Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva), Nicole Fox [life changing books txt] 📗

“Why do you think, of all the businesses in the greater LA area, yours are being attacked? Is it because you’re Bratva?”

I laugh, but he’s walking a dangerous ledge that thins with each breath he takes. “That is an old and nasty rumor that’s been put to rest more than once. I welcome any police investigation”—I actually pay quite a hefty sum to discourage such a governmental act—“into my business interests.”

He nods at my standard pat answer and doesn’t even bother to write it down. “There are a great many photos of you at the Baltzley Hotel with a woman the night of the attack. Is she your girlfriend?” I don’t answer but tilt my head as my heart thumps and my fingers close into a fist. “She’s not your usual type, Kostya. Girl like that, you have to have some kind of ulterior motive for crawling into bed with her.”

My blood boils. I lunge. Swing. I feel bones crunch and blood erupt on my fist, and I revel in the feel of his skin ripping open under my hands.

How fucking dare he?

I punch him again and again, until Yelisey is behind me, pulls me off, and ushers me inside. Adrenaline surges. I could go ten more rounds with that piece of shit.

Inside, I’m enveloped in a flurry of motion. Someone is wrapping my hand in a towel while Yelisey ushers me toward a waiting elevator and someone else is holding back onlookers who work inside the building.

When the elevator door whooshes closed behind us, Yelisey shakes his head. “You have people to take care of things like that. Why would you … risk a spectacle on the front steps of your building while onlookers film it and a reporter is there taking notes?”

The last thing I need is a scolding, even if he’s right. “I also have hired security who should have ensured those men never got near me. Where were they?” I’m furious. And alive. And angry. And vibrating.

By the time we’re upstairs, the fight has hit social media and not more than an hour later, I’m trending. There is video of the actual fight. Video remixes set to music. Vloggers doing a play-by-play. There’s nothing I can do to stop the whole fucking thing from snowballing out of control.

The board calls an emergency meeting because of the press we’re getting. Apparently, they don’t care for the fact their interests are being managed by a thug.

“We need to handle LAPD.” I shouldn’t have to tell Yelisey or Vlad, who are both in my office right now, scrolling through Twitter and Instagram feeds, reading the headlines aloud for me.

Vlad nods. “Taken care of. A substantial donation was made on your behalf.”

“And the DA’s office?”

He waves me off as he shows Yelisey his phone screen and they both quickly turn away as if they can’t believe what it says. But neither speaks.

“What?”

Yelisey shakes his head. “No worry.” He never quite manages to get slang correct.

“I am worried. What does it say?” Doesn’t change the fact that I’m the boss and I asked a question that requires an answer.

“It said …” He clears his throat. Sniffs. Wipes his hand over his chin. “It says that you … that you were drunk and on drugs when you beat a man to death back in Russia. And that, here, you are Russian Bratva don who can buy any woman he wants.” Some truth. Some lie. Nothing of consequence.

I need to go home. I’ve had enough for today. “Have someone bring my car around.”

Yelisey nods to Vlad, who leaves. “You know, Kostya, this will be old news tomorrow,” he says once the door swings shut.

“Unless I get sued.”

“Oh, you will. But we’ll handle that. The way we handle everything.” He rubs his thumb against his fingers in the international sign for money. Of course he’s right. He’s always right. It’s why I keep him around.

By the time I think about Charlotte again, I’m home. So maybe all I need to do to forget her is get into one fistfight every few hours of every day, drive through a substantial amount of rush- hour traffic, and stay away from my house so I can avoid thinking of her until I can figure out a way to deal with my feelings.

Tiana throws herself at me. It’s past her bedtime and her nanny is nowhere in our immediate vicinity. I scoop up my daughter and inhale a whiff of what can only be described as sweat, sour milk, and … is that some sort of pain-relief gel?

“Tiana, where’s your … new friend?” Dammit. I still can’t remember the woman’s name.

She scrunches her face into a hundred wrinkles. “I want Charlotte.”

I don’t want to agree but I do. Silently. Secretly. “Where is …” God, what is her name? “Your babysitter?”

“She’s very not nice.” Her face is the same one she made the other day after she bit into a lemon Charlotte had sliced for lemonade. “She hates me.” My little girl flips her hair like an adult woman on a daytime talk show. “And I hate her. She isn’t Charlotte.”

No one will ever be as good as Charlotte. As kind. As perfect a fit for me and my daughter. Or as quick. The woman rounds the corner and I step out of the way in enough time she doesn’t knock me down. When she looks up, Tiana narrows her eyes and tightens her lips. I don’t need DNA to know this little girl is mine. “Go home. You’re fired.”

There isn’t a point to sugarcoating it. She did a bad job and I don’t need her if this is the best she can do.

“It’s only been one day. I’m sure once I have more time …” Her words trail off as Tiana and I walk into the kitchen.

Charlotte didn’t need more time. She bonded with Tiana immediately. I need someone like her as a nanny. Someone who can handle my daughter, who