Page 60 of Bratva Daddy
The rage had burned so hot those first hours after the press conference. Now it had crystallized into something harder, colder, more patient. Revenge served at exactly the right temperature.
I'd been good. Followed every rule. Eaten every meal Alexei put in front of me. Worn the soft cashmere sweater he'd chosen this morning. I'd earned this peace, this moment of standing at his kitchen window with tea cooling between my palms, thinking about asking if I could help with dinner tonight.
I was observant. Always had been. Had a freakishly good memory. That’s why in just three weeks, I’d learned the building's rhythms like my own heartbeat. Doorman shift change at four when Marcus took over from Eddie. Mail at two, sorted and brought up by three. Groceries Tuesday and Friday,always from the same service, always checked by building security first. The lawyers on the floor below us left by six. The hedge fund couple across the hall traveled weekends.
Which was why the van was wrong.
Plain white, no logos, windows tinted dark enough to be illegal. Parked in the side lot where delivery trucks never stopped—they used the loading dock around back, always, building rules. The van sat at an angle that gave it sightlines to both the main entrance and the penthouse windows.
My body recognized danger before my mind caught up. Some primitive part of my brain cataloging threats—the van's engine was running despite being parked, its slight vibration clearly visible. The driver's side mirror angled wrong for checking traffic, perfect for watching our floor.
Then I caught it—a flash of red light from the building across the street. Fourth floor, third window from the left. Camera lens or scope, the reflection lasting just long enough to stop my heart.
I dropped below the window line, instinct taking over. The mug shattered against marble, tea spreading in a steaming pool that looked too much like blood in the morning light. My knees hit wet ceramic, sharp pain that I'd feel later but couldn't process now.
"Alexei." His name came out level, controlled. Three weeks had taught me his tones too—when to be bratty, when to be soft, when to be serious. This tone, carefully modulated, would bring him immediately.
He emerged from his office in two seconds, maybe less. His eyes cataloged everything instantly—me on the floor, the broken mug, the tea, my position below the window line.
"There's a van that shouldn't be there," I said, proud that my voice didn't shake. "White, tinted windows, side lot. And someone's watching from the building across the street. Fourth floor."
The transformation was instant and complete.
The man who'd brought me coffee in bed six hours ago, who'd called me his good girl when I finished breakfast, who'd kissed my forehead before disappearing into his office—that man vanished. What stood in his place was the pakhan of the Volkov bratva. The man who'd killed seventeen people with his bare hands. The man other monsters feared.
His phone was in his hand before I could blink, Russian flowing sharp and fast. I caught Mikhail's name, recognized the command tone that brooked no argument, no delay. The words were foreign but the meaning was clear—danger, immediate response required, protect what's mine.
He crossed to me in two strides, stepping over the spilled tea without looking down. One hand pulled me to my feet while the other was already texts flying to contacts I'd never seen.
"How many in the van?" His voice had gone flat, emotionless, the voice of someone calculating vectors of attack.
"I couldn't see inside. Tinted too dark."
"The spotter across the street—still there?"
I risked a glance, keeping my body behind the wall. "Movement in the same window. Can't see details."
More Russian into his phone, then he switched to English. "Dmitry, we have a situation. White van, side lot, spotter at forty-seven Harrison, fourth floor. Bring everyone." A pause. "No, she's here. That's the problem."
She's here. Not at the safe house where they'd apparently expected me to be. Someone had told them where to find me. Someone inside had betrayed us.
Alexei moved with purpose now, every action economical. He pulled me down the hallway, away from windows, into the interior of the penthouse where bullets couldn't reach. His hand on my lower back was steady, but I felt the tension radiatingfrom him—controlled but coiled, ready to explode into violence at the first provocation.
"Listen carefully," he said, stopping at his office door. His hands framed my face, forcing eye contact. Gray eyes bore into mine with intensity that made my chest tight. "There's a panic room behind the bookshelf. You head there. There’s a camera. And if anyone gets past me—"
"No one's getting past you," I interrupted.
"If anyone gets past me," he repeated, harder now, "you run. There's a tunnel that leads to the next building. You don't stop, don't look back, don't try to help. You run until you reach the street, then you call this number." He pressed a card into my hand. "Ivan will extract you."
"Alexei—"
"Promise me." His thumbs stroked my cheekbones, gentle despite the danger pressing in. "Promise me you'll run."
"I promise," I lied, knowing I'd never leave him to fight alone.
He kissed me then, hard and fast and desperate, like he was trying to press his entire soul into me through that contact. When he pulled back, I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before—fear. Not for himself, but for me. For what they'd do if they took me. For what he'd become if they did.
"Panic room," he ordered, already moving, already changing, already becoming the weapon he'd been forged into through fifteen years of violence. "Now."
