Chapter 20

Chapter 19

Luka

"WHAT-? SHE gasps, her face a mask of shock and confusion. Wondering why the fuck I picked her, no doubt. A smirk twitches at the corner of my mouth. It's pure entertainment, seeing her so rattled, so fucking lost.

"You look confused, krasotka," I say, indifference coloring my voice. My smirk deepens as she cringes beneath my attention.

I love it, watching her squirm like this.

"I- I am not," she stutters.

"Not what?" I interrupt, my impatience seeping into my tone. "Second-guessing?" I lean in, close enough for my lips to brush her ear. "This is not a game, Sophia."

The slight shudder in her breath doesn't escape me. The silence stretches out. I let it hang between us for a while, knowing that it's unnerving her.

"Screw up," I continue, my voice dropping to a predatory growl, "and you won't just be saying goodbye to Chicago."

In the quiet that follows, tension snakes around us. And then her chin lifts, and her eyes flash. I fucking love it. Her defiance fuels me. I'm a man who enjoys games, especially when I'm certain to win.

"I want the job," she fires back, her voice filled with fiery determination.

I lean back, grinning like the devil. "Good," I answer, my tone icy, as if the exchange was nothing more than a business transaction.

The room halts at my words. But the real show? It's between Sophia and me. A silent tug of war under the public eye.

She holds my gaze. A challenge. I don't back down. It's a standoff, a silent countdown before an explosion.

I can sense the room heating up with shock, anger, and, of course, jealousy. The whispers in the group give away their bruised egos.

"Why the hell her?" a woman sneers, her words dripping with pure envy. Doesn't matter; Sophia's my choice. It was always going to be that way. From the moment that I saw her, I knew she was the one.

Svetlana's eyes widen for a split second, and I can practically hear the cogs turning in her head as she processes my demand. She quickly masks her surprise with a stern expression, her professionalism taking over.

"You heard him," she snaps, her voice like a whip cracking through the charged atmosphere. "Out. Now."

A sultry blonde, her lips puckering in disappointment, flips her hair, scowling. "Can't believe he picked her," she grumbles, her words audible through the buzz.

I turn toward her, raising an eyebrow. "Got a problem?" The question hangs in the air, a silent warning.

She recoils, stammering an apology before scurrying away. The room empties, leaving just Sophia and me.

She meets my eyes, the sass radiating from her.

"So, what's next?" she says, sticking her jaw out like a prize fighter.

"Next…" I start, but I don't continue. Instead, I snag her chin between my fingers, and she gasps softly. I'm against her in an instant, my lips barely touching hers, just a whisper of a contact. Yet, it's like a fucking wildfire, a shockwave of heat that scorches everything in its path.

Her chest lifts as she sucks in a breath, and I feel it – the slight hardening of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress. My smirk widens.

I pull away, fighting the pull that's drawing me back to her. I hover there, close enough to feel her uneven breath, to see the alarm flare in her eyes.

"What comes next, krasotka," I rumble, my voice dropping into a threatening purr, "is that you become mine. My employee, my rules. You step into my world, you follow my orders. No arguments." My words hang heavy between us, a stark threat. She reels back as if slapped. She retreats, her body forming a fortress, arms crossed defensively over that killer chest of hers. But her tongue darts out, sweeping over her lips, tasting the ghost of our kiss.

"Don't call me kraso-…whatever it is," she bites out. Her voice bristles with rebellion. Her cheeks are flushed red, her breathing shallow.

"My house, my rules," I repeat, my voice steady, firm.

"Should I also remind you, sir…" she retorts, her tone cutting through the air like a frosty dagger.

Sir. Fuck, the word sends a jolt straight down to my cock. It's so out of place in this charged atmosphere, but it strikes a chord in me I didn't know existed. It's infuriating and insanely hot at the same time.

Blyat, she's going to be trouble.

"I'm here to babysit your…your kid." There's a pause, a hesitation before she tries to cover it, but it's too late.

My kid? She thinks Yulia is my kid. Ha! This just keeps getting better.

Wait, can it be…?

I can practically taste the jealousy laced in her words. It's delicious.

"You think Yulia is my child?" I ask.

Her eyes flicker with something I can't quite identify. Anger? Surprise? Confusion? But it's gone in an instant, replaced by a stubborn glare.

"Isn't she?"

The chuckle that escapes me is dark and low. "No, Yulia is my sister."

She blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Oh." Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. "Well, that's… I mean, I just assumed…" she stutters. I can feel the embarrassment building up within her.

She's so fucking cute.

"Assumed I'd have a wife and daughter?" I cut in, grinning at her discomfort. "You sound disappointed, Sophia."

"I'm not," she snaps a little too quickly. I choke back a laugh. "I mean…" She locks eyes with me, defiance blazing. "I just…I just want to know what I'm dealing with here."

"Oh, krasotka…you have no fucking clue what you're dealing with," I smirk. "And let me tell you, Yulia is not as easy to handle as you'd think."

Taking a step, I close the distance between us, my lips just inches from hers. Our breathing mingles, creating an electric air that threatens to spark any second. She's already melting under the intensity, even if she won't admit it.

Just thinking about it has my cock throbbing. The idea of having her squirming beneath me, exploring her body, marking her as mine. The anticipation of hearing her moan my name, her voice laced with desperation and surrender. Damn, I can't wait to have her begging for me again.

But she needs to understand. She needs to know who's in control, who's calling the shots.

I picture running my hands over her shivering skin, toying with her sensitive nipples before journeying lower, prying her thighs apart to find the sweet heat between. I imagine stroking her clit until she's hovering on the edge, then backing off, leaving her gasping and begging. When she's teetering on the precipice, I'd fuck her hard, mercilessly, driving her wild and making her come again and again until she's shattered and remade under my touch.

Seriously, Luka?

I'm getting all hot and bothered like a sex-starved schoolboy. Over a girl. This girl. It's a laughable thought, absurd even.

"I- I," she tries, but that's as far as she gets. My hand is already up, cutting her off, slicing through the tension. Her eyes, wide and blown, try to hold me back.

I turn away from her abruptly, feeling the tension tightening my muscles. This has gone far enough. My pants are a prison for my hardened cock, the thought of ripping her clothes off, taking her raw, and imprinting her, is damn near killing me. My mind's a fucking porn reel featuring her, and it's doing my head in.

Every beat of my heart pulses straight to my dick, echoing her phantom cries for more. More of me. It's a goddamn siren call, a disaster waiting to happen.

Focus.

Crossing the room, I grab the door handle. It's cool against my heated skin.

This is for Yulia.

This isn't about me being balls-deep in her nanny.

Who are you kidding, mudak?

With that, I'm out, the door slamming shut behind me.

Chapter 20

Sophia

"WHAT THE fuck just happened?" I mutter, standing alone in the meeting room. My hands shake, my mind is a whirl of confusion.

Everything happened so fast it's got me spinning. One minute, I'm being paraded in front of Luka like some cheap prize, and the next, he picks me and storms off like he's caught fire. Leaves me in his wake, gasping for air and trying to make sense of the chaos.

My heart's pounding like a drum, and my body's humming with this wild mix of fear and excitement. Luka…he's something else. Commanding and scary as hell, like a tattooed Greek god with a mafia pedigree.

Wait a minute, did I just score the job?

I blink hard, even slap my cheek to feel the sting of reality. Sucking in a breath, my chest tightens. Then it hits me like a slap of cold air. Luka's introduction of Yulia…

So, Yulia's his sister, not his kid.

Relief floods me, and I find myself wanting to do a happy dance.

God, why do I even give a damn? It's not like I'm planning to date the guy… Not that he'd want to date me, but still.

I make an attempt to shake the cobwebs from my mind.

Yulia could be his sister, daughter, or hell, even his pet turtle, for all I care. It's none of my business. But why does my heart flutter every time he looks at me? I mean, I'm here for a job, not to find a husband.

Or a lover.

Or a—

Stop, Sophia, stop!

This isn't a romance novel. This is real life. And in real life, billionaire mafia lords don't fall for their nannies. They just don't.

He's just fucking with you.

Taking a deep breath, I mutter to myself, "Take care of Yulia. Ignore the ridiculously attractive, maddeningly arrogant, incredibly sexy—" I stop myself short yet again. "Oh, shit! I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

I really need to stop talking to myself. I shake my head, trying to clear all my thoughts. I need to focus, need to remember why I'm here. Luka Ivanov, with his devil-may-care attitude, smoldering eyes, and a body that should be illegal, is my enemy. Sent by his sworn enemy.

Fuck, I'm here to spy on him, for God's sake!

If Luka ever sniffs out the truth, I'd be screwed six ways to Sunday.

Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, the door swings open, and the head maid enters, her expression stern. She fixes me with an icy stare that seems to bore into my soul.

"I am Svetlana. You may address me as Ms. Svetlana. I am Luka's chief of staff," she declares. "You shall be working with me." Her gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, the unspoken warning clear as day: Don't you dare fuck around with me.

I swallow hard.

Whoopee. It's going to be a blast.

But instead, I stammer as I reply, "Yes- ma'am. I mean, Ms. Svet-lana, ma'am." My mind races with the realization that I've stepped into a real-life drama. As if to confirm my suspicions, two men in suits enter the room, looking like they've walked straight out of a high-stakes movie scene.

The first one extends his hand. "I am Mr. Abrams, Luka's personal attorney," he announces with a calculated smile that screams ‘I've done this a thousand times.' His grip is firm, his demeanor as coldly professional as the words he speaks.

"And I am Mr. Thompson, his corporate lawyer," the second man introduces himself, his voice as smooth as the pricy fabric of his suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

My mouth drops open in shock. Working for someone as devious and deceitful as Luka was bound to be difficult, but I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of lawyers who greeted me on day one.

"I- I'm Soph—" I splutter, raising my hand in an attempt to shake his, but I'm abruptly cut off. Abrams walks right by me without so much as a glance. His cold, dismissive demeanor making it abundantly clear that my presence is inconsequential to him. It's as if I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture, an insignificant part of the grand design of the Ivankov household.

Dick.

My hand, still suspended in midair, drops to my side as I fight the sudden humiliation.

Isn't this just the very definition of a hearty welcome? Not.

It's taking everything in me not to roll my eyes at the way he treats me like a tiny dot in his vast universe.

"Please take a seat, Ms. Williams," Mr. Abrams says, gesturing to the chair before me. My knees wobble as I sink down, trying to maintain some sense of decorum, but when I lean back, the thick cushioning betrays me, sending me into an awkward semi-recline. I yank myself upright, praying no one caught that embarrassing moment.

Goddamn chair!

"Ahem," Ms. Svetlana clears her throat, her lip curling. "Are you done playing musical chairs, Ms. Williams?"

"Um, yes, ma'am," I mumble, feeling like a scolded child.

I feel cold, indifferent eyes settle on me as Mr. Thompson shuffles the papers in front of him. He is the picture of calculated precision and professionalism, his tailored suit screaming wealth and power.

"Miss Williams," he begins, "do you know what the Ivankov's business is about?" His voice is gruff, almost monotonous.

"I have an idea," I manage, the words pushing past the sudden lump in my throat. My mind screams at me, filling in the blanks Thompson isn't saying out loud.

The fucking Russian mafia, for God's sake!

Mr. Thompson merely nods and slides a thick stack of papers across the table. I look up just long enough to see the contract coming my way. I hesitantly pick it up, my fingers tracing my name typed so formally on the first page.

"Make sure you understand what you're signing up for, Miss Williams," he says, cold and direct, stepping away to give me space—a space filled with the looming presence of the contract.

NANNY AGREEMENT

SOPHIA WILLIAMS

Turning the pages, the enormity of what I"m considering starts to truly hit me. Then, I see the figure under salary, and everything stops for a second. "Monthly payment: Fifteen Thousand Dollars ($15,000.00)."

I choke back a gasp. The sheer volume of paperwork makes the whole situation even more surreal. I still can't quite believe I'll be earning fifteen grand a month, just like Luka mentioned earlier. My fingers brush over the printed amount, and Mr. Abrams catches my lingering gaze.

I swallow hard, the reality of my new life settling in. Fifteen grand a month? Maybe I should have accidentally stumbled into the mafia lifestyle sooner.

Don't be stupid, Soph.

I shake my head mentally, reminding myself that this isn't some kind of fairy tale. I'll have to live and breathe this world, walking the tightrope between the role of a nanny and a spy, all while making sure I don't get caught.

"Generous, isn't it?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "But don't forget, you'll be earning every penny of it."

"Uh-huh," I murmur, trying to swallow the knot of anxiety in my throat. I manage a small, uncomfortable smile, feeling the weight of his words. It's a heavy price for a hefty paycheck. Swallowing my nerves, I continue scanning the contract, trying to process the information.

I catch a line, and I can't help but blurt it out.

"Wait, what? ‘Employee shall not engage in any romantic or sexual relationships with any member of the Ivankov household or their associates?'"

Heat creeps up my cheeks as I realize I've just read that out loud. Fabulous, now they probably think I'm some kind of man-eater.

Mr. Abrams clears his throat, obviously growing tired of my lack of discretion. "Correct, Ms. Williams. It's essential that you maintain a professional attitude at all times."

I nod, biting my lip to keep any further slip-ups contained. Mr. Thompson begins to rattle off the terms of my employment as Yulia's nanny, and I can't help but feel a little overwhelmed.

Fuck. The contract is thicker than Nana's yellow pages!

I swallow hard, my mouth going dry as the peculiarities start piling up.

"Let us review some of the more important terms of your employment as Yulia's nanny," says Mr. Abrams. "First," he continues, "You will be expected to adhere to a strict dress code. All garments must be black or white, and absolutely no patterns are allowed. This is to maintain a sense of order and tranquility in the household."

I nod, imagining myself decked out like a monochromatic chess piece.

"Second," Mr. Abrams leans in, looking deadly serious, "you should know Yulia is deathly allergic to peanuts. Just a whiff of them can cause a severe reaction."

I raise a brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. "Guess I'll have to scrap my world-famous peanut butter and jelly sandwiches then," I quip, trying to lighten the grave atmosphere.

My jibe lands like a balloon in a room full of porcupines. The rigid faces, the pin-drop silence, each one a stark reminder of the severity of this meeting. The laughter that bubbles in my chest falters, the aftertaste of the joke bitter in my mouth. My smile fades, replaced by a quick, apologetic grimace.

"Go on, please," I urge, my voice barely louder than a whisper. Noting the hard lines of Mr. Abrams' face, I silently make a mental note to avoid any more tasteless jokes.

"Third," Mr. Abrams resumes, "You will be responsible for attending to all of Yulia's educational needs. This includes her private classes, homework, and all of her private lessons in music, art, language, and computer skills."

I blink, my head spinning like a top. It feels like I've signed up to be the head of an entire department at a university, not a nanny.

Music, art, languages, computers, and homework. That's like…five different subjects. And not just any subjects, either. Each one could be a major in itself. What the hell kind of kid is Yulia? And when does she play? Or have family time? Or, I don't know, breathe?

In my head, I'm picturing Yulia, this tiny, innocent thing, buried under a mountain of textbooks, a violin in one hand, a paintbrush in the other, and headphones blasting foreign languages into her ears.

Poor kid.

I silently swear to smuggle in some comic books or something…normal kid stuff.

"Is there a problem, Miss Williams?" he asks.

Problem? Hell yeah, there's a problem. But he doesn't need to know that.

I nod at him, keeping my game face on. "No problem. Got it. Education. All good."

"Fourth," Mr. Abrams adds, "You must never address Mr. Ivankov directly unless he speaks to you first. If you have concerns, you will bring them to Ms. Svetlana, who will handle any communication with Mr. Ivankov on your behalf."

I glance at Ms. Svetlana, who's still glaring daggers at me.

Fantastic.

"Fifth," Mr. Abrams announces, "You are required to learn basic Russian phrases and use them with Yulia. This will ensure she becomes fluent in her native tongue."

I swallow hard, hoping I can pick up a new language as quickly as I've been thrust into this job. This list is just getting more and more impossible.

"Lastly," Mr. Thompson takes over, his voice dipping ominously, "you must understand that everything you see, hear, or witness in the Ivankov household is strictly confidential. Revealing any information to outsiders without explicit permission from Mr. Ivankov or Ms. Svetlana would be considered a grave breach of contract, and the consequences would be…severe."

The word "severe" echoes in the air, causing my imagination to spiral into overdrive.

Are we talking about being kidnapped by clowns?

Trapped in a room with incessant yodeling?

Forced to watch paint dry for hours on end?

My heart races as I try to make light of the dread creeping into my veins. I pull myself together, reminding myself that we're talking about serious consequences here. The kind that could end with me being silenced forever, like a bullet to the head, a body tossed into a river, or even a slow, excruciating death.

Jesus. I am so screwed.

"Ms. Williams, if you don't mind, we'd like to expedite this process," Mr. Thompson says briskly. He slides a pen toward me, a not-so-subtle hint that it's time to sign the contract. Mr. Abrams' smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and I can tell it's more of a professional facade than genuine warmth.

With a deep breath, I steel myself and take the pen offered to me. My hand trembles slightly as I sign my name, sealing my fate. The papers now hold my commitment to the Ivankov family, and there's no turning back.

"Now, follow me," Svetlana orders almost immediately after the lawyers leave the room, her tone as icy as her glare. She strides through the opulent halls, her spine as straight as a ruler.

"Right behind you, ma'am," I mutter, trying to catch up.

Her heels click sharply on the marble floor, each step echoing through the cavernous mansion. Those stilettos could easily double as weapons – maybe she has a side gig as a secret assassin?

Ugh, what am I even thinking?

My thoughts can't help but stray to Luka.

Where is he? God, why can't I get him out of my head?

As I peer around the mansion, it seems even more ridiculously grandiose and over-the-top than I remembered from my first visit. Navigating the seemingly endless hallways, sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a magical glow on the extravagant furnishings and insanely expensive art adorning the walls.

We wind our way down the lavish staircase. The balustrade is decorated with delicate carvings that glimmer in the light of the lamps spread throughout the lobby. I'm so lost in thought that I almost bulldoze into Svetlana when she abruptly halts.

"What the hell?!" I shriek, my voice reverberating off the walls building. I try to dodge past her, but end up stumbling awkwardly.

No! I am going to die.

The hard ground rushes up to meet me, and I know in that moment this is it – my final moments here in this wretched place on this majestic marble staircase. I close my eyes tightly, expecting the worst. Suddenly, a large, commanding hand encircles my waist, arresting my downward spiral. The hand feels absurdly secure, like some sort of superhero swooping in to save a helpless damsel in distress. In a heartbeat, I'm hoisted up and steadied on my feet, narrowly escaping a humiliating faceplant and a not-so-glamorous exit.

Holy fuck!

I open my eyes, a burst of fear coursing through me as I take in Luka. He stands tall, face stern, his blue eyes icy. They are deep pools of ocean water reflecting the light in a way that reminds me of liquid sapphire.

"Already causing a scene on your first day of work?" His gaze does not waver as he speaks in a low voice.

Great. Just fucking great!