Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) Nicole Fox (best ereader for pdf and epub TXT) 📖

“Do you want to give him a hug?” the counselor suggests.

Tiana hesitates again, looks up at the counselor, then back to me. A few long seconds pass. I barely notice the others in the room—Yelisey, the court representative, the counselor. I see only my child. My daughter. My little girl.

Whatever she sees in my face must assuage her fear. Because she takes a few more steps to close the distance between us. She grabs my hand with her little fingers. She lets me pull her into a gentle hug.

I know one thing, immediately and forever—for as long as I am able, I will protect this girl with my life.

I will slaughter anyone who lays a finger on her head.

I have to wonder about a system that releases a little girl into a man’s custody and bids him the best of luck, with little in the way of formal support.

But here she is, sitting in a loaner car seat in the back of my luxury convertible while I inch down the 405 toward the office.

A big black pickup, with wide tires and exhaust that rumbles through the interior of my car, slides into the lane beside me and I stare hard. Since the shooting last weekend, I’m on alert, checking every vehicle that passes for a Whelan assassin. How the hell this has spun so far out of control, I have no idea. But the Whelans are back and taking aim.

And now I have a fucking daughter to protect.

This is not the type of worry I’m accustomed to dealing with. I deal with deals gone south. Liars. Cheats. Spies infiltrating my business. I know what to do with that. How to handle the unsavory details of my lifestyle and profession.

But a kid? What the fuck am I supposed to do with a kid?

I probably should have thought this through before I strolled into court this morning. At least arranged some sort of caretaker. Someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

“I have to pee,” chirps a little voice from the back. I’m four lanes left, twenty cars buried, and a good mile from the next exit.

“Can you hold it?” That’s a question a father would ask, right? I feel awkward and clumsy, like a newborn deer that hasn’t yet learned what to do with its legs. I glance over my shoulder. She has Nat’s eyes and my hair. Nat’s grimace and my chin. The grimace says “holding it” isn’t going to happen.

After angling and forcing, swerving and riding the shoulder, and making half a dozen new enemies in the process, the highway is a memory and I’ve pulled into a gas station. Then it’s a race inside to a bathroom. There’s a slight pause as I stand outside the two doors, one marked women and one marked men. I have no idea if this little girl can see to her own business or if she needs help. Nor do I know how to ask her.

Instead, I run back to the counter, Tiana’s legs swinging and my arm probably squeezing too tight around her waist. But she’s giggling, so I ignore the voice of concern in my head as we race past the Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs. The woman behind the counter is short with gray hair and a frown. “She needs to use the bathroom.”

The woman points to the space I’ve only just vacated. “Back there.”

“Yes, I know, but …” I’m at a loss. I know fuck-all about kids or the appropriate parental bathroom etiquette.

She rolls her eyes, an offense I don’t usually tolerate with mere silence, but this time, I need her help. I’ll allow her impudence. “Just take her in the men’s room.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Again, I rush to the back of the store. I’m still not clear on the logistics of child bathroom usage, so I turn my back and wait. And wait. Until a quick look over my shoulder tells me Tiana is standing with her legs crossed and her hands fiddling and failing to unbutton her jeans. I crouch beside her and have no better luck. Little girl Levi’s aren’t made for adult male hands.

I want to swear but I bite my tongue instead. Just as I’m about to give up and head back to the counter for a pair of scissors, the metal button pulls free and she shoves the pants down and hops onto the toilet. Thank God. I turn away again.

When she’s finally finished, I hold her up to the sink so she can wash her hands.

As we dry her hands, she smiles up at me.

For one wild moment, I don’t care anymore about anything else.

She’s beautiful.

And she’s mine.

As we walk out of the store, she laces her fingers through mine. “You have to hold my hand in parking lots. Mommy says so.” There’s a tremor in her voice as she says the word “Mommy.”

“What else does Mommy say?” I ask cautiously.

“She says … she says …”

Shit. I hear a whimper in her voice. Like the rumbling before an earthquake strikes. I recognize it, but it is far too late.

“Tiana, I—” I try to interrupt, but it is no good.

Tiana stops walking and plops down on the concrete to cry. “I want my mommy!” Her shriek draws attention and I’m, once again, at a loss. She’s three. Almost four. And I have no idea how to make her stand up and dry her tears.

But she’s a crying woman, and I have plenty of experience with those. That experience tells me to hug her. To soothe her with my voice.

“It’s okay, Tiana. We’re going to figure this out.” I pick her up and hold her against my chest as she sobs like she … well, like she has lost her mother.

She’s so tiny. So helpless. Her sobs are hopeless. I’ve heard them before. Have caused the same sounds. Felt the same pain.

I say gently, “Can you come with me to my office, and we can work this