Bratva Babysitter: A Russian Mafia Romance (Russian Underworld Book 4) Page 2

  And like the business-savvy Miami citizen I was, I took my reputation to Sunny Isles to help out all the wealthy Russians who came over to have their babies right next to the beach. And my babysitting business grew into something I could be proud of.

  I had more clients than I could handle and I could pick and choose, and command the highest fees.

  And when Gran had to go into a nursing home, I made sure I was making enough money to cover the costs. I'd worked hard for her since before I left school, because I knew exactly where I would have wound up if she hadn't taken me in and I didn't like to think too hard about that version of my life when it hadn't been the one I'd ended up with.

  But I'd never factored in losing Chloe too.

  She wasn't going to be my friend in the same way now that she had a baby and a whole new world to come to grips with. Whatever she thought about it, the fact was she'd switched sides. It used to be we were both 'the help' and now she wasn't, she was the kind of person who employed me. And I didn't know how to take that. Things weren't going to be the same between us, no matter how much we pretended they were. Her life was pulling her in a different direction and I didn't want to be the one left sitting on the side.

  Maybe someone would shake up my whole world and when all the swirling snow settled, my life would look a whole lot different by the end of this year. Maybe I'd meet a Russian billionaire all of my own, and me and Chloe could hang out together like mafia wives.

  I sure hoped so, because it felt like everything I knew had changed. And I didn't like it one bit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Viktor

  I'd been watching the house since before first light. The new snow reflected the street lamps and the city's light pollution well enough that it might as well have been the White Nights of the summer, where the sun never dipped below the horizon, rather than the depths of a frigid winter.

  By the time the sun rose, I had the facade memorized, even though I was on the other side of the painted wrought iron gate and the wall that surrounded what could only be described as a mansion. I didn't know what period of architecture the columns and tall, regularly spaced windows were from, but I knew the building was old and I knew it looked like the Revolution had never touched it, or whoever lived inside.

  The Moscow Bratva was successful, and rightfully so. Their reach was legendary and they were the most successful criminal organization Russia had to boast. I was awed by their successes, but most of all, I wanted to be a part of them, and getting close to Valentin was going to be my way in.

  In Kresty, I'd learnt that there had been guards posted on the street while renovations went on. By now all the dust and paint cans had long since disappeared and the overt security had vanished as well.

  In fact, the longer I lingered on the perimeter, the more certain I became that the house was unguarded. I watched a string of cars and vans pull up as the morning progressed. Cleaners and general maids. Late morning, furniture vans pulled up.

  I watched them unload box after box and carry through so many pieces of furniture that I had to wonder what they planned on doing with them all.

  I smoked a thousand cigarettes on the corner of the street waiting for the man himself to step outside, or to return from wherever he might have been doing business.

  But he never did.

  I watched a man and his wife arrive with a baby and a car full of suitcases and I heard them drift in and out of English and back to Russian. Her accent was impeccable, but there was something about the way she used her words that made me think it didn't come naturally to her. His was more in the way of someone who had spoken it growing up.

  And I found myself grinding my teeth together, because the man was not Valentin Rohzkov and that very likely meant that all my information was wrong, that this was a worthless waste of time. There was no coup. There was no change in the wind.

  I growled out loud at my own naive stupidity. What had I been hoping for? By now I knew that the only luck out there was the kind you made yourself. No one was going to glide in from another city and offer me shelter under his roof.

  Worse. I realized I recognized the driver of the car who was unloading the bags and he locked eyes with me for a solid moment. Piotr Gursky was a hit man for Pavelenko. From the other side of the street I felt the temperature around me drop.

  There was only one reason for Pavelenko's man to be here. They had set me up to test my loyalty and I had taken the bait. One of us was leaving this street in a body bag, and if I had my way it wasn't going to be me.

  Experience told me he planned to go for his gun a fraction of a second before he made the move, and with nothing to lose, I barreled across the street towards him.

  Bags went flying. The young mother let out a shout as I shoved her out of the way. The Englishman with a suit beneath his furs was there in a moment, but I wasn't going to let anybody stop me.

  They were on the periphery. I wasn't paying attention to either of them. On instinct, I knocked Piotr's hand away, twisting to engage the pressure points at his wrist and shots rang out clear across the wintry street. To my surprise, his aim was not on me. The gun had been leveled towards the child in the woman's arms, but I didn't stop to question it.

  I knew who he was, he'd come here to end somebody.

  I jabbed his chin up sharply with the heel of my hand, twisting him around with pressure enough to drop him to his knees and with a single, smooth motion, I completed the move, snapping his neck sharply between my hands.

  It takes a surprising amount of force to kill a man. To break a neck is not something you ever want to fail at doing and I never had.

  The only way was to go in hard and fast and make the first move counted. Surprise was my greatest weapon. A man with a gun is lulled into a false sense of superiority, but unless he gets the chance to use it, it's worthless. Knowing the weak points made all the difference, knowing that a head can only bend so far back before it's jarred irreparably from the spine gave me a point to aim for. A well-timed twist helped along the way - sharp and hard and jerked. Like pulling a chicken's neck, it always took more force than expected. But it was done in a matter of seconds.

  And afterwards there was a moment of unexpected stillness, where I could count the beats of my heart in my ears and I could practically hear the snowflakes falling around us. Just before the body slumped out of my grasp and spasmed on the floor, the steady rhythm of my breathing took over and I had to fight the urge to cross myself to atone right then and there for my sins.

  What I did to get through life was between me and my God. Another death on my hands hardly tipped my scales when I had done so many things already.

  A lifetime could have passed in the handful of seconds before I looked up, ready to run from the couple who were moving into this house that most likely was not Valentin Rozhkov's. My eyes flashed from one face to the other, the woman wasn't screaming and she hadn't fainted. Her eyes burned calmly into mine and her jaw rippled when she looked down at the man slumped in the slush at the curb, the gun on the snow next to him, but it wasn't horror in her expression, she looked irritated. The Englishman's face was stonily neutral, until his lips quirked at the very corner in an expression I recognized all too well.

  His hand settled heavily over my shoulder, grounding me with the kind of weight that told me now was not the time to run.

  "Spasiba, droog."

  Friend? I felt my eyes widen in mild confusion, ready to fight but not prepared for this. His wife shifted the baby on her hip and ducked down to pick the gun up, disappearing it inside her lavish fur coat. Then she turned towards the gate and pushed it open with a gloved hand.

  My English was rusty, but I had enough to understand what she said to her husband.

  "I think he should come inside with us a moment, don't you, Max?"

  Max hadn't taken his eyes off me and he inclined his head slightly in an unvoiced invitation. I didn't bother to pretend I hadn't understood, so I nodded.

  He patte
d my shoulder again. "We should bring our poor, drunken friend in out of the snow, don't you think?"

  "Certainly."

  The man's smile was tight and all I could do was nod along, unsure whether I had stepped into hotter water than I'd been in when I'd been worrying about Piotr putting a bullet between my eyes. This was no ordinary couple moving into a new home. He may have been an Englishman, but his Russian was without the slightest hint of accent and he could have passed for a native without trying.

  Maybe he was Russian after all. I seemed to have judged the entire situation wrong.

  Following Max's lead, the pair of us ducked to shoulder Piotr's limp arms, hefting up the man I had dispatched at the couple's feet between us. His boots dragged a path in the snow all the way to the front door.

  He didn't speak again until the heavy front door had fallen closed behind us on an echoing hallway with a grand staircase sweeping down at the far end. He nodded to a hall chair and no sooner had we set Piotr down did the man start peeling off his gloves and unbuttoning his greatcoat.

  "My name is Maxim Toropov, and this is my wife. It appears we owe you a debt of gratitude. You must have known this man intended to hurt my family."

  I gritted my teeth, but shook my head. "I recognized him, and saw him reach for his gun. That is all."

  For the time being, I was reluctant to take off my coat and unravel my scarf because the tattoos crawling up my neck would surely identify me as the prison rat that I was in front of a man who was clearly no lowly Vor.

  I'd heard his name before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the cogs were turning slowly. "Toropov the Torpedo?"

  Had I just saved the life of the Moscow Bratva's top rated fixer's infant son?

  "One and the same. I'm glad you've heard of me."

  I grunted. "Everyone has heard of you."

  He looked across to his wife. "I told you my reputation precedes me, didn't I darling?" And then back to me.

  "And who are you, my friend?"

  "A man who wants to help the Bratva out."

  Maxim's smile curled in again. "Well, we are very grateful to you. You're not in any trouble here."

  Finally I took a breath and nodded, relieved that I hadn't ended a man in their employment. Nothing could have gone worse for me if I had managed to take out their protection.

  "What will you do with him?"

  The woman looked at the dead man, entirely dispassionately, and jiggled the baby on her hip.

  "I think we should deliver him back to wherever he came from."

  "Excellent idea, darling. You don't happen to know where that is, do you my friend? What did you say your name was?"

  They both meant what they said, I could tell that just from the way they spoke. There was seriousness about them that I had missed in the criminals I found myself working with in this city so frequently.

  "Viktor Kaverin. They call me The Priest." Maxim's eyebrow lifted slightly and I knew he'd heard of me. He nodded slowly and I let out a breath. If he'd wanted me dead, I would have been by now. "Piotr is one of Pavelenko's men. I used to work for him, but it's not the life I want any longer."

  "No?"

  "No. Men like this, they have no loyalty, no sense of the code."

  Maxim nodded again. "I can see you're not like that, Viktor. We could do with having a man like you around to protect our family. While Elizabeth and I see to… solving this little problem so that it doesn't happen again. Would you be amenable to that?"

  I felt my smile curl the corner of my mouth for the first time since the days started to get shorter and I stepped forward to take Maxim's hand in my large grip to shake it fiercely.

  "I would like that very much. I won't let you down."

  "Oh, I'm certain of that."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Destiny

  Whatever I had stamped into the visa that Chloe's husband, Roman, had arranged for me, I sailed through immigration and made it to baggage claim before the bags had been loaded onto the belt. It was a long wait in the empty baggage hall, and before I knew it, I'd started sweating despite only wearing my thin jacket and jeans.

  On the plane, I'd thought I wasn't prepared for the weather, but it seemed like Russians liked the inside of their buildings to feel like a furnace.

  I really hadn't brought the right clothes for any of it. But it was too late now to worry about that. I'd have to go shopping the first time I got the chance and hope I didn't freeze in the meantime.

  I got a baggage cart from the rack, and tried not to freak myself out by looking at too many signs that I didn't have enough vocabulary to translate. I'd spent the better part of the last two months cramming in as much Russian language study as I could manage, but the different alphabet still threw me and as much as I felt like I could do it when I had a book right in front of me, it was a whole different story when I was trying to figure out what all the signs meant.

  But I could hardly give up now. I hadn't even started the job. And the whole reason I was out here was because I wanted a change. So I had to let one happen. All this would just take some getting used to, I'd be fine. I had to be fine.

  A clanging sound made me jump, and I turned towards the conveyor belt to see it stutter to life. Flashing orange lights heralded the arrival of the first bags and people started to crowd the belt around me, coming through in a steady stream from the immigration queues that I'd bypassed.

  Finally my two large suitcases came through onto the belt and I grabbed hold of the handle of the first, using all my strength to tug it off the belt. I could barely lift it off the ground I'd filled it so full, and I was suddenly very aware of several sets of eyes watching me struggle. I double-checked I had my purse zipped up tight and my carry on bag safely stowed on the cart too, then chased my second suitcase around a little until I could wrangle it off the belt too.

  Maybe I was a bit sweatier then I'd intended on getting, but so far, no disasters. I was doing okay.

  When I wheeled the cart out through the arrivals gate, I was expecting to see a familiar face waiting for me. The whole flight, I'd pictured Elizabeth's smiling face and little Alexei squealing with joy to see me. They were the reason I'd accepted this job. I'd loved working with both of them when Elizabeth was a new mother back in Miami, and we'd got on well enough that it felt like I wouldn't be totally alone here, even if I was out of my comfort zone. Maybe I didn't have Chloe as a best friend any longer, but I had someone I got on with out here, and that was all that mattered.

  By the time I got back to Miami in a year's time, I was going to be used to being way more independent anyway, and I wouldn't even miss her when she was too busy being a wife and a mom to hang out.

  That was my hope anyway. I just had to get through the year ahead to prove the theory. And I had already hit a snag, there was no one in the waiting crowd that I recognized.

  My eyes flitted over half a dozen handwritten signs in characters I barely recognized and I found myself hoping I'd recognize my own name in the Cyrillic alphabet. But as much as I squinted at them I really didn't think any of the people holding signs were waiting for me.

  I squeezed past an incredibly tall man who was standing practically blocking the only way out of the barriers in a huge black coat that was open at the front. He eyeballed me as I passed, and the shock of the icy blue of his eyes made me draw a breath in.

  My heart thundered in my chest and I felt my cheeks flush hotly. It was all I could do not to break into a run, because something about that man felt like trouble, pure and simple. I didn't know whether I wanted to get away from him as fast as possible, or sign my life over to him on the spot.

  All I could do was haul my bags over to one side and try to keep clear of him. But he wouldn't stop staring. I tried to ignore him as I ducked to dig my cell phone out of my bag, pretending like I knew exactly what I was doing, but when I looked up, his eyes were still locked onto me. I'd known that from the way my skin prickled with awareness even before I looked up.

&
nbsp; He made me feel like he was some kind of predator and I was his prey. So why the hell was my heart racing like that was a good thing? And why was my clit tingling in my panties?

  I swallowed hard and tried to pull myself together. I had not come here looking for a Russian gangster to get involved with. Not one like that. I had come to babysit Alexei, and maybe meet a businessman who was cultured and old fashioned and romantic. The kind of people who worked with Maxim and Roman were like that, I was sure of it. They couldn't be the only two.

  I didn't need to start this whole thing off getting hot and bothered over some hulking great thug who kept staring at me at the airport.

  I jabbed my phone on, and waited impatiently for it to boot up. I had to hope that I'd get access to some kind of network, even if it cost me a fortune with my American SIM card. I could sort out a better deal later, when I wasn't stranded on my own at the airport.

  The screen came to life and I waited for it to hook onto a network, but nothing seemed to be happening.

  I was so caught up worrying about everything else, that I didn't even notice the weasley little man who appeared at my side and started trying to haul my carry on bag away.

  "Taxi, da? This way, taxi."

  Immediately on the alert, I grabbed for the handle, trying to pull it off him. "No. No - give me my bag back! I don't need a taxi!"

  I glanced back at my baggage cart, feeling panic rise as I realized I was getting further and further away from it, trying to get my first bag back.

  And the guy in the overcoat was going over to it.

  Shit. What was I going to do?

  He yanked my first suitcase off the baggage cart, picking it up like it was nothing, and then reaching down for my second, larger case, slipping it under his arm like a weekend newspaper.

  "Hey!" I yelled, and he looked up, striding towards the pair of us. He dumped my bags down in a clatter and I nearly yelped when he reached past me with one smooth motion, and yanked my carry-on case out of the weasley taxi guy's grasp. There were tattoos all over his knuckles. The kind of tattoos you only got in prison.