Page 66 of Bratva Daddy
"Kozlov said, and I'm quoting exactly, 'On the 24th, everything changes. Forty million in pure Colombian product arrives at Pier 47 at midnight. Uncut, pharmaceutical grade, ready for distribution.'"
"Pharmaceutical grade?" Ivan looked up sharply. "That's not street product. That's for high-end distribution, celebrity clients, Wall Street."
"Kozlov mentioned Manhattan specifically," Clara confirmed. "Said they had buyers lined up in every investment bank, law firm, and entertainment company that mattered. Called it 'capturing the luxury market.'"
The scope of it was impressive, even by our standards. The Kozlovs weren't just moving drugs—they were positioning themselves as suppliers to the elite. The profit margins would be astronomical.
"My father asked about security," Clara continued, eyes closed now, fully immersed in the memory. "Kozlov said they'd have fifteen men at the pier, another ten in vehicles nearby. Plus a boat in the harbor as backup escape route."
"Twenty-five men for forty million in product," Dmitry mused. "Light security for that value. They're counting on police blindness."
"Which my father guaranteed," Clara said, and bitterness crept into her voice. "He made Commissioner Bradley promise no patrol cars between Piers 45 and 50 from eleven PM to three AM. Any 911 calls from that area would be mysteriously delayed or misdirected."
She opened her eyes, looked directly at Ivan. "Bradley used the phrase 'technical difficulties with the dispatch system.' My father offered to increase his monthly payment to ensure those difficulties."
"How much?" Ivan asked, already calculating.
"Hundred thousand extra, on top of his usual fifty," Clara said. "My father actually haggled—tried to make it seventy-five—but Bradley held firm. Said the risk was worth the price."
The casual corruption of it, the way they'd negotiated people's safety like a used car sale, made even my stomach turn.
"There's more," Clara said, straightening slightly. "Kozlov mentioned the source. Someone named Vargas in Bogotá. Said he was exclusive, only dealt with one organization per majorcity. Choosing the Kozlovs over the Sinaloa cartel was apparently a coup."
Ivan was typing furiously now, cross-referencing names, pulling up intelligence from sources I didn't ask about. "Hector Vargas," he confirmed. "Ghost in the DEA files. They know he exists but can't prove it. If the Kozlovs lose his shipment . . ."
"He finds a new partner," Dmitry finished. "Maybe one that already has established distribution networks. Maybe one named Volkov."
The possibility hung between us, bright as a beacon. Not just destroying the Kozlovs but absorbing their supplier, their routes, their entire potential empire. It was almost too perfect.
"The 24th," I said, decision crystallizing. "We hit them at 12:30, after they've unloaded but before they can disperse. Maximum evidence for authorities, maximum loss for them."
"I want to be there," Clara said again, turning to look at me. "Not in the action. But watching. I need to see my father's world collapse."
The need in her voice was razor-sharp, desperate. This wasn't about violence or excitement. It was about witnessing the fall of the man who'd ignored her for twenty-three years, who'd called her crazy on live television, who'd sold her childhood for political points.
"You'll stay in the command vehicle with Ivan," I said, making it clear this wasn't negotiable. "You'll watch through cameras, safe and protected. The moment something goes wrong, Ivan gets you out. No arguments."
She nodded immediately, understanding the gift I was giving her. Most bratva women never saw operations, were kept ignorant for their own protection. But Clara had earned this—with her intelligence, her acceptance, her transformation from victim to partner.
"But first," I continued, standing with her still in my arms, "you help us plan. You'll present the intelligence to my lieutenants yourself. Make them understand what we're dealing with."
"They'll listen to me?" she asked, uncertainty creeping in.
"They'll listen," I said. "They'll respect you because you'll make them. You've been preparing for this your whole life, Clara. Every dinner where you memorized conversations, every meeting where you cataloged crimes. This is your moment."
Dmitry stood, checking his phone. "Lieutenants are gathering. Conference room in ten minutes."
"I should change," Clara said, gesturing to my shirt and her leggings.
"No," I decided. "You'll present exactly as you are. Let them see you comfortable in my clothes, casual in my presence. Let them understand that you're not performing for them—you're sharing intelligence because it serves our purposes."
She kissed me then, quick and fierce. "Thank you," she whispered against my lips. "For believing me. For including me. For everything."
"You've earned it," I said simply, then added in a lower voice, "Make me proud, little one."
The smile she gave me could have powered the city. "I will, Daddy. Watch me."
Theconferenceroomfilledwith cigarette smoke and testosterone, fifteen of my most dangerous lieutenants arranged around the mahogany table like wolves at a kill. They'd come quickly—Petrov from his Brooklyn territory, Krupin from the docks, Morozov from the financial district where he ran our money laundering operations. Men who'd killed for me, who'dbuilt my empire with blood and brutality, now staring at Clara like she was either prey or a joke.
