Page 8 of Bratva Daddy
"Since when do we fear FBI attention?" Dmitry challenged, but I heard the acceptance in his voice. He might prefer direct violence, but he wasn't stupid. Federal investigation meant frozen accounts, seized properties, decades of carefully constructed legitimate business destroyed.
"Too messy," Ivan continued, his fingers dancing across his keyboard. "Petrov's a deputy mayor—his death would trigger mandatory federal oversight. Every construction contract we've touched in the last five years would be audited. Every permit, every payment, every connection traced." The screen filled with interconnected webs of businesses, permits, financial transfers. "We'd lose everything we've built since Father died."
They were both right and both wrong. Dmitry understood the need for blood—some betrayals demanded it. Ivan understood the need for subtlety—survival required it. But neither of them saw the third option, the one that had been taking shape in my mind since I'd first seen Clara's surveillance photos.
"There's another way," I said, interrupting their debate. Both brothers turned to me, and I saw Ivan's quick mind already calculating possibilities while Dmitry's brow furrowed in confusion.
"The daughter," I said, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. "We take the daughter."
The reaction was immediate and predictable. Dmitry's scarred face split into a grin that would have terrified anyone who didn't know him. Ivan's expression remained neutral, but his fingers stilled on his keyboard—a sign he was processing rapidly.
"Clara Petrov—or is it Albright?" Ivan said, pulling up information on his screen with practiced efficiency. "Twenty-three years old. NYU graduate, art history degree. No criminal record, no connections to her father's corruption. Clean social media presence. Charitable work with three different foundations." He paused, scanning more data. "By all accounts,she's exactly what she appears—a sheltered rich girl playing at charity work."
"Perfect," Dmitry said, the violence in his voice shifting to something else, something hungry. "Daddy's little princess. He'll do anything to get her back safe."
"It's personal enough to wound Petrov, valuable enough to force cooperation, and clean enough to avoid federal scrutiny," I said, keeping my voice measured, professional. As if this was purely strategic. As if I hadn't been staring at her photos for the last hour, imagining her in my penthouse.
"A missing person case," Ivan mused, already working through logistics. "NYPD would investigate, but without a body or ransom demand, it goes cold fast. Petrov can't reveal the real reason she's missing without admitting his corruption. He's trapped between losing his daughter and losing his freedom."
"We could make him watch," Dmitry suggested, his enthusiasm taking a darker turn. "Send him videos of his precious daughter learning what happens when daddy makes bad decisions."
"No videos," I said sharply. Too sharply. Both brothers looked at me with curiosity. "We're not animals like the Kozlovs. This is about leverage, not torture."
"Since when do you care about the comfort of leverage?" Dmitry asked, and there was something knowing in his scarred face.
Since I saw her laugh, I thought but didn't say.
"We maintain standards," I said instead. "The girl is valuable intact. Damaged goods serve no purpose."
“Where do we keep her?” A sharp question from Ivan.
“Here,” I replied. “I have a space, I can have it prepared within days.”
His eyes narrowed at this answer, but he didn’t ask any more questions.
"How long do we hold her?" Dmitry asked, already moving past debate to planning. That was his value—once a decision was made, he executed without question.
The answer came too quickly, betraying thoughts I hadn't admitted even to myself. "Until I decide we're finished with her."
Ivan's eyes sharpened behind his glasses. My youngest brother missed nothing, filed everything away in that computer brain of his. He'd heard the possessive note in my voice, the way I'd said 'I' instead of 'we.' But Ivan kept his observations to himself, another trait that made him invaluable.
"The logistics are manageable," Ivan said, pivoting to practical matters. "She has routines, predictable patterns. Every Tuesday and Thursday, she visits the Neue Galerie. Alone. Stays for exactly two hours, then walks through Central Park. Multiple extraction points, minimal security." Ivan had been a big part of the intel gather on Clara. Sometimes I wondered if he had a photographic memory.
"Tuesday is in three days," Dmitry noted. Yup, that was about his level. He could just about count to three. "Enough time to prepare, not enough for Petrov to sense anything wrong."
They continued planning, my brothers falling into their familiar roles. Dmitry would handle the physical extraction—the grab team, the vehicles, the safe house preparations. Ivan would manage intelligence—surveillance footage, communication intercepts, ensuring no digital trail led back to us.
But my mind was already elsewhere, imagining Clara Petrov in my space. In my penthouse. My bed. Under my control.
"She'll need to understand the situation quickly," I said, pulling myself back to the present. "This only works if she cooperates."
"And if she doesn't?" Dmitry asked, though his grin suggested he'd enjoy that possibility.
"She will," I said with certainty that came from studying those photos, from seeing the desperate need for structure hidden behind her perfect smile. "Clara Petrov has been waiting her whole life for someone to give her boundaries. She just doesn't know it yet."
"You've been studying her," Ivan observed, not a question but a statement of fact.
"Know your enemy," I replied, the lie comfortable on my tongue.
