Page 13 of Bratva Daddy
"It doesn't matter what I know," I said, exhaustion creeping into my voice. "I can't stop him. I can't change anything. I'm just—"
The slam of a car door changed everything. Heavy, deliberate, the sound of expensive German engineering meeting controlled force. Both men holding me straightened instantly, their entire demeanor shifting from professional to deferential in the space between heartbeats. Mikhail's grip on my arms loosened fractionally, and the first man actually took a step back.
A third figure emerged from the shadows beyond the SUV, and the October night suddenly felt colder.
He moved differently than the other men—not with their practiced efficiency but with the lazy confidence of an apex predator who'd never met anything that could challenge him. Each step was deliberate, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to claim what was already his. The streetlight caught him as he approached, and my breath stopped in my throat.
Older than his men by maybe a decade, putting him somewhere in his mid-thirties. Taller too, with the kind of build that suggested controlled power rather than bulky muscle. His suit was perfection—charcoal wool that had been tailored by someone who understood that true power didn't need to advertise itself. But it was his face that made my stomach do something complicated that wasn't entirely fear.
Sharp angles and harsh planes, like someone had carved him from granite and forgotten to soften the edges. A jaw that could cut glass, cheekbones that threw shadows in the streetlight, and a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile without cruelty behind it. His hair was dark, almost black, pushed backfrom his face in a way that looked deliberately careless. But it was his eyes that made me forget I was supposed to be fighting.
Steel gray, the color of winter storms, and absolutely empty of anything resembling mercy.
He looked at me the way I imagined wolves looked at rabbits—with interest, assessment, and the absolute certainty that the outcome was already decided.
"Enough," he said, and that single word carried more authority than anything my father had ever managed in his entire political career. His voice was dark velvet wrapped around broken glass, accented but precisely articulated, like he'd learned English from Oxford professors and Russian prison guards.
Both men stepped away from me immediately. Just like that, I was free—standing on Fifth Avenue in one shoe, my dress torn, my shawl hanging off one shoulder like a flag of surrender. Free to run if I wanted to, if I was stupid enough to think I could outrun whatever this man was.
I didn't run.
Couldn't, actually.
My legs had turned to water the moment those gray eyes found mine.
He approached slowly, giving me time to see him coming, to understand what was about to happen. The distance between us closed with inevitable precision until he stood close enough that I could smell him—expensive cologne layered over something darker, more dangerous. Gunpowder, maybe. Or just the scent of a man who'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted through force.
His hand came up, and I flinched, expecting violence. But his fingers found my chin instead, grip firm but not painful, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. His skin was rougher than I'd expected—calluses that suggested he hadn't always wornexpensive suits, that those manicured hands knew how to do damage without weapons.
"You fight like a tiger," he said, and there was something in his tone that made heat flood through me despite the October cold. Approval mixed with amusement, like I'd done something unexpectedly entertaining. His thumb brushed across my jaw, and I hated the way my body responded—pulse jumping, breath catching, every nerve suddenly aware of how big his hand was against my face. “But that stops now, pussycat.”
"Let go of me," I managed, but my voice came out breathless instead of demanding.
His mouth curved in what might have been a smile on someone capable of actual human emotion. "No."
Just that. No. Not a refusal or an argument, just a statement of fact. The sun rose in the east, water was wet, and this man wasn't letting go of me.
"I don't even know who you are," I said.
"I am Alexei Volkov," he said, and the name hit me like ice water. Not just Volkov bratva—the Volkov himself. The pakhan. The one whose name made my father sweat during his wine-fueled confessions about city corruption. "Your father made a very expensive mistake."
His fingers tightened slightly on my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact when every instinct screamed at me to look away. This close, I could see flecks of darker gray in his irises, like storms within storms. Could see the faint scar that crossed his left eyebrow, the slight imperfection that somehow made him more dangerous instead of less.
"My father makes a lot of mistakes," I said, surprising myself with the bitter honesty. "Which one am I paying for?"
Something flickered in those gray eyes—surprise, maybe, or interest. His hand shifted, fingers sliding along my jaw to cup the side of my face. The gesture should have been threatening,but instead felt almost . . . possessive. Like he was examining something he'd already decided to keep.
"Many mistakes," he said simply. "But primarily his decision to take Kozlov money while spending mine. He seems to have forgotten that betrayal has consequences."
"So you're kidnapping me?" My voice cracked slightly. "That's your solution?"
"I'm collecting collateral," he corrected, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with clinical precision. "Your father stole from me, against my will. Now I'm taking something of his, against his."
Something of his. Like I was property to be transferred between powerful men. The fury that had driven me to fight his men flared again, hot enough to burn through the fear.
"I'm not his," I spat. "I'm not anybody's anything. I'm my own person with my own life that has nothing to do with his corruption."
"Used to be," Alexei said, and there was something almost gentle in the correction. "Now you belong to me until your father pays what he owes."
