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

conjure for Natasha, then a child is certainly beyond my ability to appropriately respond to.

Not just a child, but my child. Alive and out there, somewhere, wondering what has happened to her parents. A child who is half me and half Natasha. She exists. That alone is a fucking marvel. To think that, after everything that happened with my ex-wife—the lies, the games, the rifts that opened in a million and one ugly, hidden places—a child came out of all that? I don’t have any goddamn clue how to process that piece of information.

But for right now, that is all it is. Information. I resolve to do what I have always done with information: find out how I can use it to my advantage.

“What is her name?”

“Tiana.”

Tiana. After my mother. Yet another of Natasha’s games

Yelisey continues, “Since Natasha has no living family”—my father made sure of that—“and the police called looking for you, it leads me to believe that Natasha has left some indication that the child is yours.”

I nod because words fail me. My child. The words roll through my head again and again like the tide.

Fuck. I feel a cold swirling in my gut. This does not bode well. But my decision was made from the moment Yelisey opened his lips.

There is only one thing I can do.

“Find her. Bring her to me.”

Yelisey, who never questions my orders, glances up. “Sir, you might …”

And because he’s never spoken out before, I’ll forgive him this once.

“I said find her.”

The words need no clarification. He’ll do as I say because thirty years of friendship mean nothing when it comes to disrespect. And he knows it.

I add, “And set up DNA testing. I want proof.”

What I actually want is to bring Natasha back to life so I can kill her with my bare hands. She denied me the one thing I’ve always wanted, the thing I can’t buy—a family of my own.

It appears that the joke is on me.

This time, Yelisey nods, and the only sound inside the car is the hum of tires on the road. I think of Natasha, of her eyes. Deep brown, flecked with ambers and golds at the pupil. Beautiful eyes that once, so long ago, held nothing but love of the purest, sweetest kind.

Or so I thought.

Right up until everything changed. Until the games began. Twisting me, begging me, hiding things from me. She wanted a dog, then a car. Then a house big enough so she never had to see the dog, and a chauffeur, so she never had to drive the car. Those earliest games were petty, but the objective was simply to see how far she could manipulate me. And when she knew … then, my world became her oyster.

I was blind to it then, an idiot, a fool who deserved to suffocate in the wool being pulled over my eyes.

Perhaps I would have, too, if my father, sensing my weakness for Natasha, hadn’t acted on my behalf. And when the scam was up, then she left. Disappeared into the night.

Until now.

Well, fuck that. Fuck Natasha. And the more that I think about it, something else comes to mind, too: Fuck this child. If she is even mine, if she even exists.

I’ve changed my mind; I want nothing to do with another one of that psycho bitch’s games.

I will tell Yelisey to find the girl and get rid of her. I don’t care how—pay social services, bribe a foster family, put her with one of our people—

My phone buzzes.

I accept the call and snap “What the fuck do you want?” without looking at the caller’s ID.

“Well, hello to you, too. Sorry for interrupting.” I swear I can hear Charlotte’s blush. I can close my eyes and picture it, too. She’s so fucking innocent that she still blushes. And that pale skin of her cheeks shows the red so well. I can only imagine how well the pale skin of her ass would show the red of my handprints.

But now is not the time for thoughts like that, as invasive as they may be. I can feel a black hole of anger and torment opening up in my chest. Fucking Charlotte, as satisfying as it would be to finally devour my secretary, would be like slapping a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry,” I growl. “I asked what the fuck you want.”

She stammers, “I—I just wanted to see if everything at the gala had gone well. I wanted to see if you, uh, needed anything from the office. Before I go home.”

Then, before I can stop myself, I snap, “I have just been informed that I have a fucking child I never knew existed and a dead ex-wife I would have preferred to kill myself. Does that sound like everything went well, Miss Lowe?”

Silence.

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. I can hear her breathing, too.

The silence is making me irritated. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“And I don’t like to be cursed at,” she snaps back.

I open my mouth to reply and then let it fall closed. I cannot even recall the last time someone talked back to me like that. I should be mad—considering all that has happened in the last few minutes, I can hardly be blamed for being a bit on edge—and yet, I am struck by the most unexpected sensation: I want to laugh.

“You are bold to say that to me, Charlotte,” I whisper into the phone.

“My apologies, sir,” she says, but there is still a lingering note of defiance in her voice. She is normally a quiet presence in my office, efficient eye candy to get me through the day. But I like this side of her I have not seen before. It brings her out of the background of my life, into the spotlight. I can sense that that makes her uncomfortable.

Good. These games are best played on my terms.

“I may not be in tomorrow,” I say to Charlotte.