Page 38 of Bratva Daddy
"Last year," he continued, relentless now, "I watched a traitor drown in concrete. Held him down while it hardened around his legs, then his waist, then his chest. It took three hours. My only regret was the mess—we had to tear down the entire warehouse floor to hide the evidence."
"Jesus," I whispered.
"No," he said sharply. "No God here. No absolution. I'm not confessing to seek forgiveness, Clara. I'm telling you who I am so you can make an informed choice."
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window with movements that reminded me of a caged predator. The city sprawled below us, lights twinkling like stars that had fallen to earth, and I wondered how many of those buildings he controlled, how many bodies were buried in their foundations.
"This is who you think you want," he said, back still to me. "A man who would choose the bratva over you every time. Whocould order a murder, then come home and kiss you with the same mouth."
He turned then, and the look on his face made my breath catch—not because it was frightening, but because it was so carefully blank. Like he'd already accepted my rejection, already knew I'd run.
"I'm not a good man, Clara. I'm not even trying to be. I take what I want, I keep what's mine, and I destroy anything that threatens my family."
He moved back to the table but didn't sit, looming over me with all that barely contained violence radiating from every line of his body.
"I've done things that would make you sick," he said softly. "Things that would give you nightmares."
My hands shook slightly where they rested on the table, but I didn't pull them back. Didn't flinch when he leaned down, putting us at eye level.
"So I'll ask once more," he said, voice deadly soft. "Knowing this, knowing exactly what kind of monster I am, do you still want to see what's in that folder?"
The question hung between us like a blade waiting to drop. This was my exit, my last chance to walk away from whatever dark promise that folder contained. I could go back to my room, pack my things if he'd let me, try to return to a normal life where men didn't casually discuss murder over dinner.
But normal had never been enough. Normal was my father's indifference, society's empty smiles, a life of being decorative and meaningless. This man, this monster who was offering me something in that folder—he saw me. The real me. The girl who needed structure and consequences and someone strong enough to contain all my chaos.
He was offering me something real, even if it came soaked in blood.
I looked up at him, at those gray eyes that had gone dark with expectation of rejection, and made my choice.
"Yes," I said.
Alexei's expression shifted—surprise flickering across his features before he schooled them back to neutral. Like he'd been so prepared for rejection that acceptance caught him off-guard.
"I know who you are, Alexei." My voice stayed steady despite my racing heart. "You're also the man who didn't hurt me when you could have. Who makes sure I eat. Who built a Russian garden in the sky because you miss your grandmother."
"That doesn't erase the blood on my hands."
"No," I agreed. "But it means you're more than just violence. You're someone who creates as well as destroys. Who protects what matters to him." I reached for the folder, fingers trembling slightly. "And for some insane reason, I think I might matter to you."
"You have no idea," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.
My hands shook as I opened the folder. The first page made my breath catch—not because of what it said, but because of how carefully it had been crafted. This wasn't some downloaded template or hasty arrangement. Every word was handwritten in Alexei's precise script, the kind of penmanship that belonged to someone who'd learned to write with rulers and sharp consequences for sloppy letters.
"Relationship Agreement - Dominant/submissive Dynamic with DDlg Elements" stretched across the top in letters that managed to be both beautiful and imposing.
"This isn't a game," Alexei said, settling back into his chair with predatory grace. "If we do this, I own you completely. Not like now, where you're here because of your father. This would be you choosing to belong to me."
The weight of that—choosing—made my chest tight. For twenty-three years, I'd never chosen anything real. College hadbeen selected for me, my social circle predetermined, even my rebellion carefully contained within acceptable limits. But this? This was a choice that would remake me completely.
I read the first section, voice catching slightly: "The submissive (hereafter 'little one' or 'baby girl') agrees to submit wholly to the Dominant (hereafter 'Daddy' or 'Sir') within the boundaries set by this contract."
The words on paper made everything real in a way our interactions hadn't. Seeing "Daddy" written in his careful handwriting, seeing myself referred to as "little one"—it was like reading my own deepest needs reflected back at me in ink.
"The terminology is important," Alexei said, business-like despite the heat I could see in his eyes. "When you're feeling small, vulnerable, in need of care, you're my little one. When you're feeling bratty, testing boundaries, you're my baby girl. The distinctions matter."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Between my legs, heat gathered with embarrassing intensity. Just reading about being his, having it formalized like this, was making me wet.
"Section one," he continued, voice dropping to that instructor tone that made me automatically pay attention. "Daily structure. You'll wake when I say, sleep when I say. Usually that means up by eight, asleep by eleven, but I'll adjust based on your needs."
