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

I wish I could tell her that everything she saw and everything that happened between us was a dream. All these knotty problems would disappear, if only she could be convinced that she imagined Whelan’s man bleeding on the floor, imagined my kiss against her mouth, my hand on her ass, my cock between her legs.

But she’s no fool.

On camera, she runs her finger along the rail, the length of the pool table, then drops to her knees, ass in the air—and my dick is already straining for her—to look under the table. After a moment, she sits up, no longer facing the camera.

I can’t see her face, but her shoulders are slumped, and her head is tilted. She’s remembering what she saw, trying to piece it together with the room in front of her. The complete absence of spilled blood; no remnants of the broken chair that Dmitri smashed over the Irishman’s back.

Once, this was a torture room. Now, it is as harmless as could be. Her brain is struggling to reconcile the two.

While I know she won’t believe my lie, maybe she’ll be smart enough to let it go. Especially if, rather than telling her who I really am and giving her the power to destroy me, I mention the vulnerability of her family—the mother she loves and the sister I promised to find.

Speaking of the sister, I shoot an email to Vlad to begin the search with the details I know about Lila as Charlotte continues to sit on the floor in the billiard room, facing the window.

From my office, I can’t see the window she’s standing now to look out of, but on the screen in front of me, I can tell she’s sobbing. Or laughing. In any case, her back is bowed, her shoulders shaking, and her arms are wrapped around her body.

When she wipes her eyes, my heart skips. So it wasn’t laughter.

And with that, I’ve had enough for one night. Enough watching her without touching her. Enough touching her and wanting more. It’s time for bed.

As I shut down the computer, stow my files in their drawer to be dealt with later, and pour myself one quick nightcap, I hear cautious footsteps—and my breath catches.

I both want her to come in and want her to stay away because I won’t be able to resist touching her and I can’t do that until I can touch her without craving her. Without needing to feel her skin. Without dying a little when I have to let her go.

Before she reaches my door, the footsteps halt and though my computer fan whirs quietly and the monitor hums as it sleeps, I can hear her breathing. I can hear her heartbeat. I can feel her fear.

My feet propel me toward the door though my mind is screaming at me to stop. But then she sighs and retreats.

Spokoynoy nochi, Sharlotka.

Good night, Charlotte.

She is my conundrum, my push and pull, my yin and yang. Want and need are warring inside of me. Both tied to this woman. Both determined to have her and keep her at arm’s length, and the part of me that is left to reason knows she isn’t the kind of woman who will be happy with just one night in my bed. Not if there could ever be a promise of more.

My only choice is to make sure she knows there is no hope of anything further than what we shared in the guesthouse. It’s the only way to save us both, the only way to protect my daughter from more heartache than she’s already suffered.

I was selfish once. It will not happen again. I must let her walk away and hope she never comes back.

To mourn that loss, and because there won’t be sleep tonight, I pour another two fingers of whiskey. If it’s going to be me alone with my thoughts and Charlotte alone in her room, then I might as well drink.

9

Charlotte

Oh dear God.

Why can I not find the damned stuffed bunny? Not in the closet. Not under the bed. Not hidden behind any piece of furniture I’ve checked.

Tiana’s cry has devolved into a squeal as I hand her a unicorn, then a teddy bear, a lion, a giraffe, and a monkey. Nothing quiets her. Nothing makes her happy. “Bunny!” she insists.

“I’m looking.” And for an hour, I’ve been looking like my life depends on it. Lord knows my sanity definitely does.

I’ve asked all the staff except Tiana’s laundress, who has only now arrived. Katryn, a high school senior, desperate to supplement her income, comes to the house three times a week. Her red hair is streaked with rosy blonde and her jeans are trendy and distressed. She’s social—too social, in my opinion. But as long as Tiana’s clothes are April fresh, I suppose it doesn’t matter who Katryn talks to.

“Hi, Charlotte!” She bounces past me and over to the still-unhappy Tiana, then leans down and presses her finger against Tiana’s nose. To a three-year-old, the two-inch talons on the end of Katryn’s fingers probably look like claws, and she cries louder. Not that I thought it possible.

“Have you seen Foo Foo?” I am shouting a little to be heard. Katryn’s eyes widen and her mouth compresses into a little smirk.

“The ugly stuffed bunny?” Katryn nods. “Yeah, it was disgusting. I threw it in the washer yesterday before I left.”

Okay, so Foo Foo wouldn’t win any “Prettiest Toy” award. The little guy has definitely seen brighter days. His gray fur has tufts missing, one eye about an inch lower than the other, and he has a white fluffy paw with black stitches. But that the toy is so repaired speaks to its importance to Tiana. Not that I expect a teenager to see it. But seriously, come on.

“Well, she wants it today.” At nap time, actually. An hour ago. And no way will Foo Foo survive the dryer. Not without losing an eye, an ear, a