Taken By the Bratva Boss by Sarina Hart

Chapter Three

Leon

She’s slight. Tiny even, compared to me, and she’s angry. The kind of angry I can see in the lines of her face, hear in the snarl to her voice, feel in the vibrations of her body. And it’s the hottest thing I’ve seen in my lifetime.

She hates me. Which is a shame because if she wasn’t responsible for my fourteen unplanned days away, I might’ve liked to spend some time fucking the hatred out of this one. Would like to hear her moan my name.

But as it is, I’m tired of defending myself—and only God knows why I am—for the death of her friend, a woman I’ve never met. A jury of someone’s peers—certainly not mine—exonerated me in the matter of my responsibility for her death.

Twelve strangers believed my innocence. This woman, not so much.

She’s staring up at me with hazel eyes flecked with green and fear. “She called you by name. Leon Krilov. She told me it was you.”

I sigh because I don’t think this tiny woman is strong enough now or will ever be for me to give her the shaking she needs.

On the long inhale I take to replace the oxygen I just huffed out, I get a big whiff of her. She’s crystal Caribbean waters and sunshine. I could breathe her in, but I won’t.

“Olivia.” Fucking hell. I like the way her name feels in my mouth. But I have a purpose for speaking beyond rolling her name off my tongue. “You should leave matters like this to the police and the lawyers.” At her glare, I smile. She’s attractive and I like looking at her, but this tiny woman’s anger amuses me. “The jury has spoken.”

To which she responds, “Bullshit. Juries get it wrong all the time.”

If she spoke with any determination, I would answer, maybe give her the facts of the case, my honest alibi. But her voice lacks tone. It’s weak. As though I’m not worthy of the same emotion she’d had in court—I remember now—when she’d stared hard enough to burn a hole through my skull. More than once, I glared back, and she’d remained unflappable.

“I haven’t asked you here to discuss my defense in a trial that never should’ve happened.” I’m moderately vengeful about that trial. Wasted days. Wasted dollars. Business left unattended while I dealt with attorneys and depositions.

She holds her chin up, adds some defiance to her tone. “Then why am I here?”

I don’t have a specific plan beyond forcing my point on her. Nor do I have time to answer because the nanny is on the phone. New nanny means a lot of calls. It’s the way of things, but damn.

I slap the cell to my ear. “Yeah.” I’m past hello. On my fifth since they set me free this afternoon.

“Mr. Krilov. It’s Melanie.” Like I don’t know. Caller ID was invented before this kid was even born so the concept isn’t new. I ignore the words on the tip of my tongue. “Anna fell out of the treehouse and she’s been crying for the last three hours.”

Three hours. And she’s just now calling me?

We’re ten minutes from home. Five fifteen from the bunker. “Adrian, straight home.”

He nods and speeds through an intersection. Anna is my world, and he knows it. Knows I would only take a call if it was about her.

“I’ll be right there.” I hang up the phone.

I don’t want to panic. I don’t want to be such a doting father to Anna but hurt is a different matter than spoiled. Hurt is pain. Hurt is fear. Hurt is loneliness when the person she trusts most isn’t there. After everything she’s been through, I have to be there.

Fuck.

I should’ve known the girl wasn’t mature enough to watch Anna. How the hell had my little angel fallen from the treehouse? Why was she even up there alone?

Adrian whips into the drive, and I’m out a couple seconds ahead of the car’s complete stop. Before I make it two steps, Anna is there.

I sweep her up and hold her, the panic subsided because there’s nothing wrong. And it isn’t the first time she’s cried wolf. But I haven’t seen her since before I went to jail, and now isn’t the time to discipline her. Assuming I can figure out how best to do it.

“I missed you.” She has both arms around my neck and her head buried in my shoulder.

“What happened, Anna?” But I need to hear her say she’s fine.

She lifts her head and her blonde curls, tied back in a ribbon, float to one side. Where her eyes should be red from three hours of crying, they are bright blue. She has the Krilov smile and the Krilov severity when she’s angry. Also, the Krilov ability to lie to get her way.

When she lowers her chin and looks at me from beneath those long curling lashes, I know what’s about to happen. She’s going to play me. And I can’t do a damned thing about it.

“I wanted you to come home because you’re never home with me.”

There it is. I’m putty. She’s the sculptor. As an afterthought, my little Michelangelo adds, “And Melanie is stupid and mean.”

But I have to ask. “How is Melanie mean?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she’s craning her neck to look over my shoulder into the SUV. “Who’s that?”

I’m biding my time until Miss Olga comes back. She’s the only nanny we’ve ever had who Anna liked or listened to. Probably because Miss Olga is stern, but kind, and she knows how to handle tough children. She’d certainly done well enough with me and my twin brother, Igor.

Because Anna has me off kilter, I turn halfway toward the car like I’ve forgotten who’s inside. Olivia lowers her hand and wipes the smile from her face, but not fast enough I didn’t see the wave or the grin.

“She’s…” If Anna hadn’t play acted her tears and her pain, I would’ve stopped and dropped this woman at the bunker, but I’d been crazy to get home.

Before I can think of a lie Anna won’t question, the back door of the SUV swings open, and Olivia steps out like she belongs in this driveway. Like she isn’t a woman whose sole purpose is to ruin my life.

“Hi. You must be Anna.” She must’ve heard the nanny on the phone. “I’m Olivia. Your daddy has told me so much about you.”

I don’t know what fucking game she’s playing, but it isn’t going to go well for her. Involving Anna is a mistake she can’t unmake.

Anna’s forehead wrinkles and just when I think she’s about to let the cat out of its bag, she smiles. “My daddy”—the little liar—“is about to have dinner with me. Would you like to join us?”

Someone has taught little Anna the formality of adult conversation. And it’s adorable. And dangerous because she’s just invited the enemy to our dinner.

Olivia looks at my house. It’s impressive because I need it to be. Well maintained because it has to be. Has a lush flower garden Anna insisted we plant running the perimeter of the house and now I pay to have cared for. It’s a home I’m proud of. And none of Olivia Hudson’s damned business.

“Oh, my love, Olivia can’t stay.” I speak softly but glare at Olivia, daring her to defy me.

Anna ignores me, twists her body so I have to set her down or drop her. “For a little while, she can.” The defiance is a new development. I’m not fond.

“Anna.” The tone, her name, the glare I shoot are all ignored by the little princess holding her hand out for Olivia. She slides her fingers through Olivia’s and smiles up at me.

“We’re having sloppy joes and tater tots.” Oh, God. Not again. It’s all Anna ever wants to eat whether I’m home or not, and I’m dying for a celebratory, fresh out of jail steak. But when this kid finds something she loves, she loves it until she wears it out.

“Listen, Anna Banana, why don’t you go inside and ask Tatiana”—the maid/chef—“to make some tea.” Anna isn’t the only liar among us. “And we’ll be in as soon as I finish my business, okay?”

I try not to bring home anything which could put her in danger, but this was unavoidable because I hired an incompetent temporary nanny. No matter how I plot it out, there’s no way I can blame it on anyone but myself.

She narrows her eyes because we both know I’m lying. No way is Olivia fucking Hudson sitting at my table for dinner. Not in this lifetime.