Page 10 of Bratva Daddy
"Darling, this was magnificent," she said, holding me at arm's length to look at me properly. "Your mother would be so proud."
My mother. Not my father. She knew exactly what she was saying, and the kindness of it made my throat tight.
David Maguire from the homeless services program materialized at my elbow with two champagne flutes. "To the woman who just doubled our operating budget for the next six months," he said, pressing one into my hand. This was my third glass—already more than I usually allowed myself at these things—but tonight felt different. Tonight I deserved to celebrate.
"To Marcus Chen's painting bringing eighteen thousand," I countered, taking a sip that sparkled all the way down. "And to Mrs. Harrison finally parting with those first editions."
"To you having vision," David insisted. He pulled a business card from his pocket, simple white cardstock with just his name and number. No gilt edges, no embossing, no pretense. "I want to talk to you about something bigger. A citywide expansion. We need someone with your connections and—more importantly—your ability to make those connections actually mean something."
I took the card, running my thumb over the plain text. Someone wanted to work with me. Not Viktor Petrov's daughter. Not some pretty face to add to a gala committee. Me. Clara. Because I'd proven I could create real change.
"Call me Monday," I said, tucking the card into my clutch like something precious. "We'll have lunch somewhere terrible and plan how to fix this city."
He laughed—not the polite charity circuit laugh but an actual bark of amusement. "Somewhere terrible?"
"The good restaurants are where people go to be seen. The terrible ones are where actual work gets done."
More champagne appeared in my hand somehow. The room had taken on that soft-focus quality that came with good wine and genuine happiness. People kept approaching to congratulate me, to share stories of the items they'd won, to ask if I'd organize their spring fundraiser. For once, I didn't feel likeI was wearing a costume. The midnight blue dress felt like armor I'd chosen, not prison silks.
"Your father must be so proud," someone said—Councilman Morrison's wife, her smile sharp as winter.
The comment should have punctured my mood, but the champagne had made me bold. "My father doesn't know a damn thing about this," I said, meeting her eyes steadily. "This was mine."
The admission felt dangerous and delicious.
Mrs. Morrison's expression shifted from predatory to something almost like respect. "Good for you, dear," she said quietly, then drifted away to examine the silent auction results posted on the wall.
I stood in the center of the room, champagne fizzing in my bloodstream, surrounded by people who'd opened their wallets for something that mattered. Tomorrow there would be real beds for real people. Real meals. Real help. Not just tax write-offs and photo opportunities but actual change measured in human lives.
The fury that had lived in my chest for twenty-three years—that constant ember of rage at my uselessness, my decorative existence—had transformed into something else tonight. Purpose, maybe. Or just the first taste of what my life could be if I ever escaped my father's shadow completely.
One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Double our goal. Triple what last year's similar event had raised. Proof that Clara Albright could be more than just a pretty ghost at her father's dinner table.
I lifted my champagne glass to my own reflection in the gallery's dark window, toasting the woman I might become.
TheOctoberairhitmy face like a blessing when I finally stepped out of the Neue Galerie just past ten o'clock. After three hours in that warm, perfumed room, the sharp autumn cold felt like diving into clear water. My silk shawl offered almost no protection against the wind, but I didn't care. The chill felt good.
Fifth Avenue stretched before me, still buzzing with late evening energy. Theater-goers hunted for cabs, their voices carrying excitement about whatever show they'd just seen. Couples walked arm-in-arm, leaning into each other against the wind. The windows of Bergdorf Goodman threw pools of light onto the sidewalk, mannequins frozen in eternal elegance behind glass.
I pulled out my phone to call the car service—muscle memory from a thousand identical nights—then stopped. Eight blocks to the penthouse. Eight blocks of New York City autumn air and sidewalk beneath my heels instead of leather seats and bulletproof glass. When was the last time I'd actually walked home from anything?
The champagne made the decision easy. Three glasses had turned my usual caution into something reckless and necessary. I wanted to walk. Wanted to feel the city under my feet, wanted to carry this feeling of accomplishment through the streets instead of sealed away in a town car.
My fingers found Mrs. Brown's contact.
Home late tonight. Don't wait up. Everything's wonderful.
Her response came immediately—she probably sat watching her British mysteries in the kitchen, phone always nearby in case I needed something.
Glad to hear it, dear. There's soup in the refrigerator if you're hungry later.
Soup in the refrigerator. Such a small kindness, but it made my throat tight again. Mrs. Brown, who'd probably alreadyfigured out I'd done something my father wouldn't approve of, who'd cover for me if he asked, who'd pretend she hadn't noticed me coming home flushed with champagne and success.
I tucked the phone away and started walking, my heels clicking against concrete in that particularly Manhattan rhythm. The boutiques I usually browsed during my empty afternoons looked different at night—mysterious instead of familiar, their darkened windows reflecting a woman I barely recognized. Midnight blue dress that moved with me instead of constraining me, hair coming loose from its careful chignon, face flushed with cold and accomplishment and good champagne.
David's business card sat in my clutch like a talisman. Simple cardstock, but it might as well have been gold. Program Coordinator, Manhattan Homeless Services. A real job title for someone doing real work, and he wanted to work with me. Not because of my last name or my father's connections, but because I'd raised one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in a single night.
We'd meet Monday at some hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the Village, the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that could strip paint. We'd spread papers across a greasy tabletop and plan something audacious. Citywide services. Permanent housing initiatives. Job training programs. All funded by galas I'd organize, but galas with actual purpose instead of just pageantry.
