Page 78 of Bratva Daddy
Chapter 16
Alexei
Theshacklesbitintomy wrists with each pothole, federal-grade steel that wouldn't give no matter how I shifted. Through the reinforced windows, Brooklyn passed in a blur of bodegas and brownstones, the familiar territory of my empire reduced to scenery behind bulletproof glass. Two FBI agents sat across from me, trying to look casual while keeping hands near their weapons. They thought they had the Pakhan of the Volkov bratva locked down tight.
What they didn’t know was that I’d been preparing for exactly this situation for years. And Ivan had been inside their system for three months, rewriting reality one line of code at a time.
My mind kept circling back to Clara—sedated, restrained, delivered back to that bastard who called himself her father. The image of her fighting them, begging them to listen, burned behind my eyes. But I couldn't let it show. Not yet. Control was everything now, each move calculated, each word measured.
The van lurched to a stop—red light at Nostrand and Atlantic. Perfect. The intersection cameras here had good angles, multiple feeds Ivan could manipulate later if needed. I shifted forward slightly, chains rattling just enough to draw attention.
Enough time had passed.
"Check your phones," I said, voice calm as discussing the weather.
Agent Morrison, the younger one with the nervous tic in his jaw, frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Your phones. Check them now."
The older agent, Delacroix, kept his eyes on me while Morrison pulled out his device. I watched his face change—confusion, then alarm, then something close to panic.
"Holy shit." Morrison turned the screen toward his partner. "Emergency alert from headquarters. The real Alexei Volkov just got flagged at JFK. Terminal 4, attempting to board a flight to Moscow."
Delacroix grabbed the phone, scrolling through what I knew was Ivan's masterpiece—edited security footage, manipulated biometrics, even false eyewitness reports placed in real-time. Mikhail would be playing his part perfectly, my backup passport in hand, making himself visible to every camera while wearing enough subtle prosthetics to match my official photos.
"That's impossible," Delacroix muttered, but doubt had crept into his voice. "We verified identity at the scene. We ran preliminary prints—"
"Did we?" Morrison asked. "Or did we run prints for someone who's never been arrested, never been officially documented? Easy to match what doesn't exist."
He was pulling up files on his tablet now, the updated ones Ivan had just pushed through their system. New biometrics, slightly different facial recognition markers, all the small details that would make their case fall apart under scrutiny.
"Fuck." Morrison held up the tablet, showing a comparison photo. "The measurements don't match. Cheekbone angle is off by three degrees. Distance between pupils is wrong." He looked at me with growing horror. "We grabbed the wrong brother."
I let them see a small smile—not triumph, just resignation. "Anton Volkov," I said, giving them the name Ivan had built eighteen months of documentation around. "Legitimate businessman, unfortunately related to criminals. My lawyer will be very interested in this false arrest."
Delacroix was on his radio now, voice tight with barely controlled panic. "Control, this is Transport Seven. We have a situation. Subject in custody may not be primary target. Requesting immediate verification."
The chatter that came back was beautiful chaos—multiple units converging on JFK, confusion about jurisdiction, demands for biometric confirmation that wouldn't match because Ivan had been careful. The real Alexei Volkov's prints were now in their system, pulled from a glass at a restaurant six months ago, just different enough from mine to create reasonable doubt.
"Sir, we're going to need to hold you while we sort this out," Morrison said, trying to maintain authority while his world shifted beneath him.
"Of course," I agreed pleasantly. "Though my lawyer will want to discuss the civil rights violations. Arresting the wrong man based on family resemblance, traumatizing an innocent woman who's already been through hell."
They exchanged glances at the mention of Clara. They knew something was off about that situation too—the psychiatric hold, the convenient timing, the father who'd emerged from nowhere with perfect documentation. But they were federal agents, not state. Not their jurisdiction, not their problem. Yet.
While they argued over radio protocols, Morrison's phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, distracted by coordinating with the JFK teams.
“What the fuck? We have to deliver Mr. Volkov to AUSA Reeves. Right now.”
Perfect. Ivan had activatedallof the contingency plan.
Assistant United States Attorney Sarah Reeves.
Ivan had spent months researching her—ambitious, brilliant, and most importantly, incorruptible. She'd been trying to take down corrupt New York politicians for three years but kept hitting walls, cases mysteriously falling apart, witnesses disappearing. She needed a win. We were about to hand her the case of the century.
The van started moving again, turning back toward Federal Plaza. Morrison kept staring at his phone, watching the chaos at JFK unfold through security updates. Delacroix maintained his watch on me, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He'd been so sure this morning, breaking down our door, putting me in cuffs. Now that certainty was crumbling, replaced by the terrible realization that they might have just handed the real Alexei Volkov the perfect escape.
I leaned back against the bench, feeling the bruises from this morning's takedown but not letting them show. Clara was out there, frightened and drugged, believing I'd been arrested. She didn't know about Ivan's contingencies, about the federal deal we were about to make, about the complete destruction of her father and the Kozlovs that would happen in less than forty-eight hours.
