Page 87 of Bratva Daddy
"Don't turn," I said quietly. "But two o'clock, gray suits."
Alexei didn't move, didn't tense, but I felt his awareness shift like temperature dropping. "Morozov bratva," he identified without looking. "Dimitri Morozov's nephews, here to observe."
"Should we—"
"We should enjoy your triumph," he said firmly, turning me away from the window. "You've raised enough money tonight to fund the shelter expansion for a year. That matters more than bratva politics."
But I heard what he didn't say—that the Morozovs were testing boundaries, that his stepped-back role in daily operations was being noticed, that choosing charity galas over criminal enterprises might be seen as weakness by those who didn't understand that power came in many forms.
"Let them watch," I decided, lifting my chin. "Let them see that the Pakhan of the Volkov bratva has evolved beyond petty territory wars."
"My fierce little philanthropist," he murmured, and the pride in his voice was worth any threat the Morozovs might represent. "Shall we go to dinner? You have a room full of donors to dazzle."
Thebandshiftedintosomething slow and smoky, and Alexei's hand found mine with that familiar possessiveness that still made my stomach flutter.
"Four hundred thousand," I told him as we moved onto the floor, unable to contain the excitement bubbling in my chest. "The silent auction alone. We'll clear half a million tonight, easily."
"You're radiant tonight," he murmured, his accent thicker when we were close like this, when he could speak directly into my ear. His hand spread across my lower back, fingers pressing through the silk of my gown. "My sweet davochka.”
Other couples joined us on the floor—David Maguire with his wife, several board members with their partners, the usual symphony of wealth and connection that these events orchestrated. But I barely noticed them. In moments like this, Alexei's presence eclipsed everything else, turned a room full of people into background noise.
"Marcus sold every painting," I continued, needing him to understand the scale of what we'd accomplished. "Six months ago, he was sleeping in Tompkins Square Park. Tonight, he's got enough commissions to rent a studio, hire an assistant, build an actual career."
"Because you saw him," Alexei said, spinning me with surprising grace—Ivan had been teaching him, apparently, in exchange for lessons in human emotion. "You see everyone who's been overlooked."
I was about to respond when I caught sight of them again—the two Morozov brothers, still at the bar but watching us now with undisguised interest. One lifted his phone, openly taking photos or video, not even trying to be subtle about the surveillance.
"Alexei," I said quietly. "Two o'clock. They're recording."
His body didn't tense, but I felt his awareness sharpen. He used our next turn to get a better angle, and I saw his eyes go cold as winter when he recognized what they were doing.
“Let them watch. They think I’ve gone soft.” He spun me again, this time dipping me slightly, using the movement to maintain his observation of the watchers. "It’s true—I've delegated more to Dmitry and Ivan," he admitted when he pulled me back up. "The construction business runs itself. Most of the bratva operations continue without my daily involvement."
His gray eyes met mine, and for a moment, the mask dropped. "I haven't attended a torture session in six weeks," he said quietly. "Haven't personally handled enforcement in a month. Last week, I spent more time reviewing charity proposals than territory reports."
"Do you miss it?" The question came out smaller than I'd intended.
"I have . . . other priorities now," he said carefully. "You. This life we're building. The legitimate power that comes with charitable influence." He paused, then added with typical honesty, "But soft? Not a chance. Just selective about what deserves my violence."
The song changed to something faster, but we kept dancing slow, creating our own rhythm. Around us, the gala continued—laughter, conversation, the clink of champagne glasses.
The Morozov brothers were moving now, setting down their drinks, heading for the exit. One caught my eye as they passed the dance floor, and his smile was all teeth and possibility. A promise or a threat—probably both.
"They're leaving," I reported.
"Good," Alexei said. "They've seen what they came to see."
"Which was?"
"Me, dancing with you instead of conducting business. Attending charity galas instead of bratva meetings." He pulled me closer, and I could feel the controlled violence humming under his civilized surface. "They see a man who's chosen a woman over an empire."
"And that's not true?"
He stopped dancing, right there in the middle of the floor, and looked at me with an intensity that made everyone else disappear.
"It's partially true," he said. "I've chosen you. But they don't understand that you're not separate from the empire—you're the evolution of it. Every connection you make, every donor you charm, every political door your charity work opens—it all feeds back into power. Just a different kind than they recognize."
"So I'm still an asset," I said, not sure how I felt about that.
