Page 9 of Bratva Daddy
"Petrov is the enemy," Ivan corrected softly. "The girl is just leverage."
"Of course," I agreed.
Dmitry poured himself one more vodka, raising it in a mock toast. "To leverage, then. And to teaching Viktor Petrov what happens when you steal from the Volkov family."
We didn't touch glasses—that was reserved for completed operations, not planned ones. But the decision was made, the path set. In three days, Clara Albright would belong to us.
Belong to me.
Theofficefellsilentafter my brothers left just before midnight, their footsteps fading down the metal stairs until only the hum of the city remained. Dmitry had clasped my shoulder on his way out, his scarred hand heavy with promise of violence to come. Ivan had nodded, already lost in planning, his laptop tucked under his arm like a weapon. They'd both accepted the plan without question—taking Clara Petrov was strategic, logical, the kind of calculated move that had built our empire.
I returned to my desk, pulling up tomorrow's legitimate construction schedules on my computer. The Greenpoint project needed forty more workers. The Queens Boulevard siterequired new permits now that Petrov's interference had been cleared. Normal business that required my attention, decisions that affected hundreds of employees who'd never know their paychecks came from a man who'd just planned a kidnapping.
But the schedules blurred on the screen. My hand moved without conscious thought to the desk drawer, pulling out the manila folder I'd hidden from my brothers. Clara's photographs spilled across the mahogany surface like accusations.
There she was again, laughing outside the Neue Galerie. The photo captured her mid-motion, head thrown back, one hand raised to push hair from her face. She looked nothing like the posed charity photos where she stood beside her father, smile empty as a politician's promise. This was real. This was the woman hiding beneath designer armor and practiced pleasantries.
I told myself this was strategic reconnaissance. The daughter of a corrupt official made perfect leverage—valuable enough to force Viktor's cooperation, innocent enough to avoid federal scrutiny. It was clean, controlled, elegant. The kind of solution that demonstrated Volkov sophistication versus Kozlov brutality. We didn't leave bodies in the Hudson. We took what mattered most and made our enemies watch it disappear.
But my thumb traced the edge of her photograph, and my body betrayed the truth my mind wouldn't acknowledge.
I pulled out another picture—Clara at a charity gala two weeks ago, dressed in black silk that hugged curves she tried to hide with a modest neckline. But I saw through the camouflage to the woman underneath. Saw the way she clutched her champagne glass like a lifeline. The forced smile that never reached her eyes. The barely contained energy that suggested she wanted to run, to scream, to be anything other than Viktor Petrov's perfectly behaved daughter.
She needed structure. Boundaries. Someone strong enough to contain all that suppressed rebellion and channel it into something beautiful. She needed a man who'd grab those delicate wrists and tell her exactly how things were going to be. Who'd put her over his knee when she tested limits, then hold her after until she understood she was safe.
My cock hardened against my will, pressing against Italian wool that suddenly felt too tight.
My hand clenched on the photo's edge. She'd probably fight at first—that chin tilt promised defiance. But underneath the bratty exterior, I saw the truth. Clara Petrov was desperate to belong to someone who'd actually value what they owned. Her father treated her like furniture, valuable only for its appearance. The weak men in her social circle probably begged for her attention, let her walk all over them with those designer heels.
She'd never experienced real possession. Never been claimed by someone who'd kill to keep her.
The computer screen had gone dark, construction schedules replaced by my reflection. Thirty-five years old, pakhan of the Volkov bratva, controlled and calculating and completely fucked because I wanted something I shouldn't. Clara Petrov was supposed to be leverage. A message to her father and our enemies. A business transaction dressed up as kidnapping.
Instead, she was becoming something infinitely more dangerous—an obsession.
No. I couldn’t let it happen.
I put the photos away, made myself a coffee.
This wasn’t about lust. This was about business. And I was fucking good at business.
Chapter 3
Clara
TheNeueGalerie'smainexhibition room glowed with warm light that made everything look expensive and important, but tonight that actually meant something. I stood near the podium in my midnight blue cocktail dress—the one I'd bought myself with money I'd saved, not my father's credit card—and watched actual change happen in real time. The auctioneer's voice carried over the crowd of Manhattan's elite, but for once they weren't just performing charity. They were competing to own pieces that would feed real people, shelter real families, change real lives.
Three months of planning had led to this moment. Three months of calling artists, begging galleries, convincing estate sale managers that their clients' vintage jewelry could serve a higher purpose than gathering dust in some safety deposit box. Every lot displayed along the room's cream walls represented hours of negotiation, careful curation, actual work that mattered.
"Lot seventeen," the auctioneer announced, "an original oil painting by Marcus Chen, emerging artist from Chinatown. Opening bid at five thousand."
Marcus stood in the corner, trying to look casual in his borrowed suit, but I saw his hands shake as paddles went up. Six thousand. Eight. Twelve. When the painting sold for eighteen thousand, tears streaked down his face. Half would go to our homeless services fund, half to him—enough to pay his studio rent for a year. Real impact. Real change.
The James Beard winner's cooking class went for twenty-five thousand to a hedge fund wife who actually seemed excited about learning to make bouillabaisse. A set of first edition Virginia Woolfs I'd discovered at an estate sale in Scarsdale brought thirty thousand from a collector who promised they'd be donated to Columbia's library after his death. Even the smaller lots—handmade scarves from a women's shelter craft program, pottery from a veterans' art therapy group—sold for triple their estimates.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice cut through the champagne-buzzed chatter as the final lot closed. "Tonight's Home & Hope auction has raised . . ." He paused for effect, though I already knew the number from the running tally I'd been keeping in my head. "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars for Manhattan's homeless services!"
The room erupted in applause that actually sounded genuine. People who usually clapped politely at these things were actually cheering. Someone—Mrs. Williams from the Met board—pulled me into a hug.
