Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) by Nicole Fox (classic fiction TXT) 📗

She has massive paintings on the wall that span various artistic styles, from modern images of puppies to pop art replicas of celebrities and surrealist landmarks across the globe. Her rugs range from faux fur to homemade crocheted ones, and all the furniture in the house was picked up from yard sales or gifted to her after friends passed away.

To say that Nana’s house is a collaborative group effort would be an understatement. That’s what I love about it. None of it makes any sense, but when it’s all together, that kind of chaos is harmonious.

We sit in silence for a moment while the show’s climax plays out on the screen before us. When it goes to commercial break, she turns to me, pats my hand, and smiles.

“How was work?” she asks.

“It was okay. Relatively slow, but we got a lot of regulars in.”

“Did you see that fire on the news?” Her voice is soft.

I swallow hard and look up at her. I’ve never expressed the bit of PTSD I feel whenever I see things like that on the news, but Nana knows. Sometimes I wonder if she’s been a mind reader this whole time. Rather than saying anything, I just give her a slow nod.

“Are you okay?”

The way she says it almost brings tears to my eyes. Nana has this distinct ability to be stern and strong and confident when she needs, but also uncomfortably tender and caring. It always throws me for a loop when she switches it up and cuts right to the point.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. I pick at the tattered edge of one of her throw pillows, keeping my focus on anything but the soft brown eyes staring at me. “I don’t think it’ll ever be easy.”

“It won’t,” she confirms. “But you’ll learn how to cope better. You’ll learn how to take it all in, feel it, but not let it overtake you and your thoughts.”

That all sounds nice and dandy, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be strong enough to somehow do what she does. I can’t imagine never feeling a twisting knife in my gut anytime I think about what happened to Mom and Dad. Not only is the wound still open from the fact that I lost them, but it’s made even worse, salt sprinkled on top, because Abram Konstantin will never be punished for what he did.

Years ago, I sat down and tried to figure out everything I could about him. I wanted to know the man responsible for the death of my parents. I wanted to know who he was and why he was able to skate through life without any kind of repercussions for his actions. More frustrating than anything else was that he was essentially a ghost.

The only articles I could find about him in English were about his real estate dealings and all the businesses he ran in the city. His entire online identity was a sterilized wasteland of uninteresting articles and pictures posing with powerful people. Though my findings were limited, I took note of all the people he was close with.

Millionaires and billionaires, powerful people in town. He associated with the top of the top, and suddenly it started making sense. He didn’t get away with negligence because the police truly found him innocent. He used a more precious capital, one that wasn’t palpable but still carried more weight than cash. He had connections. He had people that could help him sweep the ash of my singed childhood under the rug, away from the public eye.

There’s no way in hell I’ll let this go. But for Nana’s sake, I give her a small smile and a nod. “I’ll try,” I say. My answer seems to satisfy her because I watch as she leans back in her seat more comfortably.

“Are you doing okay?” I rise from the couch and take a step toward her, grabbing one of her pillows and fluffing it up. Recently, Nana had a health scare, and I’ve basically become like her mother, always doting on her and trying to make her as comfortable as I can.

“I’m fine, darling,” she says. She pats my hand again reassuringly, and just like I lied to her about trying to let the fire go, I can see that she’s filtering her words and holding back what she really wants to say. I can’t blame her. Strokes aren’t anything to speak lightly of, no matter how minor.

“I just want you to be okay. Even if it means taking more shifts at Rudy’s so that I can afford your medicine. Whatever it takes, Nana,” I say. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for her, and I want her to know that without a shadow of a doubt.

“Lucy,” she says, almost sternly. I stop flitting around and look down into those deep blue eyes. “I’m the grown-up here. I’m taking care of you, baby. You shouldn’t be worried about me. What you should be worried about is having fun and meeting a nice man.”

It takes all my strength to hold back a groan. Two times in one day is a little too much for me. “Nana, I don’t need a man.”

“Nobody needs a man, Lucy. But they’re fun to have around. And I want you to experience that. I want you to settle down with someone nice. At least try.”

“Okay.” There’s no point in arguing with her about this, and I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll get worked up and be sick again. “I’ll make you a deal. As long as you take the next few days off, I’ll go looking for a husband and we’ll make some grandbabies for you. How does that sound?”

Her chuckle is sugar sweet, and I find myself growing warm from just her presence. Any time I start to feel anxious, I turn to her for relief. “That’s my girl.”

The commercials end, and just like that, her attention is now laser-focused