Page 27 of Bratva Daddy
I came harder than I ever had before, my whole body shaking with the force of it, pussy clenching around my fingers as I imagined it was him, imagined he was filling me, claiming me, making me his in ways that had nothing to do with debt or leverage.
The aftermath hit like a bucket of cold water.
I lay there panting, fingers still buried inside myself, and the full weight of what I'd done crashed over me. I'd masturbated to thoughts of my kidnapper. Had called him Daddy and meant it. Had imagined him punishing me, controlling me, owning me, and had come so hard I'd seen stars.
"What is wrong with me?" I whispered to the darkness.
I was getting off on being kidnapped. On being controlled by my father's enemy. On rules and consequences and a man who'd stolen my freedom but given me something else—structure, boundaries, the attention I'd craved my whole life.
And I was loving it.
Chapter 6
Alexei
Thewarehouseofficesmelledlike sawdust and diesel fuel. Through the grimy window, I watched my men load steel beams onto flatbeds. Behind me, Dmitry's boots scraped against the worn wooden floor as he shifted in his chair.
The table between my brothers had seen better days—scarred from years of planning, stained with coffee and vodka and occasionally blood.
"Petrov's not even trying to gather the money." Ivan's voice cut through my thoughts, precise as a scalpel. His laptop screen reflected off his glasses as he scrolled through financial data with mechanical efficiency. "No liquidated assets, no loans, no contact with known lenders. It's been three days, Alexei."
I didn't turn from the window. Couldn't, really, because my brothers would read my face like a confession. Three days since I'd taken Clara. Three days of her defiance and tears and that fucking vulnerability that made me want to protect her even as she threw plates at my walls.
"Maybe he's negotiating with other sources," I said, though the words tasted like ash.
"He's not." Ivan's fingers flew across his keyboard, pulling up more data. "I've monitored every account, every communication channel we have access to. Viktor hasn't made a single move to pay his debt or recover his daughter."
Dmitry's scarred fist slammed the table hard enough to make Ivan's laptop jump. "The bastard isn't paying. He's written her off."
The words hit like ice water in my veins. I'd prepared for delays, for negotiation, for Viktor to try every trick in his political playbook. But complete abandonment? What kind of father simply discarded his only child?
The kind who discussed his crimes over dinner while she sat there like furniture, a voice whispered in my mind. The kind who never noticed she was brilliant, observant, desperately trying to matter.
"That's premature," I said, keeping my voice level. "It's only been seventy-two hours."
"Seventy-two hours without a single attempt at contact." Ivan adjusted his glasses, a tell that meant he was about to deliver more bad news. "But there's more. He had dinner with the mayor last night."
The laptop screen shifted to surveillance photos—Petrov at Le Bernardin, laughing over fancy wine. His face showed no stress, no worry, no indication that his daughter was missing. The man who should be frantically gathering three million dollars was eating oysters and making jokes with city officials.
"When asked about his daughter's absence from the Arts Council gala, he said she was visiting friends in the Hamptons." Ivan's tone remained clinical, but I heard the disgust underneath. Even my emotionally frozen youngest brotherfound Viktor's callousness offensive. "He told them she needed a break from the social season."
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. Clara was in my penthouse, still believing her father would come for her. Still thinking she mattered enough to save. How would she react when she learned the truth? That she was worth less to Viktor than his reputation, his comfort, his fucking dinner reservations?
"He's calling our bluff," Dmitry said, leaning back in his chair. "Thinks we won't actually hurt her. That we'll get tired of babysitting and let her go."
"Send him proof of life," I said, finally turning from the window. "I took photos this morning with today's newspaper.” Clara had not been happy about that. “Let’s make it clear we have her and she's under our complete control."
Dmitry's scarred face split into a grin that would terrify anyone who didn't know him. "Let me break one of her fingers. Or remove it? Mail it to his office in a nice box, maybe with a bow. That'll motivate him. Nothing says 'pay up' like your daughter's pinky in your morning mail."
"No." The word came out sharp enough to cut glass.
Both my brothers looked at me with surprise. In our world, violence was currency, and Dmitry's suggestion wasn't unreasonable. We'd done worse to men who'd betrayed us for less. A finger was almost gentle by bratva standards—reversible with good surgery, a clear message without permanent damage.
But the thought of anyone hurting Clara—the mental image of her delicate fingers broken, her crying in real pain instead of frustrated tears—made rage rise in my throat like bile.
"No?" Dmitry repeated, his scarred face skeptical. "Since when are you squeamish about persuasion tactics? Last month you personally removed three of Piotr Kozlov's teeth."
"That was different."
