Page 75 of Bratva Daddy
"Alexei!" His name ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.
"Don't fight them, baby girl," he called back, voice steady despite everything. "Remember what I taught you. Be smart. Be patient."
An agent shoved him toward the hallway, toward a different exit, and I realized with horrible clarity that they were separating us. Different vehicles, different destinations. They were making sure we couldn't coordinate stories, couldn't plan, couldn't even say goodbye.
"No, please," I begged the female agent. "Just let me say goodbye. Please, just one minute—"
"You'll be okay," she said with that false sympathy that made me want to claw her eyes out. "You're safe now. We're taking you to get help."
The last glimpse I got of Alexei was his profile in the hallway light, jaw set, hands cuffed behind his back, surrounded by agents who had no idea they were arresting the only person who'd ever loved me without conditions.
Then they dragged me into the pre-dawn darkness, and the Queens safe house—our sanctuary, our planning center for justice—became just another crime scene.
The gravel bit through my thin slippers as they dragged me toward a black SUV with government plates. The pre-dawn air was cold enough to make me shiver, or maybe that was shock. Two agents flanked me, hands firm on my upper arms, while others secured the perimeter like this was some kind of terrorist raid.
"Get me Viktor Petrov on the phone!" I demanded, voice cracking with desperation. "Call him right now! He's lying to you!"
The female agent—Agent Sanchez, according to her jacket—exchanged glances with her partner. Something passed between them, some silent communication that made my stomach drop.
"Your father is meeting us at the facility," Sanchez said carefully. "He's very concerned about your well-being."
"Check his finances," I insisted, trying to wrench free even though it was pointless. "He's taking bribes from the Kozlov bratva. Sergei Kozlov, specifically. There's a drug shipment coming in on the 24th—Pier 47, midnight. Forty million in cocaine. My father arranged for the police to ignore it."
The agents weren't even pretending to listen anymore. One pulled out a folded document from his jacket, official seals visible even in the darkness.
"Ms. Petrov," he said, using that name again like a slap, "we have a psychiatric hold order signed by Judge Morrison. Your father has provided extensive documentation of your mental health struggles, including a history of paranoid delusions and violent outbursts."
"What mental health struggles?" The words came out almost laughing because it was so absurd. "What violent outbursts? Iorganize charity galas! I read books! The most violent thing I've ever done is dance!"
But even as I said it, I heard how I sounded—denying, defensive, exactly what someone with mental health issues might say. My father had thought of everything.
Movement near the other SUV caught my eye. They were loading Alexei into the back, two agents on either side. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the controlled fury in every line of his body. He wasn't fighting—he was too smart for that—but his eyes found mine across the chaos.
"Baby girl, don't fight," he called out, voice carrying despite the distance. "Remember what I taught you—"
An agent shoved him fully into the vehicle, cutting off his words, but I understood. Be smart. Play their game. Survive until he could fix this. But how could he fix federal charges? How could he fix a psychiatric hold that painted me as delusional?
"I'm not mentally ill!" I screamed, and heard how that sounded too—protesting too much, too loud, too desperate. Every denial just dug me deeper. "I'm not the one who needs help! My father is a criminal! He's been taking bribes for years! I can prove it—I have names, dates, amounts—"
"She's becoming hysterical," one of the agents said, not even to me but over my head like I wasn't there. "Exactly what the father warned us about."
"Please," I tried again, forcing my voice calmer even though my heart was trying to escape through my ribs. "Just investigate. One phone call to verify what I'm telling you. The 24th, Pier 47. You'll find the drugs, you'll find the Kozlovs, you'll see I'm telling the truth."
Sanchez's face softened with what she probably thought was compassion. "Honey, you've been through a terrible ordeal. It's natural to be confused, to create narratives that make sense of trauma—"
"I'm not creating anything!" The calm shattered, and I was thrashing again, wild with the need to make them understand. "He's using you! My father is using the FBI to silence me because I know about his crimes!"
I managed to break free for exactly two seconds before three agents converged, hands everywhere, pressing me against the SUV's side. My cheek hit cold metal, and I could see Alexei's vehicle pulling away, red taillights disappearing into the darkness.
"Alexei!" His name tore from my throat, raw and desperate.
"We need to sedate her for transport," someone said behind me. "She's a danger to herself in this state."
"No!" I twisted to see an agent pulling out a small case, a syringe visible inside. "No, please, just listen to me! The 24th! Pier 47, midnight, you'll see—"
"Hold her still."
Three sets of hands pinned me—arms, shoulders, hips. I fought with everything I had, kicking, biting, completely feral. My elbow connected with someone's ribs, my heel found a shin, but there were too many of them.
