2

Alessandro

My eyes snap open to the soft light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains. I’m in my sprawling bed, king-sized and fitting for the man I am.

Sheets of the finest Egyptian cotton, walls adorned with artwork worth more than most people make in a lifetime. My bedroom is as expansive as it is luxurious, part of the mansion which serves both as my home and the unofficial headquarters of our Bratva operations.

Lying beside me, barely stirring, is a woman. Her skin, a beautiful shade of mahogany.

The red silk sheets cling to her form. For a moment, I let my eyes rest on her, admiring the curve of her back, the elegant line of her neck. But only for a moment. Sentimentality is a weakness I can’t afford.

I slide out of bed, not caring if I wake her and grab some clothes. In the grand bathroom, complete with marble flooring and a shower which could easily fit five people, I stand before the sink. I turn on the tap, let it run for a few seconds, and then splash my face with the icy water.

It’s a futile attempt to cleanse my thoughts, to wash away the haunting sound of a trigger pulled weeks ago. Sergey. The man I had to kill. My friend.

The echoes of that gunshot play in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, hear the deafening blast, see his eyes just as life leaves them. A traitor to the end, yet a man I once called a brother.

My hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. In a sudden surge of anger and a need to expel this inner torment, my fist flies forward, colliding with the mirror. It shatters upon impact, shards of glass falling into the sink and onto the marble floor. My hand is lacerated, droplets of blood mixing with the broken mirror.

“Fuck!” I stare at the destruction, my reflection now fractured, distorted in the shards of glass—each piece reflecting a different part of me. The ruthless leader, the betrayed friend, the protector of a fucking kid.

My chest tightens. Not from the pain in my hand, but from something deeper, something I’ve buried so far inside it seldom shows its face. Regret? No, regret is for the weak. Perhaps it’s the realization that despite all my power, all my control, there are things even I can’t change.

My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, a message lighting up the screen. It’s from Damon, likely an update on our new ‘situation’ with the kid.

Fuckers can’t deal with anything without my approval.

I turn the faucet back on, this time to wash the blood off my hand. I wrap it quickly with a towel, wincing at the sting but appreciating the sharp clarity the pain brings. I’ll have someone clean up this mess, stitch up my hand, and replace the mirror. The physical scars will heal, they always do.

As for the scars inside me—well, those are just another layer of armor in a life riddled with battles. It’s another day, another set of challenges, and whether I like it or not, the kid is now a part of this fucked up world of ours.

I’ll deal with it, like I always do.

The words “Nanny’s here, Alex. Come downstairs,” show on my phone, and I can feel the irritation boiling inside me before I even unlock the screen. A nanny? Have Damon and Nick lost their fucking minds? In a world where trust is scarce and betrayal is cheap, inviting a stranger into our home is as good as painting a target on all of our backs. Especially with enemies like the Razgovorov syndicate lurking around every corner.

Not wasting a moment, I pull on my pants and shoes, shove my phone into the pocket of my black slacks, pull on a crisp white shirt, and make my way downstairs. My boots make a heavy, decisive sound with each step, reverberating through the vast hallways lined with dark wood and lit by strategically placed sconces. My eyes are already searching, evaluating, judging.

And there she stands—the new so-called caretaker. At first glance, she seems painfully ordinary. Brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, green eyes which seem too curious for their own good, and dressed in a manner which suggests she’s young and naïve.

Early twenties, perhaps. Her hands are clasped in front of her as she laughs at some trivial thing Damon is saying. A pacifier dangling from her wrist is the only thing marking her as a nanny rather than just another girl.

I cut through the space between us, my eyes locked onto Damon. “What the fuck is this?”

Damon’s smile shifts into something forced, something I recognize immediately. It’s the same smile he’s been wearing ever since this whole Ayla mess began. “Our nanny, Emily. For our niece, Ayla. She’s starting today.”

Ah, niece. That’s the best he could come up with?

The woman, Emily, takes a brave step toward me, extending her hand. “Hi, Sir, my name is—”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are,” I cut her off sharply, staring her down until her extended hand falls limply to her side. “You’re leaving. Now.”

Nick, seemingly amused, rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe. “No, she’s not. She’s staying. You may not give a damn about what happens to Ayla, but some of us do. So, if you’ve got an issue, I suggest you get over it. Quickly.”

I let my gaze travel from Damon’s fake grin to Emily’s apprehensive face, and finally to Nick’s defiant stare. I don’t like this, not one bit, but if they think I’m going to let some stranger endanger us without keeping an eye on her, they’re more stupid than I thought.

“Fine,” I spit out, my eyes never leaving Nick’s. “But if anything happens, it’s on you.”

Damon escorts the girl out of the room, playing the consummate gentleman as always. Now it’s just me and Nick.

“I got this.” Nick lifts the folder tucked under his arm, a half-smile playing at the corners of his lips. “We’ve got her background checked, we’ve done a thorough vetting—and my people have done a good job.”

“And you think that’s enough?” I cross my arms, causing Nick’s smile to falter. “Because I know how easy it is to put together a fake fucking history.”

Nick sighs, exasperated. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do believe you. But these Italians are ten steps ahead of us. So, let me ask you one thing.” I curl a finger at my side and snap it out toward the actual target of my question. “How long did it take you to find out where she was from? And how did you do it without revealing your ass.”

Nick knows I don’t need to specify why that’s important. Anyone with their ears to the ground could’ve found out about Ayla, but finding out her location and the ex-employer who took care of her, that takes real interest.

I know what this girl needs if she wants to work here, and it isn’t a background check.

Nick slides the folder over, a pensive look on his face. “If she passes this, you’re going to trust her.”

I grab the folder, flipping it open and scanning the documents inside. School records, work history, social media screenshots, everything you’d expect from a thorough background check. But that’s not what interests me. It’s the confidential sources, the hints and murmurs from people in the know, that really say whether someone can be trusted.

“Fine,” I finally say, closing the folder and pushing it back toward Nick. “But understand this: if she’s clean, she becomes our responsibility. Anyone makes a move against us, and she’s as much of a target as any of us.”

Nick nods, his gaze serious. “I get it, Alessandro. Believe me, I do.”

“Good,” I say, clenching my jaw. “And let’s be clear about something else. She learns nothing about our business. She’s here for Ayla, not to dig around where she doesn’t belong.”

“Agreed,” Nick replies, picking up the folder and tucking it back under his arm. “So, are you going to ease up now, or do I have to order you a fucking stress ball?”

I scoff at the joke, but deep down, I know that easing up isn’t an option. Not in our world. And certainly not when there’s a stranger walking around our home, no matter how ‘vetted’ she is.

“You do what you want,” I say, my eyes never leaving his. “But I’ll sleep better when I know she’s as loyal as she needs to be to keep us all safe. Until then, keep your fucking stress ball.”

Nick chuckles, but his look tells me he understands. “Fair enough. I’ll get my guys to start the next phase of vetting. And Alessandro—”

I arch an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

“You might want to give her a chance. For Ayla’s sake, if not your own.”

I hold his gaze for a moment longer, weighing his words. Then, without a word, I turn and head back to the privacy of my own space, contemplating the tightrope we’re now walking. Loyalty, betrayal, trust; they’re a dangerous mix, and one false step could bring everything crashing down.