Page 61 of Bratva Daddy
Thebookshelfswunginwardon silent hinges, revealing a space that belonged in a different world than the penthouse I'd been living in. The panic room was larger than my childhood bedroom—twelve monitors glowing against one wall,enough emergency supplies to survive a siege, and an arsenal that made my stomach drop.
Guns I didn't know the names for lined one wall in neat rows. Boxes of ammunition stacked like library books. Knife handles protruding from custom foam cutouts. Body armor hanging like expensive suits.
The monitors showed every angle of the building, feeds I hadn't known existed. The lobby, empty except for Eddie at the desk, oblivious. The garage, where two more white vans were pulling in with practiced synchronization. The stairwells, the elevator, the hallway outside our door. Even this room, where I could see myself, wide-eyed and pale, taking in the truth of what I'd been living with.
On the screen showing Alexei's office, I watched him transform completely. The suit jacket came off in one fluid motion, tossed aside like shed skin. From a drawer I'd passed a hundred times, never suspecting its secret, he pulled a shoulder holster. The leather settled against his white shirt like it belonged there, like the businessman persona was the disguise and this was truth.
He checked his primary weapon with movements so practiced they looked like dance—magazine out, bullets confirmed, magazine in, chamber checked. A second gun appeared from another drawer, smaller, which he tucked into an ankle holster. Then knives—one in his belt, another in a sheath that attached to his forearm, hidden under his shirt cuff.
Through the monitors, I watched the garage feed and counted. Six men exiting the vans, all in tactical gear that didn't quite hide the neck tattoos. Kozlov soldiers. Had to be. They moved with military precision, checking corners, maintaining sight lines. Professional killers coming for me.
Alexei's phone rang—Dmitry's ringtone. He answered in Russian, but switched to English mid-sentence, and his words carried clear through the reinforced door.
"Mikhail's compromised or dead. They knew exactly when to move. Someone told them she was here, not at the safe house." His voice stayed level, but I saw his free hand clench. "How far out are you?"
A pause, then: "Ten minutes is too long. They're already in the building. Six that I can see, probably more." Another pause. "No, I can hold them. Just get here."
He hung up, made another call. This time pure Russian, but I recognized Ivan's name. Every word spoken while he moved, checking weapons, testing the edge of a blade against his thumb, drawing blood he didn't seem to notice.
I found controls for the monitors, figured out how to switch between feeds. The Kozlov soldiers were in the lobby now. Eddie was slumped over his desk—unconscious or dead, I couldn't tell. They moved toward the elevators with purpose. They knew exactly where to go.
"Alexei," I called out, needing to warn him.
He appeared in the panic room doorway, fully armed now, looking like death in a white shirt. Behind him, I could see he'd overturned furniture, creating cover positions. Preparing for siege.
"They're in the elevator," I said, pointing to the monitor. "Six of them. Armed."
He crossed to me in three strides, hands framing my face again. This close, I could see the calculation in his eyes—trajectories, probabilities, acceptable losses. All of it centered on keeping me alive.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said, voice dropping to that register that bypassed my brain and spoke directly to my nervous system. "That panel leads to a tunnel. The tunnel goes tothe building next door, exits through their basement. If anyone but me or my brothers comes through that door, you run. Don't think, don't wait, don't look back. You run."
"I can help—"
"No." The word cracked like a gunshot. "Your help is staying alive. That's all I need from you. Stay alive."
He pulled a Glock from the wall, checked it, pressed it into my hands. The metal was cold, heavier than I expected. Real in a way that made this situation suddenly, terrifyingly concrete.
"Safety here," he showed me, guiding my thumb. "Push to fire. Point at center mass—the chest—and squeeze, don't pull. Empty the entire magazine if you have to. Don't hesitate. Anyone who comes through that door who isn't me is here to hurt you in ways that make death seem merciful."
My hands shook around the gun's grip.
"I don't—I've never—"
"You can and you will," he said firmly. "You threw books at my wall with perfect aim when you were angry. This is the same thing. Point and throw, just with bullets."
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
On the monitors, the elevator passed the third floor. Fourth. Fifth.
"I have to go," he said, but didn't move, eyes locked on mine like he was memorizing my face.
"Don't die," I whispered, the only words I could manage.
"I don't plan to," he said, then pulled me against him, one hand tangled in my hair, the other pressing between my shoulder blades. For a moment, we just breathed together, existing in the space between safety and violence.
The elevator passed the seventh floor.
"Alexei," I started, not knowing how to finish.
