Page 30 of Bratva Daddy
The jacket folded over the back of the leather chair with practiced care—every movement calculated to build tension, to make her wonder what came next. My fingers found my cufflinks, removed them with the same unhurried precision. Cartier white gold, a gift from a grateful politician we'd owned for years. They clicked against the marble counter like dice being thrown.
Clara's eyes tracked every movement as I rolled up my sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of violence dressed up as business. It was the first time she’d seen my tattoos—Russian Orthodox crosses mixed with bratva symbols that told the story of my rise through blood and discipline. Each mark earned, each symbol a promise to the family that I'd lead them or die trying.
"Your father is a pig," I told her, watching her lip tremble. "Three days, and he hasn't lifted a finger to get you back. Had dinner with his cronies last night, told everyone you're vacationing in the Hamptons."
"Figures," she whispered, and the pain in her voice almost made me relent. Almost.
But she needed this. Needed consequences that meant something, boundaries that held firm, someone who wouldn't abandon her the moment she became inconvenient. She'd been screaming into the void of her father's indifference for twenty-three years. Now she was screaming at me, and I was going to answer.
"So what happens to me now?" she asked, chin lifting with that defiance that made my blood burn. "Now that I'm worthless to everyone?"
"Now you learn that someone in your life actually follows through," I said, sitting on the leather couch that had hosted million-dollar deals and blood-soaked confessions. The leather creaked under my weight, familiar as my own heartbeat. "You've been begging for more consequences all day. Come here."
She didn't move. Stood there in that pink silk nightgown that had become armor and vulnerability wrapped in one, feet bare against marble that cost more than most people's cars. The afternoon light streaming through the bulletproof windows caught the silk, making it almost transparent. I could see the outline of her body, the way her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, the tension in her thighs.
"You’re gonna spank me?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Like I'm a child?"
"I’m going to teach you that actions have consequences. That someone cares enough to correct you." The words came out rougher than intended, too much truth bleeding through the control. "But I won't touch you without permission. You can walk to your room right now, and we'll pretend this didn't happen."
The offer hung between us like a test. I could see her processing it, understanding that I was giving her power in this moment. The choice to submit or walk away. To acknowledge what we both knew was building between us or maintain the fiction that this was just about debt and leverage.
"And if I don't walk away?" she asked, taking a step closer.
"Then you come here, position yourself over my lap, and accept what you've earned. Seven broken rules means seven consequences. You'll count each one, and you'll thank me for the correction."
Her pupils dilated at that, a flush spreading from her chest up her throat. "Thank you? For hitting me?"
"For caring enough to correct you. For giving you what you've been begging for since you walked through that door." I leaned back, spreading my arms across the back of the couch in a gesture that was invitation and challenge combined. "But the choice is yours, Clara. It's always been yours."
That was the lie and the truth tangled together. The choice was hers, but we both knew she'd already made it. Had made it the moment she'd destroyed my kitchen, the moment she'd put on that nightgown at 2 PM, the moment she'd called me Daddy with sarcasm that barely masked her desire.
She took another step closer, then another, each one deliberate as a signature on a contract. The space between us disappeared inch by inch until she stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could see the pulse hammering in her throat.
"I hate you," she whispered, but her hands were already moving to position herself.
"You know, it’s the third time you’ve said that to me," I said, guiding her with gentle pressure until she was draped across my thighs. "That’s three lies, davochka. Not clever."
The position was intimate, vulnerable, her body stretched across mine with that silk nightgown riding up to reveal black lace panties that were already damp. The sight sent blood rushing south, my cock hardening against her stomach where she pressed against me. She had to feel it, had to know what this was doing to me, but she didn't pull away.
Her breathing came quick and shallow, hands gripping the couch cushion like an anchor. The curve of her ass presented perfectly, begging for correction, for marks that would remind her someone gave a damn about her choices.
"Seven rules," I reminded her, hand settling on the silk covering her ass. Just resting there, letting her feel the weight of it, the promise of what was coming. "You'll count each consequence and thank me for it. If you lose count, we start over. Understood?"
"Yes," she breathed, then added with defiance that made my cock throb, "Daddy."
The word hit different this time. Not pure sarcasm like at dinner, not desperate need like I'd imagined she'd say it. This was both and neither—acknowledgment of what this was, what we were becoming to each other. She was giving me a role I hadn't asked for but desperately wanted, one that came with responsibilities that went far beyond her father's debt.
"Good girl," I murmured, feeling her shiver at the praise.
My hand lifted, and I felt her tense in anticipation. But I waited, let the moment stretch until her breathing became ragged, until she squirmed slightly against my thighs seeking friction or punishment or both.
This was the moment everything changed. Once I spanked her, once we crossed this line, there was no going back to kidnapper and leverage. This would make us something else—Daddy and little girl, dominant and submissive, two broken people finding something necessary in each other's damage.
"Please," she whispered, and I didn't know if she was begging me to stop or start.
"Tell me what you need," I commanded, hand still hovering.
"I need . . ." Her voice broke, rebuilt itself, came back stronger. "I need consequences. I need to know my choices matter. I need someone to care enough to stop me when I'm destroying everything."
