Page 79 of Bratva Daddy
"Your people," Delacroix said suddenly, studying me. "They planned for this."
I met his eyes steadily. "Mr. Delacroix, I'm a legitimate businessman wrongfully arrested. I don't have 'people.' I haveemployees and a very expensive law firm that's going to be very interested in this morning's events."
He didn't believe me, but belief didn't matter.
All that mattered was my will.
AssistantUnitedStatesAttorneySarah Reeves looked exactly like her photos—sharp cheekbones, shrewd eyes, and a suit that said success without screaming money. She sat across from me in the proffer room like she'd been born there, fingers steady as she examined the USB drive Ivan had prepared. No lawyers present because officially this meeting wasn't happening. Just two people discussing hypotheticals that could reshape New York's criminal landscape.
The room smelled like old coffee and ambition. Reeves was hungry for something big. Ivan's research had been thorough—three years of solid cases destroyed by corruption, witnesses who disappeared, evidence that mysteriously went missing. She needed a win that couldn't be stolen from her.
"You're offering me Viktor Petrov and the entire Kozlov organization," she said, not looking up from her laptop screen where the preview files played out like a prosecutor's wet dream. "In exchange for what, exactly?"
I slid the document across the table—twelve pages of dense legal language that Ivan had crafted with surgical precision. "Conditional immunity for past actions, federal protection for Clara Albright, and new identities after the 24th. Everything you need is on that drive. Twenty years of Viktor's corruption, the Kozlov drug routes, NYPD involvement down to the badge numbers."
Her eyes moved faster as she scrolled, absorbing the scope. I watched her realize what she was looking at—not just a casebut a career-defining triumph. The kind of prosecution that got people appointed to Attorney General, maybe even higher.
"This is . . ." She paused, lawyer's training keeping her face neutral even as her pupils dilated with excitement. "Comprehensive. Fifty-seven officials named, transaction records going back two decades. How did you—"
"The how doesn't matter," I interrupted gently. "What matters is that it only unlocks if Clara is freed and I deliver the shipment on the 24th. The encryption is military-grade, unbreakable without the key that triggers when both conditions are met."
She leaned back, studying me with those prosecutor eyes that had probably broken a hundred criminals. But I wasn't here as a criminal. I was here as her salvation, the answer to three years of frustrated ambition.
"You're admitting to crimes," she pointed out. "Sitting here without counsel, confessing to federal offenses."
"I'm discussing hypotheticals," I corrected. "If someone were to have this information, and if they were willing to deliver forty million in cocaine along with the entire Kozlov leadership, what might the federal government be willing to offer?"
The dance was delicate, but we both knew the steps. She couldn't officially make deals with admitted criminals, but she could discuss theoretical situations that happened to match reality perfectly.
"Why should I trust you?" She pulled up something on her laptop—my file, probably, or what the FBI thought was my file. "The Volkov bratva isn't exactly known for cooperation with law enforcement."
"Because in forty-eight hours, you'll have the biggest corruption bust in New York history," I said simply. "Commissioner Bradley, Judge Morrison, half the harbor authority, and Viktor Petrov himself. All with evidence that will survive any legal challenge."
"And Clara Albright?" Her tone shifted slightly—less prosecutor, more human. "The kidnapping victim who's now in psychiatric treatment?"
"Has been involuntarily committed by her father." I kept my voice level despite the rage that wanted to creep in.”Access her health records.”
Reeves' fingers flew across her keyboard. I saw the moment she found Clara's previous therapy records, paid in cash, showing mild anxiety but nothing close to the psychosis Viktor was claiming.
"This is kidnapping," Reeves said, but she wasn't talking about me anymore. "What he's doing, false imprisonment, fraud—"
"All crimes you can prosecute," I pointed out. "After the 24th. After you have him on federal corruption charges that will stick. But Clara needs protection now, before he can do permanent damage with whatever drugs they're pumping into her."
The room went quiet except for the hum of air conditioning and distant phone rings from the offices beyond. Reeves was calculating—risk versus reward, career advancement versus ethical boundaries, the chance to finally nail the corruption she'd been fighting versus dealing with someone like me.
"The Kozlovs," she said finally. "You can really deliver them?"
"Gift-wrapped. The drugs, the leadership, their entire network. They'll be at Pier 47, midnight on the 24th. Your task force arrives at 12:45, catches them with forty million in product and no way to claim innocence."
"And you'll be there?"
"Long gone by then. New identity, new life, with Clara if she'll have me after this. You get the bust, the press conference, the career advancement. I get to disappear with the woman I love."
She flinched slightly at 'love'—probably trying to reconcile it with the kidnapping charges, the Stockholm syndrome narrativeViktor had been pushing. But she was smart enough to see the truth underneath the legal fictions.
"If this is fake—" she started.
"Then you've lost nothing but a few hours. But it's not fake, and you know it. You've been hitting walls for three years because Viktor Petrov and men like him own this city's pressure points. I'm offering you a way through those walls."
