Chapter 24

Chapter 23

Sophia

MY HEART hammers against my ribcage as I shadow Svetlana through the labyrinthine corridors of the Ivankov mansion. Each grandiose room we pass reeks of power and grandeur, a glaring reminder of the perilous world I've been thrust into – a wolf's lair.

"This is your room." Svetlana grinds to a halt in front of an imposing door, brandishing a golden key as if it were a weapon. I barely catch myself before slamming into her broad back.

Shit!

Someone should stick a "sudden stop" sign on her.

Mental note: Don't tailgate Svetlana.

The woman has the stopping power of a brick wall. My mental meandering comes to a halt as I pay attention to what she's doing.

The door creaks open, unfolding a realm that's more fairy tale than reality. Forget the typical nanny's quarters – this suite is nothing short of a princess's private sanctuary.

Delicately patterned silk wallpaper cloaks the walls, looking more like an artist's loving masterpiece. Commanding the room's attention is a king-size bed, its covers plush and making promises of endless comfort.

Across the room, a colossal window stretches from floor to ceiling, framing the vast estate in all its glory.

You've got to be kidding me.

My mind scrambles to catch up. Sophia the nanny, or Sophia the princess? Here I am, standing on the threshold of a room straight out of a high-end home décor magazine. It's overwhelming. It's outrageous. But above all, it's real. I pinch myself, hoping to burst this surreal bubble. But no, it stays.

Welcome to the madness, Sophia.

A bizarre sense of amusement creeps in. I'm a nanny living in a princess suite.

God help me; what's next?

Svetlana strides in, her movements sharp and concise, like a soldier on duty. She swings open a pair of doors to a massive dressing room that's larger than my entire room back home.

"Your belongings. Here," she dictates, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

I peer inside, my mouth dropping open. Clothes are already hung and neatly organized. But how do they know my size? Do they run this place with a one-size-fits-all rule?

"Standard Ivankov nanny uniform. You'll wear this and only this." I'm met with a row of black and white outfits. I'm not sure whether to be relieved about the lack of wardrobe decisions or horrified by the uniformity.

I set down my small suitcase and am about to protest when she extends her hand.

"Your phone."

"Excuse me?"

"No personal devices." Svetlana's tone is as flat as a pancake on a griddle. There's no room for argument in her words.

I eye the hand stretched out, expecting my phone. I swallow a lump in my throat.

"But…but I need to stay in touch with my grandmother," I plead, panic bubbling up.

Svetlana's eyes are like ice, not a hint of empathy in them. There's an uncaring monotone to her voice. "First off," she starts, her gaze impaling me, "you're Yulia's nanny. Seven days a week, twenty-four-seven. Where she goes, you go. No exceptions."

"But—"

"Two." She raises a finger, halting my protest. "Once a month, you can take a day off. Leave the premises, do whatever you want. But that's it."

My mouth opens and closes, no words coming out.

"Three." Another finger joins the previous two. "Private phones are for Sundays only. You want to call your grandmother? Do it then."

"But my—"

"Four." Her gaze hardens, the final rule punctuating her list. "Never share details of Yulia's schedule with anyone. Ever. Understood?"

My head nods, the rules sinking in. This isn't a job; it's a commitment. Who the fuck talks like this? But the words slam into me like a freight train.

What about Nilo? Wren?

How am I supposed to stay fucking connected?

"I…" Reluctantly, I extend my hand, my phone quivering in my grip. It's like I'm handing over a piece of my soul.

To my surprise, she opens a drawer, revealing an iPad, a high-end cell phone, and a walkie-talkie nestled within.

"Yulia's routines are all listed under ‘Timetable' in your device. Stay sharp," Svetlana continues, her voice as chilling as a blizzard. Her words rain down on me like a hailstorm, and I'm left grappling with this deluge of information.

"Timetable, check," I retort, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I fumble with the iPad but hit a brick wall – it's password-protected.

"The password is 2507," Svetlana says, as though reading my mind.

"Thank you," I say, more out of habit than gratitude.

Fingers trembling, I key in the digits, relieved when the screen lights up.

I glance up, only to lock eyes with Svetlana. Her gaze is colder than a witch's tit, piercing through me like I'm some lab rat under a microscope. I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under by now.

What's with the death stare? Is it because of what happened the other night?

No, this feels different; there's an undercurrent of something else…something I can't quite place. It's as if she's sizing me up, calculating, plotting.

And then it occurs to me… Is she in on this? Is this stern ice queen on Aleks's payroll, too?

Stay calm, Soph. Breathe.

"Inside that device, you'll find Yulia's curriculum. All of it. Subjects, texts, syllabi. You'd better be familiar with each and every one," Svetlana orders, pointing at a stack of books and papers on an antique desk nearby.

I blink.

Are they for real?

The desk is a work of art, its intricate carvings a testament to the obscene wealth of the Ivankovs. Across the room, a full-length mirror stares back at me, its gilded frame echoing the opulence around me.

"And now, time to change. Five minutes. Go," Svetlana directs, her icy gaze fixed on me.

I try to calm myself, focusing on my breath. It doesn't do shit. My thoughts drift back to the sight of those three mafia lords out there. Greek gods in Armani suits. Shaking the image away, I scold myself.

This isn't the right fucking time.

"I said now!" Svetlana snaps, yanking me back to reality. "Yulia is in the kitchen waiting."

"Fantastic," I mutter under my breath as I step into the dressing room and start to undress. When I step out, Svetlana's already checking her watch.

"One minute late," she states, her voice as cold as the Siberian winter.

Are you kidding me?

Her rigidity would make a fucking iron rod feel soft. As I move, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

The uniform fits, alright. But it's as if I've stepped into a damn nun's habit. Black and white, stark as sin, and cut so it screams "function," not "fashion." It feels like a cardboard cutout, all stiff and impersonal.

Svetlana's already at the door, her stern gaze fixing me like a drill sergeant to a new recruit. "Move," is all she says, the single word slicing through the silence like a sharpened blade.

As we step out of the room, she points to a door on my left.

"Miss Ivankov's room." Then she turns and points to the door directly opposite mine. My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. "And that's Mr. Ivankov's." The revelation hits me like a freight train.

Jesus.

I'm sandwiched between a child's wonderland and a mobster's lair.

God help me.

Chapter 24

Sophia

THE DELICIOUS aroma of melting cheese and baking dough wafts out from the kitchen, a call to my empty stomach.

God, I hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

Between the whirlwind of events and my gnawing nerves, food had been the last thing on my mind. Things were just crazy since last week. The events at the "Velvet Room," the notorious strip joint where my best friend Wren worked, still lingered fresh in my mind.

The image of her bloody, bruised face is seared into my brain.

The ugly truth slams into me with the subtlety of a freight train – Wren is in the shitstorm, all thanks to yours truly. The raw bite of guilt chews me up from the inside out, an unrelenting reminder that I crafted this hellhole we're in. Wren is caught in the crossfire, and my big bro is collateral damage. It's my mess, my responsibility to shovel our way out.

Oh, Wren. I am so fucking sorry!

Suddenly, I'm yanked back to the now, standing in the kitchen doorway; the irresistible salty aroma is a freaking assault, playing a wicked game with my senses.

"Damn," I curse quietly, my belly growling like a starving bear. I attempt to cover it with a cough, but it's about as covert as a foghorn.

Stepping into the kitchen with Svetlana, I see three men. Three specimens of masculine perfection. Three men, each looking like they've been sculpted by the gods, then inked by the devil himself.

"Oh Lord, not now," I murmur, trying to brush off the guttural grumblings that my stomach is cranking out.

Five sets of eyes hone in on me, but it's Luka's gaze that's like a goddamn tractor beam. I've seen him. Hell, I've even fucked him, but each time I see him, he seems to grow more irresistible.

He looks at me, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips, and I swear he's soaking in every moment. His gaze is a fucking inferno, intense and relentless.

I pivot to face him, my pulse throbbing in my ears. Backlit by the soft glow of the kitchen lights, he looks every inch the god. His form-fitting tee outlines his sculpted body perfectly, the fabric pulling taut over his impressive physique.

"Sophia!" Yulia's high-pitched squeal ricochets me back to reality.

"Hey, Yulia." I grin at her, my nerves momentarily forgotten. The spark in those blue eyes, the same crystalline shade as Luka's, is enchanting. The uncanny resemblance between the siblings is striking, making the absence of any parental figures all the more conspicuous.

She's beautiful, just like her brother, in an ethereal, could-be-painted-on-a-church-ceiling kind of way. As I study her, I can't help but wonder about her parents. But the gloomy shadows lurking in Luka's gaze whenever he looks at her make me think it's a story for another day. And perhaps not a particularly happy one.

She's perched on a stool, like a queen on her throne, wedged between Luka and Erik, their massive frames towering over her.

It's an insane sight.

Caught between the two mountains, she holds her position on the stool. She's the pint-sized queen in this den of beasts. I get the distinct feeling that her word is law.

"No, Erik! You need more bacon on the pizza," Yulia argues, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "Bacon makes everything better!"

Erik snorts, his arms canvasing a myriad of tattoos, his biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt. He rolls his eyes, huffing in response.

"Alright, little boss, but don't you think we should add some more basil for extra flavor?"

Yulia scrunches up her nose, considering his suggestion. "Hmm, okay, but not too much! I still want to taste the bacon!"

"Zamechatel'no," Erik praises, chuckling at her. "You're a creative chef and a tough negotiator."

The sight of it all, the clash of innocence and hardness, is enough to turn my mind into mush.

Then Luka's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Sophia, would you like to help Yulia with her pizza too?"

"I- I'd love…" Suddenly, my traitorous stomach decides to steal the show, rumbling like a damn Harley.

Oh God, what an entrance.