Page 58 of Bratva Daddy
"Agreed," I said, feeling something shift in my chest. My brothers, supporting this insanity. "Ivan, what do you need?"
"Everything Clara knows. Every conversation, every detail, every crime she witnessed. I'll build a case so airtight the Southern District will name buildings after us." He paused. "Metaphorically."
"She'll do it," I said with certainty. "She wants him destroyed more than we do."
"Good," Dmitry said. "Because if this fails, if he hurts her again, I'm going back to my original plan. One bullet, problem solved."
"It won't fail," Ivan said with that particular tone that meant he'd already run probabilities. "Viktor Petrov thinks he's protected himself, but he's actually exposed his throat. Clara's his weakness—he just doesn't know it yet."
The shower turned off down the hall, and I knew Clara would emerge soon, ready to plan her father's downfall.
"I have to check on her," I said.
"Alexei," Ivan said, stopping me. "For what it's worth, I like her. She threw a book directly at my head and didn't apologize. That takes backbone."
From Ivan, that was practically a declaration of love.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "Both of you."
"Just keep her safe," Dmitry said. "And if you need bodies disposed of later, call me first. I'm still bored."
I hung up, looking at the destruction Clara had wrought. My brothers were right—she'd changed me, made me something more than just the pakhan.
Claraemergedfromthebedroom transformed—not the raging woman who'd destroyed my office or the little girl who'd needed chocolate milk, but something deadlier: focused.
She'd pulled her wet hair back in a severe bun that emphasized her cheekbones, making her look older, sharper. My shirt hung loose on her frame, sleeves rolled up like she was ready for manual labor, and she'd paired it with jeans that had seen better days. This wasn't the polished charity hostess or the controlled daughter. This was Clara preparing for war.
"We'll need a clean workspace," she said without preamble, moving past us toward the dining room. "Somewhere we can spread out, organize everything chronologically."
Ivan and I exchanged glances—her transformation from emotional to tactical was impressive—then followed her. She was already clearing the dining table with efficient movements, stacking my morning newspapers in neat piles, arranging space for what was to come.
Ivan set up three laptops while I brought legal pads and pens. Within minutes, we'd transformed my formal dining room into a war room, the space where we'd plan Viktor Petrov'slegal destruction. Clara stood at the head of the table like a general surveying maps, then pulled out a chair with decisive movements.
"We'll start with January," she said, voice clinical. "He's most vulnerable there—new fiscal year means new bribes, everyone needs their payments reset."
Ivan's fingers hovered over his keyboard, ready. I settled beside Clara, close enough to provide support but far enough to let her work.
"January fifteenth," she began, eyes focused on something only she could see—the perfect recall of someone who'd learned to remember because forgetting meant missing crucial information. "Dinner at Le Bernardin, private room. Commissioner Bradley arrived seven minutes late, navy suit, nervous sweat. My father had me sit between them, said it would 'soften the conversation.'"
Her mouth twisted at the memory, but she continued with prosecutorial precision.
"Left an envelope under Bradley's napkin—white, standard business size, roughly two inches thick. When Bradley protested that it was 'more than agreed,' my father said, 'Consider it an investment in Washington Heights staying quiet during the construction project.' Bradley took the envelope at 9:47 PM."
Ivan typed rapidly, capturing every detail. "Amount?"
"Fifty thousand," Clara said with certainty. "Father always uses hundreds, nonsequential. Five hundred bills exactly. He mentioned once that it looks less suspicious than mixed denominations."
The casual observation—her father teaching her criminal methodology without realizing it—made my chest tight. She'd been studying him as much as he'd been ignoring her.
"March third," she continued, shifting forward slightly. "The Yale Club, members-only dining room. Tony Ricci, but hewent by 'Mr. Rice' for the reservation. They discussed the docks—specifically, the protests planned against the Kozlov development."
"The Kozlovs were moving on the waterfront that early?" Ivan asked, looking up sharply.
"They've been planning this for months," Clara confirmed. "My father promised to rezone the waterfront if Ricci's people handled the 'disruption.' His word. He wanted the protesters discouraged but not martyred—bad optics for his office."
She paused, fingers drumming once on the table before stilling.
"Ricci asked about compensation. Father said the rezoning itself was payment enough—it would triple property values within five years. But Ricci wanted cash too. They settled on thirty thousand plus the rezoning."
