed or in any kind of outfit that doesn’t pair well with a tie and Italian loafers. But now, he’s in a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt that gives me a glimpse of his tattoos, over forearms and biceps bulging with muscle.

He sets the knife down on the countertop, then turns and picks a carton of strawberries from the fridge. I stand rooted in place as he plucks one for a bite that leaves a dribble of juice on his chin as he chews. My pulse is on course for a stroke in T-minus twelve seconds, because there’s not a lot I can think of in the world that is sexier than Kostya Zinon eating fresh fruit. So simple. But so … intoxicating. I’m actually dizzy.

In the interest of my mental well-being and my job security, I turn away rather than tonguing the juice from his dagger-sharp jawline.

Because I’m desperate for a distraction, any distraction, I channel every TV chef I’ve ever seen and become a chopping machine, slicing, dicing, and julienning until he touches my shoulder again. This time, I handle myself without nearly inflicting bodily harm.

“Hand me the eggs,” he says. It’s a command—nothing new there; Kostya doesn’t make much use of the good ol’ question mark—but it’s softer and less imposing than most of the other things I’ve had him order me to do in the past.

This is a weird new world.

I gulp silently and hand him the carton of eggs and a bowl. I stand still as he cracks an egg in the one-handed Gordon Ramsay style, all casual, like it’s no big deal.

Oh God.

If he can cook, too … that’s it. Brad Pitt’s spot as my go-to fantasy guy will transfer immediately—retroactive to eleven months ago—to Kostya.

I watch his hands as he whips the yolks with practiced efficiency, then picks up the grater and a block of cheese to sprinkle some creamy goodness into the bowl and folds it together with the eggs.

Welp—better luck next time, Brad.

While he waits for the pan to heat up, I stand staring, too rapt for my own good. His body is lithe, but he moves with a precision and grace that somehow makes him that much more powerful. He could easily pick a girl up in his arms, set her on the counter, and …

“Charlotte?”

“What?” Too sharp. Too loud. And my face has to be fifty or sixty shades of embarrassed.

He nods to the cutting board, hopefully oblivious to the fact that I’ve now spent a good couple minutes imagining him naked. “Vegetables.”

I hand him the cutting board, and he dumps half the sliced veggies into the pan then grates more cheese over top.

“For God’s sake, pull it together,” I mutter.

He tilts his head and his brow creases. “Excuse me?”

Oh shit. I talked to myself. Out loud. That wasn’t supposed to happen. “Nothing. I was just … nothing.” I busy my hands because I don’t trust myself not to slide my hand down his back to cup his ass, or run my fingers through his hair, or strip off my own clothes and offer my body to him.

Damn those dreams. I can’t focus on anything other than Kostya.

I have nearly two full minutes of blissfully unsexual time to scrub the vegetable remnants from the cutting board like my life depends on it. The water is hot, the soap is foaming, and I’m literally begging whoever controls my thoughts to please turn off the Kostya Zinon channel that seems to be stuck on a constant loop.

Behind me, I hear the burble of the eggs in the pan, and the periodic scrape of the spatula.

I grab the knife I was using and start to clean that, too, when—

“Ow!”

I slice my fingertip open. So much for that Olympic gold medal in