Page 16 of Bratva Daddy
Her hands stayed on the glass, fingers spread like she could push through by will alone. "Someone will notice I'm missing."
"Your father already knows. He received my message an hour ago."
That made her turn. "What message?"
"That his daughter is enjoying my hospitality until his debts are paid." I let my gaze travel over her slowly, cataloguing damage that was my responsibility now. "He has seventy-two hours to respond with a payment plan before interest begins compounding aggressively."
She moved to the elevator next, pressing the call button repeatedly though the biometric lock's red light never wavered. Her determination might have been admirable if it wasn't so futile. Like watching a bird throw itself against a window, beautiful and tragic and ultimately pointless.
"My thumbprint only," I informed her. "The stairs are through a door in my office, also biometric.”
“So I just need to chop your thumb off.”
I ignored this and continued. “The service elevator requires a key card that only I possess. You could set the building on fire and you'd still need me to leave."
"Then I'll set the building on fire," she said, but the threat lacked conviction. She was testing boundaries, not making plans. Not yet.
Clara disappeared into the hallway again, and I heard the closet door open. The silence that followed was loaded withdiscovery. When she reappeared, her face had shifted from defiance to disgust.
"You bought me clothes." Not a question, an accusation.
"I provided appropriate attire. What you're wearing is hardly suitable for an extended stay."
"Extended?" The word cracked slightly. "How long—"
"That depends entirely on your father's cooperation. Given his current financial situation and demonstrated reluctance to prioritize anyone but himself, I'd estimate several weeks. Perhaps months."
I watched that timeline settle over her like a weight. Saw her realize this wasn't a overnight hostage situation that would resolve with sunrise. This was captivity with no defined endpoint, no guarantee her father would pay quickly or at all.
She stood in the center of my living room, arms wrapped around herself like armor made of flesh and bone. "I need to understand the rules."
Smart. Establish parameters, understand the cage before testing its bars. This Little Girl needed boundaries. I leaned back in the leather chair, steepling my fingers in a gesture I'd learned from my father. Authority performed through stillness.
"First, you will not attempt escape. Every effort will be met with consequences, and I promise you won't enjoy my methods of discipline." I let that word—discipline—hang in the air between us, watched color rise in her cheeks. "Second, you will eat the meals provided. My housekeeper arrives twice daily to prepare food. You will not make her job difficult."
"I'm not hungry."
"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I said you will eat." Her wants were irrelevant now; her needs would be met on my schedule, my terms. "Third, you will wear the clothes I've provided. They're appropriate, expensive, and clean. Your alternative is to wear nothing at all."
Her arms tightened around herself. "You can't—"
"I can do whatever I want, Clara. You exist here at my discretion. Your comfort, your dignity, your autonomy—all of it belongs to me now."
“That’s not fair.”
"Fourth," I continued, "you will answer when spoken to. Silence is defiance, and defiance has consequences. Fifth, no phone, no internet, no contact with the outside world. Your father knows you're alive and unharmed. That's all the communication necessary."
She sank onto the couch across from me, the fight temporarily leaving her body. One shoe on, one foot bare, dress torn, makeup smeared—she looked like she’d been through hell. But her eyes remained sharp, calculating, processing information like a computer running survival scenarios.
"And if I refuse?" she asked quietly. "If I don't eat, don't change clothes, don't speak?"
I stood slowly, letting my full height register in her widening eyes. Moved around the coffee table with deliberate steps until I stood close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact—brave little tiger, even now—and I saw the moment she understood the answer.
"Then you'll learn that I'm not a patient man," I said softly. "Your defiance might feel like control, but it's an illusion. You can make this easy or difficult, but the outcome remains the same. You belong to me until your father's debt is paid. And if you defy me, you will learn to submit."
"I won’t submit to you," she whispered.
"No?" I reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement so she could pull away if she chose. She didn't. My fingers found her chin, tilted her face up to study it properly in the light. Exhaustion painted shadows beneath her eyes, and somethingelse—resignation, maybe, or the first crack in her defiant armor. "Then what will you do?"
