Page 28 of Bratva Daddy
"How?"
Because Clara isn't just leverage anymore, I didn't say. Because she's mine to protect, not harm. Because the thought of her afraid of me—truly afraid, not the anticipatory fear that made her breath quicken—made something in my chest tighten painfully.
"The asset is worth more intact," I said instead, falling back on cold logic. "She's Viktor Petrov's only child. Her value decreases if she's damaged."
Ivan watched me with those analytical eyes that missed nothing, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell I couldn't quite hide. My youngest brother's ability to read people had saved our organization dozens of times, but right now it felt like standing naked in a snowstorm.
"Strategic thinking," I continued, needing to fill the silence before Ivan voiced his observations. "Viktor has political connections we'll need in the future. If we maim his daughter, those bridges burn permanently. Keep her unharmed, and we maintain leverage for years."
It was a good argument. Logical. The kind of long-term thinking that had built our empire while others fell to short-sighted violence. But we all knew it was bullshit. I'd never hesitated to use violence before, had never let future political considerations stop me from sending clear messages written in blood and bone.
"The girl is affecting your judgment," Ivan observed quietly, and there it was—the conclusion I'd been dreading. His voice held no accusation, just that clinical detachment that made him so valuable and so dangerous. "You've been different since you brought her to the penthouse."
"The girl is a strategic asset," I responded, but the words sounded hollow even to me. Strategic assets didn't make me check security monitors every hour. Strategic assets didn't makeme massage their jaws after punishment, bring them ice cream, call them 'little one' in moments of weakness.
"Worth potentially millions in future leverage against her father's political connections," I continued, needing to fill the silence with logic, with reasons that weren't about the way she'd looked at me this morning—defiant and needy and absolutely magnificent in her rebellion. "Short-term thinking would destroy long-term value."
Dmitry stopped pacing, fixed me with those scarred features that had terrified hundreds of men. "You're getting attached."
"I'm being practical."
"You're being something," he said, "but practical isn't it. When's the last time you spent three consecutive nights at the penthouse? You usually can't stand being away from operations for more than a few hours."
He was right. I'd built my life around constant motion, constant work, the kind of schedule that didn't leave room for personal connections. But these past three days, I'd found excuses to work from home, to be where Clara was, to watch her test boundaries and wait for her to break them.
"The asset requires supervision," I said.
"You want to keep her." Dmitry's words weren't a question. "That's what this is about. You don't want Viktor to pay because you want to keep his daughter."
The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Yes, part of me wanted Viktor to never pay. Wanted Clara to stay in my penthouse, learning my rules, accepting my control, becoming mine in ways that had nothing to do with debt or leverage. The thought of her leaving, of returning to her father's indifference, of pretending these days never happened—it made something in my chest tighten painfully.
"What I want is irrelevant," I said, voice hard as winter ice. "We're running a business, not a kidnapping ring for personalgratification. Viktor Petrov owes us three million dollars plus interest. When he pays, she goes. Until then, we maintain professional standards."
Dmitry shrugged, accepting the logic even if he didn't entirely buy it. "So what do we do? Let him ignore us?"
"Double the interest," I said, the decision coming easily. "Every day he delays costs him another hundred thousand. Eventually, the mounting debt will force his hand. Plus, I have a feeling that Claraknowsthings. About him, and his dealings. Blackmail isn’t off the table."
Or Clara stays with me indefinitely, a traitorous voice whispered in my mind. The thought of her in my penthouse for weeks, months, learning my rules, accepting my control, calling me Daddy without sarcasm—
I crushed the thought before it could fully form.
"Send him photos," I added, voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Her holding today's newspaper. Make sure he sees she's unharmed but under our complete control. Let him know the debt compounds daily."
"And if he never pays?" Ivan asked, fingers resuming their dance across the keyboard. "If he's truly abandoned her?"
Then she's mine, I didn't say. Then I keep her, teach her, protect her, give her the structure she's been craving her whole life.
"Then we leverage her against his political connections directly," I said instead. "Use her as a bargaining chip with his associates. Someone will value her enough to pay, even if her father doesn't."
But even as I outlined the contingency plan, I knew I'd never go through with it. Clara wasn't going to be traded to another organization, wasn't going to become someone else's leverage. If Viktor abandoned her completely, if the debt became impossible to collect, then I'd figure out another solution. One that kepther exactly where she was—in my penthouse, under my control, calling me Daddy in that breathless voice that haunted my dreams.
Time to check on the asset.
Themusichitmebefore I even opened the penthouse door—something aggressive and modern that bled through the soundproofing like a challenge. My key turned in the lock, and the wall of sound that crashed over me made my teeth ache. Bass lines that belonged in underground clubs, not my carefully controlled space. The kind of music designed to provoke, to announce rebellion before I even saw what she'd done.
The kitchen told the story first. Broken dishes scattered across granite counters like ceramic confetti, sharp edges catching the afternoon light. The breakfast I'd specifically instructed her to eat—scrambled eggs with dill, fresh fruit, whole grain toast—had been deliberately poured onto the floor. Coffee splashed like a Jackson Pollock across the light wall.
And in the center of this destruction stood Clara, still in her silk nightgown at 2 PM despite rules clearly stating she should be dressed by 9 AM.
