Page 20 of Bratva Daddy
“We live in our fathers’ shadows,” I said, before I knew why.
"Fathers’s shadows?" she asked, thinking about my words. Then, she seemed to gather courage. "All I am is a pawn in another man's game. Moved around the board according to someone else’s strategy, valued only for how I affect their bottom line. You and my father, you're the same. You both see me as currency, not a person."
Each comparison between me and Viktor Petrov felt like an insult to everything I'd built, everything that separated the Volkov organization from common criminals. We had honor, codes, principles that meant something. We weren't like Viktor, selling loyalty to the highest bidder.
But looking at Clara across the table—forced to wear clothes I'd chosen, eat meals I'd provided, follow rules I'd established—the distinction blurred uncomfortably.
"You're right," I said, and her eyes widened slightly at the admission. "You are a pawn. Nothing more."
Something flickered across her face—hurt maybe, though she tried to hide it. Had she expected something different? Some acknowledgment that she was more than leverage?
"Don't mistake my civility for interest in your feelings," I continued, needing to establish distance, to rebuild walls her tears had cracked. "You're here because your father stole from me. When he pays, you leave. Until then, you're property to be maintained, nothing more."
"At least you're honest about it."
The resignation in her voice bothered me more than defiance would have. Like she'd expected nothing better, had already accepted that she'd never be more than an object to be traded between powerful men. Twenty-three years old and already convinced she didn't matter except as currency in someone else's transaction.
I stood abruptly, unable to sit across from her any longer. Unable to maintain the fiction that she was just leverage when every word she spoke revealed a woman who'd been trapped long before I'd taken her. The lamb turned to ash in my mouth, the wine tasted like blood.
"Finish your dinner," I ordered, though she hadn't eaten more than two bites.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat."
We stared at each other across the table, two people trapped in roles neither of us had chosen.
“You’re going to treat me like a child, huh?” she said, fire in her mouth.
“If that’s what it takes.”
She stared at me, then spoke, voice laced with sarcasm. “Okay, Daddy. Yes, Daddy, I’ll do whatever you say, Daddy.”
Even as I tried not to let the words get to me, I felt heat in my chest and my pulse started to race. Those words on her perfect lips, the way her big eyes sparkled as she spoke, it made me weak in a way I’d never experienced again.
It would be so easy to growl a demand at her, to tell her to call me Daddy again, with feeling. To slip that sensible top off and capture her soft breast with my mouth.
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
“Be careful the way you speak to me. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
“Anything you say, Daddy.”
She raised a chunk of lamb to her lips, then carefully ran her tongue over the bloody meat, before slipping it into her mouth.
I couldn’t stand it, so without a word, I rose and left.
Rules. This Little Girl needed rules.
Through the monitor, I watched her sit at the table for another twenty minutes, moving food around her plate without eating. When she finally stood, she carefully arranged her napkin beside the plate, pushed in her chair with precise movements.
She disappeared into her room, and I heard the door close softly.
I poured myself vodka and stood at the window, looking out at the city I controlled. Somewhere out there, Viktor Petrov was probably drinking his own expensive alcohol, calculating whether his daughter was worth three million dollars plus interest.
Thing is, I already knew.
She was worthmuchmore than that. And I was going to prove it to her.
