Page 81 of Bratva Daddy
Dr. Harrison nodded, making notes in my file. "The fixation is concerning. She's created an elaborate narrative about government corruption, about her father being involved with Russian criminals. Classic paranoid delusions mixed with Stockholm syndrome."
They discussed me like I wasn't there, like I was already too far gone to understand. The other two psychiatrists murmured agreement, one mentioning something about "trauma-induced psychosis" while the other suggested increasing my antipsychotic dosage before the ECT.
"The medications aren't working fast enough," Viktor said, leaning forward with urgency that almost looked real. "Every day she spends in this delusional state is another day ofsuffering. I need my daughter back—the real Clara, not this traumatized victim who thinks criminals are heroes and family are villains."
My hands clenched in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. Without the medications clouding my thoughts, I could see his manipulation so clearly—every word chosen to paint me as dangerously delusional, every expression calculated to seem like paternal concern. But fighting would only prove their point. Anger would be labeled as mania. Logic would be called elaborate delusion.
"We'll schedule ECT for tomorrow morning," Dr. Harrison decided, the other psychiatrists nodding in agreement. "Eight AM. With a proper course of treatment—maybe six to twelve sessions—we should see significant improvement in the delusional architecture."
Six to twelve sessions. Six to twelve times they'd shock my brain, burning away memories like old photographs held to flame. Would Alexei disappear first, or would it be the truth about my father? Would I wake up one day believing Viktor's version of reality, grateful to the father who'd saved me from my kidnapper?
I let the tears fall then—not forced but real, terror and rage mixing into something that probably looked like the breakthrough they wanted.
"I want to get better," I lied, making my voice small and broken. "But please, not ECT. Give the medications more time. I'm trying so hard to understand what's real."
"The medications aren't enough," Viktor said firmly. "Dr. Harrison, you've seen cases like this before. The longer we wait, the more entrenched these delusions become."
"I'm afraid I agree," Dr. Harrison said with what he probably thought was compassion. "ECT has an excellent success rate for treatment-resistant delusions. You'll be sedated, Clara. Youwon't feel anything. And when you wake up, the world will start making sense again."
Their version of sense.
Viktor paused by my chair as the others filed out, his hand settling on my shoulder with weight that felt like ownership.
"This is for your own good, darling," he said softly. "Someday, when you're better, you'll thank me for saving you from that monster."
I didn't respond.
Thewaterstainsonmy ceiling where a map of nowhere. Seventeen distinct patches, I'd counted, some shaped like countries I'd never visit, others like bruises spreading across cheap acoustic tile. From my narrow bed with its plastic-covered mattress that crinkled with every breath, I could trace each one's borders.
Four hours since the panel. My wrists still showed faint marks from the restraints they used during "aggressive episodes"—their term for when I'd tried to explain about the Kozlovs, about my father's bribes, about the truth they'd labeled psychosis.
The door clicked open with that particular sound of magnetic locks disengaging. Not meal time—I'd forced down the gray meat and soggy vegetables an hour ago.
But this wasn't my usual orderly. This man moved differently—younger, maybe thirty, with the kind of controlled movements that suggested he paid attention to his body. Dark hair, forgettable face, but something in his eyes that made my breath catch.
"Water change," he announced, though my pitcher was still three-quarters full. His voice carried just the faintest trace ofaccent—Russian, but barely there, like someone who'd worked hard to lose it.
I stayed still on the bed, watching him through half-closed eyes as he moved to the small table by the window. He turned toward the bed, and that's when his phone slipped from his breast pocket. It hit my mattress with a soft thump, screen face up, already unlocked.
"Oops," he said loudly, clearly, for the benefit of the camera that couldn't quite see the bed from its angle. Then, quieter, barely moving his lips: "Thirty seconds. Delete after."
He moved to retrieve it with deliberate slowness, fumbling like someone embarrassed by clumsiness while giving me time. My fingers shook as I grabbed the phone, muscle memory finding the voice message icon even as my heart tried to pound its way out through my ribs.
One new message. No name, just a timestamp from six minutes ago.
I pressed play with my thumb, holding the phone close to my ear, and nearly sobbed at the voice that came through the tinny speaker.
"Little one." Alexei's voice, rough like he hadn't been sleeping, tight with controlled emotion. "Daddy's coming. Remember what I taught you about being brave. Today is the 24th. The operation is going ahead. Tomorrow, when you hear sirens, that's your signal. Ivan's been inside their systems for days. The Kozlovs are going down, your father with them. Little Alex is waiting for you."
The message ended.
The orderly was still fumbling, buying me time. I deleted the message, cleared the recent apps, set the phone exactly as it had been. When he finally retrieved it, our eyes met for just a moment.
"Spasibo," he whispered, so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it. I recognized the word—thank you in Russian.
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut with that magnetic finality, leaving me alone with the knowledge that Alexei was alive, free, and coming for me.
I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the sob that tore from my throat—relief and fear and desperate hope all tangled together. He was coming. Today was the 24th. I’d lost track of time. Tomorrow. I just had to wait until tomorrow.
