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

forth with a caveman,” I grumble under my breath. Whether he doesn’t hear me or is ignoring the sass, he doesn’t reply either way.

I sit still and watch as he toasts slices of bread, layers them with ham and cheese, cuts tomato and avocado and stacks it on top, then adds a thick dollop of mustard. His hands are deft and confident. He doesn’t look up even once. I, on the other hand, can’t look away.

A few silent minutes later, he piles one of the sandwiches on a plate and slides it over to me. The smell of the mustard, acrid and tangy, hits me.

I feel dizzy all of a sudden. My hands are shaking, I’m sweating through my shirt, and when he finally does look at me, my stomach rolls.

I want to talk to him, to tell him the truth about my mother and what she’s done. I want to promise him I can keep her under control—although even I don’t believe it—and that his secrets will stay buried just as deep as they are right now.

But I can’t speak. My stomach is trembling and sweat is still rolling down my back. I can’t think about more than my next breath so I don’t throw up on him.

“Charlotte.”

My stomach heaves, and I run for the bathroom. And just when I think my nerves and whatever is trying to make its grand escape from my belly is settled, bile, bitter and thick, spews out of me.

When the vomiting is finally finished and I can stand again without the world spinning, I realize that I can’t face Kostya.

Instead, I turn to the stairs and climb. Straight to bed. Tomorrow will be better. Or at least, it can’t get worse. And no, that isn’t a challenge to the universe. It’s my genuine thought.

Even after I throw up again at 4:00 a.m. and again in the shower at 5:30.

When I wake up, it appears that the universe has not only accepted the challenge I threw down last night, but is determined to take it one step further.

The new day starts much the way the last one ended. I’m up again after what feels like only a few minutes of tossing and turning, and my head is foggy, my stomach rustling. All of this I can blame on my mother and the stress of having to worry for our lives. Her choices. Her behavior. My body’s reaction to what she’s done.

I splash a few handfuls of water on my face then towel it dry as if I can wipe away the nausea. When it doesn’t work, I brush my teeth and go check on Tiana.

She’s curled in her bed, Foo Foo tucked under one arm. So peaceful. So unworried about the dangers in her life. She’s even smiling in her sleep, her little reddish curls lying against her milky white skin.

I’m sure there was a time I was innocent like that, untroubled by the world outside my own little bubble. But as soon as I think it, a picture of my mother flashes through my mind, and I start to doubt it was ever true. I was probably born troubled, and that’s a heavy thought to crawl out from under this early in the morning when I feel like I’ve been run over by a train.

More than anything, I want to crawl back into bed, but in the hallway, I force myself to turn towards the stairs and away from my room. I have responsibilities to see to, a child who needs breakfast prepared and her day planned. There’ll be plenty of time later to bend under the weight of my past.

But a peace settles over me now. Along with the sound of water slapping against the side of the pool, I can smell the chlorine, the fragrance of the flowers. The heat from the already-blasting sun warms me before I even step outside.

I walk through the patio door and watch Kostya swimming toward the opposite side of the pool. His body, long and lean, toned and tattooed, slices through the water, and I can’t move. His muscles contract and expand with every stroke.

Watching Kostya swim is as captivating as anything I’ve ever seen. There’s no mistaking his power. Not in the water, not out.

When he turns, he stops and treads water in the deep end, staring at me. His eyes caress my body as physically as a touch of his hand, and his tongue swipes along his lower lip as he watches me watch him.

I don’t want to want him because I’m only going to end up with a broken heart—thanks again, Mom—but passion stirs low in my belly and halts my breath. And I’m too weak to deny him when he crooks his finger.

“Come here.”

That I’m wearing my pajama shorts and a tank top again instead of a bathing suit doesn’t matter. That I still don’t feel quite up to par doesn’t matter either. All I see is Kostya and that smoldering desire in his eyes. I am a ball of raw passion for this man. Plus, I need to know that things are okay between us. I need him to know that my mother acted on her own and I am trying to stop her.

He doesn’t speak further but meets me at the side of the pool where I lower myself into the deep end. His arms wrap around me as soon as I’m in the water and he holds me close, chest to chest, as his hand tangles through my hair then slips down to my throat.

For a second, I imagine a wildness in his eyes that shoots bolts of panic through me, and I kick my legs, desperate not to be drowned by an angry Russian, but as soon as my mind conjures the image, it disappears, and I can’t tell if it was real or if I dreamed it up.

In the end, I don’t care, because there’s a quiet calm as he yanks the straps of