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

kill him myself. He is like a cat with nine lives as he tests my patience, but he is running dangerously close to his final infraction.

He nods. “Fine. You just seem out of sorts.” He opens the door and lets the men back in.

Once everyone is reseated, I dole out the assignments.

Vlad and his crew are to find Jack Whelan and his son.

Dmitri and his men are to handle as many Whelan interests as they can. Dmitri is an explosives expert and I’ve kept him leashed for too long.

Nicholai, an enforcer, will stand guard over Whelan’s soldiers until I tell him to finish them. And the order will come; there is no doubt about that. I’ve had enough.

This is something I should’ve done long ago, instead of playing house with Charlotte, instead of allowing myself to believe she could fit into my life.

Again, she’s invaded my thoughts. I growl. “I’m going to the house to check on Tiana. I’ll be back at five for a report.” Not that I need to inform them of my whereabouts, but Yelisey is right, as loath as I am to admit it. I am out of sorts and I’m going to use this break to get my head in order.

My empire depends on it.

The drive home is short, but the traffic doesn’t help my mood. By the time I pull into the garage, I’m no less tense, no less angry, no less hungry to see Charlotte.

I walk into the house and sigh. Tiana is screaming. Again. She’s sitting with her arms crossed, her body rigid, in the middle of the kitchen floor in a puddle of milk along with a spilled bowl of cereal. The new nanny—another woman from the agency Charlotte suggested in the beginning before she agreed to take the job—is standing over Tiana, too stern, too gruff.

As soon as Tiana looks up and sees me, she smiles. “Daddy!” She runs to me and throws her arms around my legs.

I don’t know much about other kids, but I know my daughter. She’s smart, able to communicate her wants and needs, and also able to misbehave. “Tiana, why is your food on the floor?”

“I spilled it.” Her voice is muffled by the fabric of my pants but I hear enough to clench my fists at my side. I look at the woman who isn’t Charlotte.

“She was running with her bowl and she fell. I told her to clean up her mess.” I don’t see a towel or a broom or anything Tiana could use. How the hell does … I can’t remember the woman’s name, but she is no Charlotte—how does she expect a three-year-old to clean up this mess? Charlotte would’ve known how to handle Tiana.

But Charlotte betrayed me. I have to remember that.

Although … no. There is no “although.”

I let her slide too many times. The interrogation at the guesthouse, the Baltzley—how many betrayals was I supposed to overlook? I would have killed anyone else who did even a fraction of what she did to me, and I would have slept like a baby afterwards. But the mere thought of harming her makes my stomach churn violently.

I can’t walk through my own house without seeing her everywhere.

Sitting in the chair beside the window, curled under a blanket with Tiana reading a book to her.

At the kitchen counter pushing vegetables and fruits on anyone who walks through. Even Yelisey—a man who worships donuts—is eating better now.

In my bedroom with her hair fanned out on my pillow and her eyes glittering with passion.

In the pool where I held her as we treaded water together.

She’s everywhere. Inescapable.

I’m glad that I’m going back to the office, though that is not without its own Charlotte ghosts walking the halls. But first, I have to deal with this.

I glare at the nanny. She’s left Tiana in this mess long enough. “Clean this up.”

“She needs to learn—”

“Never mind. Just go.”

She starts to say something else, but I silence her with a look and she swings Tiana onto her hip and huffs out of the room. I grind my teeth and sop up the spilled milk with a towel—the circle of wetness on my knee as I stand is another sin I’ll add to Charlotte’s list. This, the Whelans—I’ll lay the blame for everything that’s ever gone wrong squarely at her feet. She deserves no less.

Traitor.

I don’t change clothes because I need the reminder of what she’s done to me every minute. I need to see the evidence of her deception so I don’t let my feelings for her deplete my anger.

I maintain it all the way back to the office. It’s easier even when I’m greeted by two reporters—one from the Times, the other from some gossip rag the housekeeper reads. I know both of them. I like neither.

“Mr. Zinon!”

This is what I get for parking in the garage and using the street entrance. I keep my head down and move across the street.

“Kostya! Just a couple questions.”

The press has been bad, thanks to the attempts on my life and the attacks. I might not get another chance to spin it my way, so I pull up short of the door and adjust my tie. “Kostya, can you comment on the two recent attacks on your businesses?”

I’m choosing my words since I have no prepared statement. “I don’t specifically know why my businesses have become the target of the Whelan mob, but I am confident that it’s coming to an end. Soon.”

And as if I would ever answer such a ridiculous question, the gossip reporter looks at me, in my eyes even, and smiles like he knows something he shouldn’t. “Do you have retaliation planned?”

I am suave, smarter than a reporter, and this is my life. I can play any part, including the injured and slightly passive-aggressive businessman. “I’m confident that the police departments on the state and federal levels will spend as much of their time investigating these attacks and resolving the issue as they