Page 12 of Bratva Daddy
"Your father is not as clever as he thinks," the first man said. "But you seem to be smarter than expected."
Smart enough to know I was completely fucked.
Something primal woke up in my chest—not fear but fury. Twenty-three years of being Viktor Petrov's docile daughter evaporated in an instant, replaced by pure survival instinct that didn't give a shit about manners or consequences. My body moved before my mind could catch up, muscle memory from those self-defense classes taking over.
The beaded clutch in my hand—delicate antique piece I'd bought at an estate sale—became a weapon. I swung it hard at the first man's face, the satisfying crack of beads meeting cheekbone echoing off the buildings. He jerked back, more surprised than hurt, but it gave me the opening I needed. My stiletto heel came down toward his instep with all the force I could manage, four inches of designer spike aimed at the delicate bones of his foot.
He sidestepped with professional ease, like he'd been expecting it, but my fingernails found his face as he moved. Three parallel scratches opened across his cheek, beading blood in the streetlight. The sight of it—proof that these men were human, could bleed, could be hurt—sent wild hope through me.
"Fucking help me!" I screamed toward Fifth Avenue, my voice raw and desperate enough to carry. "Someone help me!"
The street stayed empty. A taxi drove past without slowing, its driver either not seeing or not caring about the woman being wrestled toward a black SUV. This was New York—people minded their own business, especially when that business looked professionally dangerous.
The second man's grip on my arms tightened, pulling me backward while I thrashed. "I repeat—don't make this difficult, Miss Petrov."
"It's Albright!" I snarled, driving my elbow back into his ribs. He grunted but didn't let go. "My name is Clara Albright!"
Except they could. And they were. The first man touched his scratched face, looked at the blood on his fingers with somethingbetween annoyance and respect. "Mikhail," he said to his partner, "we don't have time for this."
The one holding me—Mikhail—shifted his grip, one arm coming around my waist to lift me partially off my feet. I kicked wildly, my heels connecting with his shins, but he seemed immune to pain. His free hand went to his jacket pocket, and I saw the flash of white fabric.
A cloth. Chloroform or something similar. The kind of thing that would make me disappear into quiet unconsciousness, wake up somewhere else entirely with no idea how I'd gotten there.
"No!" The word came out as almost a sob. "Please—I'll come quietly, just don't—"
"We have orders to deliver you unharmed," Mikhail said, like that was supposed to be reassuring. "But unharmed doesn't mean conscious."
Unharmed. What a joke.
They could keep my body intact while destroying everything else—my life, my future, my pretense of independence from my father's world. I thrashed harder, managing to twist enough that one of my heels—the left Louboutin—went flying off my foot. It skittered across the sidewalk, red sole flashing like a distress signal no one would answer.
My silk shawl tangled around us as I fought, the delicate fabric tearing with a sound like a scream. Three hundred dollar silk, destroyed in seconds. The triumph of the auction, David's business card still in my clutch, the promise of Monday's meeting—all of it crumbling because my father had betrayed someone scarier than him.
"Stop fighting," the first man said, stepping closer. The scratches on his face had already stopped bleeding, barely inconveniences to someone like him. "You're only making this worse."
"Worse?" I laughed, high and hysterical. "You're kidnapping me off the street! How does it get worse?"
"We could leave you unconscious in an alley for NYPD to find after we're done with your father," Mikhail suggested quietly. "Would you prefer that?"
"Enough," the first man said sharply. He nodded at Mikhail, who brought the white cloth up toward my face.
"Please," I whispered, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had come. "I organized a charity auction tonight. Raised money for homeless services. There are people expecting me on Monday. They'll notice—"
"No one will notice," Mikhail said, almost gently. "Rich girls disappear all the time. Rehab, Europe, mental breakdown. Your father will make excuses, and everyone will believe them."
He was right. How many times had girls from my social circle vanished for weeks or months? Sent away to deal with inconvenient pregnancies, drug problems, nervous breakdowns that threatened family reputations. Everyone always accepted the polite fictions, asked no questions, pretended to believe whatever story got told.
"He made a deal with the Kozlovs," I said desperately, remembering dinner conversation my father thought I was too stupid to understand. "He's betraying someone—the Volkovs. That's who you work for, isn't it? The Volkov bratva?"
Both men went still. I'd hit something true, something that mattered.
"What you know about that?" the first man asked, studying me with new interest.
"I know my father is switching sides," I said quickly, sensing an opening. "I know he's been taking money from both organizations. I know he's planning to destroy the Volkovs' construction contracts."
"Interesting," Mikhail murmured. "The little princess pays attention after all."
Princess. I wanted to scream that I wasn't a princess, but I held my tongue.
