Page 54 of Bratva Daddy
"Coming up. We have a problem. Check Channel 4 now."
Ivan never panicked. In the fifteen years of my leadership, I'd seen him upset exactly twice—when our father died and when he'd discovered someone skimming from our accounts. If he was texting warnings, something had gone catastrophically wrong.
I grabbed the remote, clicked to Channel 4, and Viktor Petrov's face filled my office television. He stood at a podium wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, his expression arranged in practiced sorrow. Even from here, I could see the calculation in his eyes—this was performance, not pain.
"—deeply concerned for my daughter's wellbeing," he was saying, hands clasped in front of him like a grieving father rather than the piece of shit who'd sold her childhood for political favors. "Clara has always been fragile, taking after her dear mother in unfortunate ways."
My hand clenched around the remote hard enough that plastic creaked. On screen, Viktor produced a handkerchief, dabbed at eyes that were definitely dry.
"What many don't know is that Clara's mother suffered from severe mental illness before her tragic death. We kept this private to protect my dear wife’s memory, but recentevents have forced my hand. Clara has shown signs of similar instability—paranoid delusions, violent outbursts, inappropriate attachments to older men who might take advantage of her vulnerable state."
The words were surgical in their precision. Clearly, he was worried that Clara might let slip some of his secrets. He was moving to preemptively discredit her.
I turned off the television before I threw something through it. Thirty seconds of Viktor Petrov's voice was enough to make me want to paint walls with his blood. But this required strategy, not violence. At least not yet.
Clara needed to wake up properly, needed to be big enough to handle this betrayal. I couldn't have her slipping back into little space when she learned her father had just publicly destroyed her reputation to save his own ass.
I moved through the penthouse on silent feet, a skill learned long before I became pakhan. The bedroom door opened without sound, and there she was—still curled around Little Alex, hair spread across my black pillows like spun gold. In sleep, she looked impossibly young, impossibly trusting, impossibly mine.
I sat on the edge of the bed carefully, not wanting to startle her. My hand found her hair, stroking gently, the way that always soothed her.
"Clara," I murmured, voice soft but insistent. "Little one, time to wake up."
She made a small sound of protest, burrowing deeper into the pillows. Her fingers tightened on the wolf, and for a moment, I wanted to let her stay here—safe in sleep where her father's betrayals couldn't reach.
But the world wouldn't wait for us to be ready.
"Baby girl," I tried again, hand still moving through her hair. "Daddy needs you to wake up and be big Clara today."
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep. For a moment, she just blinked at me, caught between dreams and waking. Then focus sharpened, and she was back—not the little girl who needed chocolate milk and Disney movies, but the woman who'd helped run a charity, who'd survived twenty-three years of Viktor Petrov's particular brand of neglect.
"What's wrong?" she asked immediately, because of course she could read the tension in my shoulders, the careful control in my voice. "What happened?"
"Your father happened," I said, helping her sit up, making sure she was fully present before continuing. "He held a press conference. Ivan's on his way up with the full footage."
The last traces of sleep vanished from her eyes, replaced by something harder, sharper. "What did he do?"
"What he does best," I said, standing to give her space to process what was coming. "Protecting himself by destroying you."
Ivanarrivedsevenminuteslater, and the fact that my ice-cold brother's jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth told me everything about how bad this would be.
He didn't bother with greetings, just set his laptop on my desk with movements too sharp for his usual precision. Clara had dressed quickly—jeans and one of my shirts she'd claimed, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that made her look younger than her twenty-three years. She curled into my office chair, knees drawn up, coffee mug clutched between her hands like armor. Little Alex was nowhere to be seen, but I'd noticed the slight bulge behind the throw pillow—hidden but within reach if needed.
"Your father held a press conference an hour ago," Ivan said without preamble, his voice carrying an edge I rarely heard. "Every major news outlet carried it live."
He turned the laptop toward us, and Viktor Petrov's face filled the screen again. This time I forced myself to watch, to catalog every lie for future retribution. Clara went still beside me, that particular stillness that preceded either explosion or collapse.
"Thank you all for coming," Viktor began, his expression a masterpiece of practiced concern. "I've called this conference to address concerns about my daughter Clara's recent disappearance and to ask for the public's help in ensuring her safety."
Clara's knuckles went white around her mug, but she said nothing.
"What many don't know," Viktor continued, "is that our family has struggled with a history of mental illness. Clara's mother—my late wife—suffered from severe psychological issues before her tragic death. She experienced paranoid episodes, violent outbursts, inappropriate attachments to men she barely knew. We sought help, of course, but the disease had progressed too far."
"Liar," Clara whispered, so quiet I almost missed it. "She had postpartum depression. She was in therapy. She was getting better until the cancer—"
She stopped, jaw clenched, as Viktor kept talking.
"Recently, Clara has shown similar signs of instability. Colleagues at her charity have reported erratic behavior—missing meetings, paranoid accusations about being followed, claims that people were 'out to get her.' She became fixated on the idea that I was somehow her enemy, that I wanted to harm her. Classic paranoid delusions, exactly like her mother experienced."
