Page 88 of Bratva Daddy
"You're everything," he corrected. "Strategic and beloved. Useful and essential. The empire and my reason for it."
The band finished their song, and polite applause rippled through the room. But we stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, his hands still on me, my world still narrowed to just him.
"Will the Morozovs be a problem?" I asked.
"Tomorrow's problem," he replied. "Tonight is yours. Your triumph, your gala, your moment to show Manhattan that Clara Albright is no one's victim."
He was right. I'd spent too much of my life letting men like my father—and potentially men like the Morozovs—dictate my emotions, my reactions, my choices. Tonight was mine, and I wasn't going to let two bratva scouts ruin it.
"Then dance with me again," I decided.
“Your wish is my command.”
Thelocksonournew penthouse clicked open in sequence—three deadbolts, one electronic, all unnecessary given the building's security but Alexei insisted on them anyway. Old habits died hard, even when you lived forty floors above Manhattan in a building with a doorman who'd worked CIA security details.
"These things are definitely torture devices," I declared the moment we were inside, kicking off my heels with enough force to send them skittering across the hardwood. "I'm convinced they were invented by someone who hated women."
"They make your legs look incredible," Alexei observed, hanging his coat in the front closet with typical precision.
"So does standing on my tiptoes, but you won’t catch me doing that for five hours straight," I countered, heading for the kitchen while rubbing my aching arches.
I'd chosen everything in the penthouse, from the warm amber walls that replaced Alexei's preferred stark white to the oversized sectional that could fit all three Volkov brothers when they came for their weekly dinners. The old penthouse had been a fortress. This was a home.
Soft textures everywhere—cashmere throws, silk pillows, the kind of deep rugs you could sink your toes into. Art on the walls that I'd selected, including one of Marcus Chen's pieces from before he became tonight's sensation. The kitchen was still Alexei's domain, all professional-grade appliances and German engineering, but I'd added touches there too—colorful dish towels, a collection of novelty coffee mugs, a cookie jar shaped like a bear that made him roll his eyes every time he saw it.
"Champagne to celebrate?" I asked, opening the refrigerator.
"Already handled," Alexei said, appearing behind me with a bottle of Dom Pérignon that definitely hadn't been in the fridge this morning. "To my genius girl who raised six hundred thousand in one night."
"Six hundred and thirty-seven thousand," I corrected, accepting the glass he poured. "The last-minute bidding war over your Moscow estate pushed us over."
"Our Moscow estate," he corrected. "Everything I have is yours."
We carried our champagne to the terrace. The city spread out below us, glittering and alive, and I pulled Alexei's tuxedo jacket around my shoulders when the wind picked up.
"You look good in my clothes," he observed, leaning against the railing beside me.
"I look good in everything," I replied, then laughed at my own arrogance. "God, when did I become so confident?"
"When you realized you deserved to be," he said simply.
I studied him in the city light—still devastating in his tuxedo shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that marked him as Pakhan, but there was something softer about him now. Not weakness, just . . . settlement. Like he'd finally stopped looking over his shoulder.
"The Morozovs concern me," he admitted, setting down his champagne. "They're testing boundaries, seeing if I've truly stepped back."
"Have you?" I asked, genuinely curious. "You haven't been to the warehouse in a week. Dmitry's handling most of the enforcement. Ivan manages the books without your daily input."
"I'm still Pakhan," he said firmly, but then his expression shifted. "But I'm learning to be more than that."
"You know more about art than half those pretentious trustees," I pointed out.
"Six months ago, I was torturing men for information," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Now I'm discussing Impressionist paintings with socialites. Using words like 'provenance' and 'chiaroscuro.'"
"Do you miss it?" I asked seriously, moving closer to him. "The power? The violence? The fear everyone had when you walked into a room?"
He was quiet for a long moment, and I knew he was really considering the question, not just giving me what he thought I wanted to hear.
"I have power," he said finally. "Just different kinds. Political connections through your charity work. Legitimate business influence. The ability to shape the city through construction and development without bribes or threats."
