Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) Page 6

  It’s not an easy question. I have no experience with parenting, but I was a child once. So … “Just make her feel loved. Every minute. Figure out a way to slay her dragons without becoming one of them. Be tough and fair. Show her kindness and discipline.”

  His breath is shallow and—I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, but I’m certain it’s true—Kostya Zinon is afraid.

  It’s in his eyes, in the slouch of his shoulders as he struggles to hang on. “And don’t introduce her to anyone who isn’t going to be in her life for more than a few months. Her heart’s not quite up to protecting itself yet, so you have to do the protecting for her.” And I will, too. I will make sure nothing—like my attraction to her father—jeopardizes her happiness.

  But now, I’ve scared him. Or worried him. Or maybe … his eyes are narrow and his mouth a tight line. I’m the one who put that look on his face and I want to make it disappear. “It’s okay, Kostya.”

  “Okay? I don’t know anything about children.” His voice is pained, and I hear the fear he will never verbally admit to.

  “Yes, it’s going to be okay.” I nod and watch him, then hold out a hand. This is a guy who needs comfort. I can give him that. To a point. “Come on. We’ll get you a book.”

  “A book?” He looks at me with his clear blue eyes full of hope now. “They have a book?”

  I don’t want to laugh, but I can’t help it. He’s the definition of fish out of water, of parental insecurity. “Several, actually. And they’re helpful, but you’re going to be okay. You’re nervous because it’s new, but you’re going to be fine.” I smile and stroke the back of his hand with my thumb. I look up at him and see the passion burning in his eyes.

  Kostya is off-limits. I need to remember that, but he’s so … vital and beautiful and … standing so close to me …

  He reaches out and takes my chin in his palm softly. His eyes are twinkling as he brings his lips close to mine.

  Closer, closer …

  “Charlotte?”

  I snap back to reality so hard I get whiplash. “Uh, um, yeah, mhmm,” I blurt. I have no idea what’s going on. Did I just daydream that? A conversation with Kostya about how to raise his daughter? Him showing fear, uncertainty, hesitation? Him kissing me?

  That is a very bad start to this sordid little arrangement.

  “Am I going to regret this?” he growls with a warning tone in his voice.

  “No, no.” I’m still so rattled that I know I’m for sure coming off as a world-class ditz. Earth to Charlotte: get your shit together.

  “Is the, um, room I chose for Tiana upstairs okay?”

  His hands are tucked in his pockets. He frowns. “It’s fine. Do you need anything else, or can I get back to my life now?”

  I swallow hard past the knot in my throat. “I think that’s it. I should probably get to bed. In case she gets up early.”

  We’re standing outside the door to my bedroom now.

  Kostya nods curtly. “She gets up at six. Don’t be late.”

  “Six. Got it. Well, good night.”

  He turns without saying anything.

  I watch as he strides away toward the door at the end of the hall—his room. The master bedroom. I might’ve guiltily poked my head in during my earlier tour and seen the four-poster canopy bed, the walk-in closet bigger than my apartment, the bathroom with attached sauna and hot tub. It was a quick glance. Just long enough to notice that there were no women’s clothes in the closet.

  I walk into my own room and shut the door and lean against it. It feels cold. Foreign. The man on the other end of the hall feels the exact same way.

  I sink to the floor and put my head in my hands.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  5

  Charlotte

  After a night full of unwanted hot and heavy dreams about my boss—none of which I have even a tiny little tidbit of desire to analyze in the light of day—I wake up before the sun.

  And on the coattails of those dreams, I close my eyes and relive every single second of last night’s daydream. Again.

  Only this time, I don’t let him walk away.

  I don’t go into my room alone and lie down to sleep.

  Instead, I close my fingers and imagine that, instead of keeping his hand in mine as we walk away from Tiana’s room, he tangles it in my hair, rubs up against me, crushes my lips with his. In the closest thing to a wet dream I’ve had since I first got a crush on my neighbor Adam Newbert in the seventh grade, Kostya pushes me against the wall and nudges my legs apart with his knee, as he breaks the kiss long enough to rip my shirt over my head.

  And now I’m breathing heavily, wishing I could feel his fingers gliding down my throat to my chest, then the valley between my breasts, and finally across one pert nipple, a nipple he would pinch between his thumb and forefinger.

  My body is humming, and my panties are damp as I picture his body, long and lean and sculpted by the freaking angels, stretched out beside me on his big, beautiful bed while he uses his mouth and his hands to make my cells sing, and I whisper his name into the silence.

  “Kostya.”

  When I hear my own voice, I realize what I’m doing: touching myself while I fantasize about a man I can’t have, a man who—if sleazy reporters at panini restaurants are to be believed—may or may not be a Russian mobster.

  A man who, even if he is not that, is certainly a Grade-A asshole.

  The thought of the criminal accusations doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Probably because now I’m picturing him spanking me, and it’s so hot I don’t know if I’m going to be able to look at him ever again. The word “sir” is going to have a whole new connotation.

  My cheeks and my ears are burning, and I’m so glad no one can read my mind right now. It’s one thing to have the occasional—okay, fine, daily—covert fantasy about a man like Kostya.

  It’s a whole ’nother thing entirely to play with myself while I imagine my boss seducing me.

  This is an attraction I have no choice but to nip right in my blooming and throbbing bud. I cannot, under any circumstances, let myself be blindly attracted to Kostya Zinon while I’m responsible for caring for his daughter. Living in his house. Taking money to do a conscientious job as a caretaker.

  I climb out of bed and go to the door that connects my room to Tiana’s. She’s asleep, snuggled with a bear she had in a suitcase she brought with her. The bear has one missing eye, stitches in its left paw, and a misshapen ear. Clearly, a favorite toy. Tiana’s rendition of a security blanket.

  I only hope Kostya lets her keep it. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture him accommodating her need for comfort. Or, more accurately, understanding her need for comfort.

  On my tiptoes, I back out and shut the door behind me. A new home and new adults in her life have probably exhausted her, or confused her at the very least, and she needs sleep. I can use the time until she wakes up to make breakfast and lay out a plan for the day. There is still so much to do to get the house ready for a little girl.

  And not just the house. She’s three. There are a million things a three-year-old girl will need done for her, and it’s now all my responsibility. Kostya will probably be the kind of father who expects a well-spoken, athletic, educated-beyond-her-age daughter, the same way he is a well-spoken, athletic, educated, powerful businessman.

  And he’ll expect me to make it happen.

  If I fail … people who fail Kostya don’t return to the office, I long ago noticed. For all I know, they don’t survive long enough to explain.

  Stop it. That’s the reporter getting in my head again.

  I brushed him off at the time and thought nothing else of it, but now that I’m here, in the literal and/or figurative lion’s den, his voice keeps creeping back.

  Mobster. Allegations. Shoot-outs.

  Now, my neck is on the line.

  Red neon danger warnings flash through me, and my breath comes in short puffs. I can see a thousand ways that this can all go wrong. Tiana could fall off a horse. Fail a history test. Break out in a rendition of “Baby Shark” when she’s expected to sing the Russian national anthem.

  I can feel the target on my back widening. I need to make a plan. Chart her life course so it looks like I have a clue about how to raise a child so Kostya will find my sister before my mom has a full-on psychotic breakdown.

  But that will all have to wait, because if I think about it all at once, I’m about one tick short of a panic attack. First things first—right now, I need to sort out food for Tiana. In all my shopping yesterday, I didn’t think once about kid-friendly food and apparently, whoever shops for Kostya didn’t anticipate a tiny, picky guest either.

  The refrigerator is packed full of fruits and vegetables, an assortment of meats and cheeses, vegetable juices, and two varieties of bottled water.

  I add grocery shopping to my mental to-do list then pull out a carton of eggs, a green pepper, a red pepper, some sliced ham, and a package of cheese. What kid doesn’t like eggs … right?

  After rinsing the vegetables, I go to the butcher block, pull a chopping knife from the slotted edge, and begin slicing the peppers.

  “Good morning, Charlotte.”

  His voice is soft, but I spin, knife in hand, and almost take out his left nipple. He pushes my wrist to the side and frowns as he gently liberates the knife hilt from my hand.

  I could die. Right here on the ceramic tile floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “You startled me.”

  The fact that I can speak at all, with my heart in my throat, is something that should earn me bonus points in the grand scheme of life. Especially with Kostya so close and so at ease, the usual worry lines on his face are absent.

  I’ve
never seen him so relaxed or in any kind of outfit that doesn’t pair well with a tie and Italian loafers. But now, he’s in a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt that gives me a glimpse of his tattoos, over forearms and biceps bulging with muscle.

  He sets the knife down on the countertop, then turns and picks a carton of strawberries from the fridge. I stand rooted in place as he plucks one for a bite that leaves a dribble of juice on his chin as he chews. My pulse is on course for a stroke in T-minus twelve seconds, because there’s not a lot I can think of in the world that is sexier than Kostya Zinon eating fresh fruit. So simple. But so … intoxicating. I’m actually dizzy.

  In the interest of my mental well-being and my job security, I turn away rather than tonguing the juice from his dagger-sharp jawline.

  Because I’m desperate for a distraction, any distraction, I channel every TV chef I’ve ever seen and become a chopping machine, slicing, dicing, and julienning until he touches my shoulder again. This time, I handle myself without nearly inflicting bodily harm.

  “Hand me the eggs,” he says. It’s a command—nothing new there; Kostya doesn’t make much use of the good ol’ question mark—but it’s softer and less imposing than most of the other things I’ve had him order me to do in the past.

  This is a weird new world.

  I gulp silently and hand him the carton of eggs and a bowl. I stand still as he cracks an egg in the one-handed Gordon Ramsay style, all casual, like it’s no big deal.

  Oh God.

  If he can cook, too … that’s it. Brad Pitt’s spot as my go-to fantasy guy will transfer immediately—retroactive to eleven months ago—to Kostya.

  I watch his hands as he whips the yolks with practiced efficiency, then picks up the grater and a block of cheese to sprinkle some creamy goodness into the bowl and folds it together with the eggs.

  Welp—better luck next time, Brad.

  While he waits for the pan to heat up, I stand staring, too rapt for my own good. His body is lithe, but he moves with a precision and grace that somehow makes him that much more powerful. He could easily pick a girl up in his arms, set her on the counter, and …

  “Charlotte?”

  “What?” Too sharp. Too loud. And my face has to be fifty or sixty shades of embarrassed.

  He nods to the cutting board, hopefully oblivious to the fact that I’ve now spent a good couple minutes imagining him naked. “Vegetables.”

  I hand him the cutting board, and he dumps half the sliced veggies into the pan then grates more cheese over top.

  “For God’s sake, pull it together,” I mutter.

  He tilts his head and his brow creases. “Excuse me?”

  Oh shit. I talked to myself. Out loud. That wasn’t supposed to happen. “Nothing. I was just … nothing.” I busy my hands because I don’t trust myself not to slide my hand down his back to cup his ass, or run my fingers through his hair, or strip off my own clothes and offer my body to him.

  Damn those dreams. I can’t focus on anything other than Kostya.

  I have nearly two full minutes of blissfully unsexual time to scrub the vegetable remnants from the cutting board like my life depends on it. The water is hot, the soap is foaming, and I’m literally begging whoever controls my thoughts to please turn off the Kostya Zinon channel that seems to be stuck on a constant loop.

  Behind me, I hear the burble of the eggs in the pan, and the periodic scrape of the spatula.

  I grab the knife I was using and start to clean that, too, when—

  “Ow!”

  I slice my fingertip open. So much for that Olympic gold medal in non-clumsiness. Reset the count on “days since my last act of stupidity.” Blood drips into the sink.

  Then, I feel his presence before I see it.

  Kostya is pressed against my back. Head to toe, his torso is flush with mine, enveloping me, swallowing me whole.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah, lovin’ life,” I grit out.

  “Let me see.”

  “No, it’s okay, just a little—”

  “I said, let me see.”

  Uh-oh.

  I turn slowly, still squeezing my bloody fingertip in my other fist. He holds out his palm, flat to the ceiling. The air feels charged up all of a sudden. I can practically see the tension binding us together, like steel cords humming in between us.

  His eyes lock onto mine, expectant. Like I’m on autopilot, I let go of my bloody finger and put my hand in his.

  He looks at my face for a moment longer before his gaze slides down to the injury. He frowns and bites his lip. I’ve never seen him do that before, but Christ almighty is it sexy.

  I can barely breathe. He reaches over and grabs a dish towel. Wraps it around my hand. Keeps his palm on top, applying pressure.

  “That was foolish,” he says softly. It’s almost a whisper. Husky, deep.

  “So foolish,” I repeat dumbly. I know I sound like an idiot, but it’s almost like all conscious thought has abandoned the controls of Charlotte. I’m practically just a spectator now. And whatever happens, happens.

  He looks back up at me. His hand is warm through the towel. The pressure feels good, stanching the flow of blood, although I don’t even really feel the cut anymore. My immediate world is too full of Kostya. His scent—how did I not notice that when he first walked in the kitchen?—his eyes, his massive, muscular frame.

  “You should be more careful.”

  I squeak, “No promises.”

  He smiles back. His face is close to mine. I pinch my toes together just to confirm that this is in fact happening, that I am not performing a repeat of yesterday’s shameful daydream.

  It seems real enough. He’s so close. His other hand has found my hip somehow. His eyes are bright and blazing with an emotion I can’t read, and it’s like the scene in his office from before the gala all over again, when he caught me from falling and held me for a second and stripped me bare-freaking naked with his gaze alone and I let him because I want him so damn bad that I—

  I hear an almost silent cry through the baby monitor on the counter. “Daddy!”

  Kostya jerks his head up. “Finish this.” He doesn’t ask. And it occurs to me that he never asks. He tells. I should be offended, but right now, I’m making lists of the dozens of other things I want him to tell me:

  Take your clothes off.

  Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me.

  Stop it, Charlotte.

  I can’t do this. Lust after him. Fall for him. See him as more than a man. A fallible, dangerous man who could break a heart like mine without even taking a swing. Love is for weak little girls who doodle fake married names in their diaries. The stupid ones. Like Lila and my mother who let their emotions rule their lives.

  Even if I did somehow manage to turn his head and let nature take its course, we wouldn’t last. I’m a rookie, at best. He’s clearly been playing in the big leagues for a while. I wouldn’t even know what to do with a guy like him.

  Even if he somehow looks at me and doesn’t see a mousy redhead with dull highlights, Mom and Lila have done their part to make sure love holds no appeal for me. Lila’s love affair with her guy—a guy old enough to be our dad—and Mom’s mental break with reality when Dad died just reinforce my notions about love leading to psychosis. Proof positive that love sucks. Game, set, match—nihilism wins.

  Kostya walks back in a few minutes later carrying Tiana on his back. She’s got her arms twisted around his neck and he’s smiling. They make a pretty picture.

  I stare at them for as long as I can, until the eggs are fluffy and ready to come off the fire. As I prepare our plates, I watch them together. When he sits her on a chair at the breakfast bar, she takes his face between her hands and rubs her nose with his. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen from him. There’s no motive but sincere happiness behind it.

  “Here we go.” My voice is too bright, too cheery, and too loud.

  Kostya takes his plate and our hands brush. To him, it’s probably nothing, but my heart goes full-on hip-hop and I almost sigh. Not a normal sigh. A dreamy sigh.

  “I need to go to the office today.” He forks a bite between his perfect lips and chews. In the interest of not lusting after my boss, I’m trying not to stare, but every move of his mouth is delectable, enticing, and oh-so-damned alluring. “This afternoon should be soon enough.”