Chapter 27

Chapter 25

Sophia

LUKA'S LIPS twitch, and I swear there's a twinkle in his eye.

"Hungry?" he asks casually, as if I'm not just dying here.

"No—" I attempt to bluff, but who am I kidding? My stomach decides to pull a Judas again and grumbles loud enough to register on the Richter scale.

In one smooth move, he fishes out a slice of the piping hot pizza from the oven, the cheese still bubbling like molten lava, and thrusts it at me.

"Sit. Eat." His gaze locks onto mine.

The slice of pizza he's brandishing looks sinfully delicious, a decadent sight of melting cheese and glistening toppings that has my mouth watering like a malfunctioning sprinkler system.

I swallow my saliva. Hard.

Putting on my best poker face, but I know I fail terribly. I might as well be a starved mutt eyeing a juicy steak. I'm sure my eyes are practically bulging out of my head, my tongue lolling out of my mouth.

Damn it.

Before I can respond, Svetlana interjects. "She's a—"

Her protest is cut off by Luka's raised hand. "She can eat with us." A devilish wink is thrown at Yulia, who, despite the flour dusting her cheeks and sauce smearing her tiny nose, looks like the happiest little sprite.

"But—" Svetlana starts again, only to be interrupted.

"Svetlana! She. Eats. With. Us." Luka's voice is cold, a warning.

Svetlana stays silent and nods, retreating into the background. I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

With one last glowering look at me, Svetlana turns on her heel, exiting the kitchen with all the dignity she can muster. As the door swings shut behind her, I know this is going to backfire on me.

Yep, I'm definitely on her shit list now.

Luka's gaze finds mine again, leaving me feeling exposed, as if he can see right through me.

"You going to stand there gawping, or are you going to take a bite?" he says, his voice filled with amusement. I look down at the slice in my hand.

Oh, what the hell…

I lift the slice to my lips. My teeth sink into the hot, cheesy slice, and oh…oh, my God. If heaven has a flavor, this would be it. No, scratch that; this is better. Holy mother of all that's good, this is downright divine.

"Sophia, come here!" Yulia's voice rings out, full of childish enthusiasm. She scampers over to me, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the counter. Before I can protest, I'm standing right next to Luka, his masculine scent mingling with the aroma of pizza, making my heart pound like a drum solo.

My belly decides to join the band, growling loud enough for a rock concert. I bite my lip, praying to all the saints that no one heard that. If they did, there's nothing I can do about it. Throwing any notion of ladylike manners to the wind, I haul the slice up again, sinking my teeth into the sinful creation as if it's the last piece of food on earth. I let out a moan that's entirely too satisfied. Without thinking, I go in for another monstrous bite. A dribble of melted cheese escapes, trailing down my chin.

And then…oh God…

Luka's hand, with its dark tattoos and rugged strength, comes into my line of sight. His thumb grazes my chin, catching the runaway cheese, and slides up to my lips. My breath hitches, every thought screeching to a halt. The barest touch, and yet my heart's pounding like it's trying to win a fucking marathon.

He lifts his thumb to his lips, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face. His tongue peeks out, darting out to clean off the cheese. It's like watching a car crash, mortifying yet impossible to look away. I want to taste that tongue again…

Snap out of it, Sophia.

"Th-thanks," I stutter out, my voice barely more than a whisper. The feel of Luka's finger on my lip, his gaze latched onto mine, is still seared into my senses. I'm acutely aware of the charged silence that follows my words.

Suddenly, the noise of clinking dishes and the hum of the refrigerator hit my ears. I glance sideways to see Erik and Dimitri watching, a mixture of amusement and intrigue on their faces.

Shit, I almost forgot we weren't alone. The flush that creeps up my neck is hotter than the pizza, and I have to restrain myself from bolting out of the kitchen right then and there.

Holy fuck, what do I do now?

Stay cool, Soph. You're the nanny, the nanny. Just focus on the kid.

Pretending nothing happened, I return my focus to Yulia. She is cheerfully hacking away at her own creation – a star-shaped pizza that looks like it's been through a war.

"Yulia, you're a natural," I tell her, unable to stop the chuckle escaping my lips. The poor pizza looks like it's been attacked by a pack of hungry wolves.

Yulia beams at me, her face smeared with a mix of flour and tomato sauce. "I know, right? I'm going to be a pizza chef when I grow up!"

I take a moment to absorb the strange little situation I've found myself in. To all intents and purposes, this kitchen scene could be plucked straight out of a family sitcom – not a mafia household. It's surreal.

Satisfied with the amount of ingredients and cheese she's added to her pizza, Yulia triumphantly marches her cheese-smothered star creation over to Dimitri.

"Dima, look!" She thrusts it toward Dimitri like a trophy won in battle. I can't help but grin at the earnestness in her voice.

Mafia princess by day, pizza chef by night. Why the hell not?

Dimitri, built like a damn Spartan and looking like he just stepped off a Men's Health cover, is manning the pizza oven with sweat glistening off his muscles. I feel my face flush at the sight of him.

Or is it the memory that has me trying to hide in a hole? It's almost hard to believe that the man standing there, cradling Yulia's star-studded pizza with a tenderness that doesn't fit his Herculean build, is the same man whose pants I had my hand down the other night to retrieve those damn microchips…

Get a grip, Sophia. Stop visualizing and breathe, woman.

Trying to keep my cool, I intentionally stare down at the glistening pizza, fighting the urge to glance in his direction. The anxiety bubbling inside me is worse than any oven-baked cheese.

Fuck! What if he recognizes me?

My heart is hammering in my chest like a jackhammer.

I'll be so dead if he recognizes me.

My gaze flits to Dimitri, apprehension clawing at me. Does he remember the false name I'd fed him at that godforsaken party? But his gaze, cool and aloof, offers no indication of recognition.

Okay, maybe he doesn't remember Sonia Brown, the server, after all. A breath I didn't know I'd been holding rushes out from my mouth.

The nod Dimitri sends Yulia, accompanied by his deep-chested, "Otlichno, Yulia," leaves me utterly clueless. But the way Yulia's face lights up, I figure it must mean something along the lines of "fucking awesome."

"Oh, we gave our kitchen staff the day off," Luka announces, the casual nonchalance in his voice throwing me off balance. "You'll get to meet them tomorrow."

"Kitchen…staff?" I parrot, incredulity pitching my voice higher.

There was a whole staff for this kitchen? For cooking?

He sweeps a hand around the luxurious kitchen, emphasizing his point. "Marco, he's a whiz with pasta – six fingers on his left hand. Great for kneading dough. Born with it."

The mental image of a six-fingered pasta maestro is nothing short of bizarre, but I merely nod, doing my best to look unfazed.

"And then there's Paolo. The man's a magician with sauces. His Bolognese? Legendary. And finally, Chef Antonio. Head honcho in this circus. Found him in a family-run eatery in Rome when he was sixteen. Makes Pelmeni that could make a grown man weep."

"Sixteen?" I repeat, stunned. The casual reveal leaves me grappling with the sheer magnitude of their wealth.

"That's right," Luka affirms, a smug grin playing on his lips. Clearly, he's delighting in my flabbergasted reaction. "You'll need to meet them tomorrow," he clarifies with an air of authority that brings me back to the gravity of the situation. "You need to be familiar with them to ensure Yulia's meals are taken care of."

"Yes-yes, sir," I reply.

Tomorrow. The word slams into me like a tidal wave. The fury and shock of the realization that I'm stuck here in this circus of culinary mobsters momentarily steal my breath. But beneath that, the fear festers, whispering reminders of the danger I'm in, robbing me of any comfort.

I'm not just playing nanny here; I'm playing nanny in a mobster's den. All while juggling the secret that I'm essentially a spy in their midst.

Fantastic. Just…fantastic.

The sharp ring of Dimitri's cell slices through the merriment like a cleaver through a ripe tomato. All eyes pivot to him as he steps away, answering the call with a curt, "Dimitri."

His joviality evaporates, replaced by an ice-cold businesslike demeanor. He returns to the kitchen, looking at me, before locking onto Luka and Erik. His voice is a low, gravelly growl. "We've got a problem."

Erik's face immediately hardens, his expression a mirror image of Dimitri's seriousness. Luka, on the other hand, maintains a composed front, but there's a distinct change in his posture – a coiled readiness that wasn't there before.

There's an almost tangible moment of silent communication between the men, a brief flicker of mutual understanding that sends a prickling sense of unease down my spine.

Luka's ice-blue eyes catch mine, just for a moment, and there's something in them that stops me cold – a silent warning, perhaps?

"Sophia," he says, his voice firm but not unkind, "make sure Yulia finishes her pizza, yes?"

I blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in responsibility, but I manage a quick nod. "Of course, Luka…I mean, sir."

His gaze then shifts to Yulia, and his voice softens. "Malysh, we have to step out for a bit," he tells her, his tone filled with regret. "Can you make sure you finish your dinner?"

There's a brief pause as Luka looks at Yulia, who's now staring down at her masterpiece of a pizza with a touch of disappointment on her little face.

"I was hoping you'd try it, Luka," she murmurs, her small shoulders drooping a tad.

Luka looks down at her, his stern features softening further. "I promise, malysh, I'll have the first slice when I get back, alright?"

There's a flicker of hope in Yulia's eyes as she nods, lips pressing into a determined line. "You better, Luka. I made it especially for you."

The thud of their departing footsteps echoes against the kitchen walls. I'm marooned in the kitchen of a mafia mansion, left alone with little Yulia. The scent of fresh pizza still hangs in the air, but it's gone from comforting to mocking in seconds flat. It's a sick joke, a slap of domesticity in the face of the very real danger looming over us.

And then, when I look at Yulia. I see it — a tiny tear clinging to the edge of her lower lid.

Chapter 26

Sophia

THIS POOR little kid is going to be caught in the sick game I've been forced into.

I feel like shit.

Putting on a smile, I poke Yulia gently, "It's alright, Yulia. You've still got me and Max to share this pizza party with!" I gesture toward the puppy that's now curled up in a ball of fur, twitching in his sleep like he's chasing rabbits in dreamland.

Yulia sniffles, wiping at her eyes before giving me a watery smile. "That's okay, Sophia," she says, her tone a strange mix of mature acceptance and childlike optimism. "Luka always says, ‘Duty before dinner.' He'll eat later."

Her acceptance tugs at my heartstrings, the mature sentiment delivered with such nonchalance leaving me stunned. She reminds me of a young version of myself, forced to be stronger than any child should be far too soon.

"I guess you're right, Yulia," I reply, my voice choked up as I force a cheerfulness I don't really feel.

Thinking quickly, I decide to try to distract her from the immediate disappointment. "Hey, Yulia, can I ask you something about Beauty and the Beast?"

Her eyes, still shiny with unshed tears, light up a little. "Yes," she replies, her voice small.

"If Belle were a flower herself, which one do you think she would be?"

Yulia seems to consider this, her small brow furrowing in concentration. After a few silent moments, she finally announces, "I think Belle would be a rose!"

"A rose?" I ask, intrigued by her choice. "Why a rose?"

"Because roses are pretty and brave! They have thorns to protect themselves, just like Belle is pretty and brave, and she protects the Beast!"

"Roses, huh? That's quite insightful," I praise her, trying to keep the conversation light and cheery. "Now, let's say Belle had to cook for the Beast. What do you think she'd make him?"

Without missing a beat, Yulia exclaims, "Pizza!" Her face splits into a wide grin.

"Of course! Who doesn't love pizza?" I giggle, glad to see her mood lifting. The tension that had weighed so heavily on the room starts to dissipate, replaced by the familiar and comforting ambiance of mealtime banter. "Well, Miss Future Pizza Chef," I playfully tease, picking up an endearing star-shaped pizza from the counter, "how about we try some of your masterpieces? The Beast would be lucky to have a slice of this."

Yulia sniggers as I offer her a piece, her small hands carefully taking the slice. I watch as she takes her first bite, a sense of satisfaction washing over me.

It's an emotion that I quickly dash away as reality sets in once more.

You're nothing but a fake nanny. Don't get attached.