Page 35 of Bratva Daddy
"Shh, go back to sleep," I murmured, carrying her down the hallway, trying not to notice how right this felt.
She buried her face in my chest, arms coming up to wrap around my neck, and I had to stop walking for a moment just to breathe through the sensation. This was what I wanted—Clara trusting me enough to stay asleep in my arms, letting me take care of her, letting me be the one who carried her to bed.
I laid her down carefully, pulling the covers up to her chin. She made a soft protest when I let go, reaching for me in her sleep, and I had to force myself to step back before I crawled into that bed with her.
"Sleep well, moya malenkaya," I whispered in Russian, knowing she wouldn't understand. My little one.
Thekeyhadlivedin my pocket for eleven days, burning against my thigh every time Clara smiled, every time she curled into her corner of the couch like she belonged there. I'd catch myself touching it during meetings with my brothers, running my thumb over the worn metal while they discussed territories and payments, thinking about whether she was ready.Whether I was ready to show her this piece of myself I'd never shared with anyone.
"You've been good this week," I said after lunch, watching her arrange the last bites of her sandwich into a perfect triangle. She'd eaten everything without prompting, even asked for seconds on the soup. The pride I felt was ridiculous—a grown woman eating lunch shouldn't make my chest tight with satisfaction, but here we were.
Clara looked up, suspicious. "Good" in our strange dynamic usually meant she hadn't thrown anything, hadn't refused meals, had gone to bed when told. But there was something else in her expression—hope maybe, or curiosity about what "being good" might earn her.
I produced the key, letting it catch the light from the windows. "I want to show you something."
She stood immediately, that eager curiosity that made her look years younger than twenty-three. "What is it?"
"Come," I said, leading her to what looked like a regular wall panel near my office. Her shoulder brushed mine as she leaned in to watch me press a hidden catch, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled upward.
"Secret passages?" She sounded delighted. "This penthouse keeps getting more interesting. Are you secretly Batman? Is this your Batcave access?"
"Better," I said, guiding her up with a hand on her lower back that I told myself was for safety on the narrow steps.
The door at the top opened onto another world.
Clara's gasp was everything I'd imagined and more. She stepped out onto the rooftop garden with the wonder of a child seeing snow for the first time, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
"Alexei," she breathed, and my name on her lips in that tone—soft awe mixed with something deeper—made the eleven days of waiting worth it.
The garden sprawled across the entire rooftop, contained by glass walls that protected it from wind while maintaining the view. Dwarf fruit trees in massive planters—apple, pear, cherry—created small groves. Raised beds overflowed with late season vegetables, squash vines trailing along the edges, arugula nestled between. The roses were what I was proudest of—climbing varieties that had taken three years to establish, now heavy with blooms that perfumed the entire space.
But Clara went straight to the details that mattered, the ones that told the real story. Her fingers found the Russian sage first, then the Siberian irises I'd had smuggled in through customs, the lamb's ear that grew wild outside Moscow.
"My grandmother's garden in Moscow had these same plants," I said, the words coming easier than expected. "When I bought this building, I recreated what I could remember."
She stood slowly, really looking at me now. Not the pakhan who'd kidnapped her, not the man who made her follow rules and call him sir. Just Alexei, standing in a garden that was the closest thing to vulnerability I'd ever built.
"The greenhouse," I said, needing to move before she saw too much. "Come see."
Inside the small glass structure, herbal tea plants grew in careful rows, their glossy leaves catching the filtered light.
"She grew her own tea?" Clara asked, understanding immediately.
"Bergamot, chamomile, mint. She said store-bought tea had no soul, no story." I touched one of the plants, remembering gnarled hands teaching me to test the soil, to know by touch when they needed water. "Every blend meant something.Chamomile for sleep, mint for clarity, bergamot for when the world felt too heavy."
"What would she make for a kidnapped woman with Stockholm syndrome?" Clara asked, but her tone was gentle, teasing rather than accusatory.
"Probably her special blend of honey and consequences," I said, surprised by my own honesty. "She had no patience for self-pity but endless tolerance for genuine struggle."
We moved to the carved bench that faced west, Manhattan spreading before us like a glittering map of power and possibility. Clara sat close enough that I could feel her warmth, far enough that we weren't quite touching. The Cyrillic carved into the wood caught her attention—her fingers traced the letters with curiosity.
"What does it say?"
"'Power without honor is empty,'" I translated. "Something she used to tell me when I was young and angry, wanting to be feared more than respected."
"She sounds formidable."
"She was five feet tall and terrified grown men with a look." The memory made me smile. "She survived Stalin, survived the gulags, survived bringing her family to America with nothing but determination. When my father started drinking himself to death, she's the one who held us together."
