Page 82 of Enforcer Daddy
"Are you okay?" she asked simply, pulling a mint from her purse and offering it to me like we were old friends sharing secrets.
I took the mint because my mouth tasted like death and because her matter-of-fact kindness caught me off guard. She leaned against the counter, studying me with eyes that held more understanding than a stranger should possess.
"I'm Clara," she said. "Alexei's."
Two words that explained everything—the collar, the way she'd entered without hesitation, her surprising calm.
"Eva," I managed, though she probably already knew that.
"I struggled at the start, too," Clara continued, her voice soft but steady. "When I first saw what Alexei was capable of. Watched him . . . kill.”
The thought should have made my stomach turn again, but instead it made me feel less alone. Here was someone else who'd stood at this crossroads, who'd had to decide if love was worth accepting violence.
"Why did you stay?" I asked, needing to understand how someone who looked like she belonged in a kindergarten classroom could accept a man who broke fingers over dinner conversation.
Clara's smile was sad but sure. "Because he killed for me. To keep me safe. To keep his brothers safe. To keep good people safe.”
She turned to face me fully, and I saw the collar more clearly—not just decoration but declaration, ownership and protection combined.
"These men are monsters," Clara said simply. "They do monstrous things to other monsters. But they're our monsters, and that violence they mete out? That's what stands between us and people who would do worse. Much worse."
I thought about my own life, the violence I'd endured without protection.
"Does it get easier?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
"No," Clara said honestly. "But you understand more and more why it's necessary. You learn to separate the man from the violence—to see that Dmitry who reads you stories and builds you forts is the same Dmitry who breaks bones to keep you safe. They're not different people. The violence makes the gentleness possible."
She was right. In a world without consequences, gentleness was just weakness waiting to be exploited. I'd learned that lesson sleeping in doorways, fighting for scraps, trusting no one because trust got you killed.
"I saw man who had been tortured," I said, the words feeling surreal even as I spoke them.
"Marcus," Clara said with recognition. "He sold information that got three foot soldiers killed. One was nineteen, justmarried, baby on the way. Now that baby grows up without a father because Marcus wanted a bigger cut."
"This world has cleaner rules," I said, understanding finally clicking into place. "Brutal but honest."
"Exactly." Clara pulled out another mint for herself. "In the real world, the powerful hurt the weak and call it business. Here, everyone knows exactly what lines not to cross and what happens if they do. It's actually more civilized, in a twisted way."
I laughed, short and bitter. "Civilized. Right."
"You'll see," she said. "Give it time. Let yourself adjust. And remember—you're not alone in this. There are others like us, women who've chosen these men despite or maybe because of what they are."
Others like us. The words held promise of community, of understanding, of not being the only woman trying to reconcile love with violence.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "For the mint. For the honesty."
"Come find me when you need to talk," Clara said, moving toward the door. "Or when you need to be little and forget about all this for a while. We have a space here, a safe room where we can just be girls playing with toys instead of women dating killers."
The casual way she acknowledged what we were—women dating killers—should have been jarring. Instead, it was refreshing. No pretense, no pretty lies, just truth served straight.
“Come with me,” she said. “Let me show you.”
Claranavigatedthecompound'scorridors with practiced grace, leading me away from the violence into something that felt like stepping through a mirror into anotherworld entirely. The industrial gray walls gave way to softer colors—pale yellow, mint green, the kind of pastels that belonged in nurseries or fairy tales. Even the air felt different here, lavender and vanilla replacing gun oil and blood.
"Alexei had this wing built for me a few months ago," Clara explained, her whole posture relaxing as we moved deeper into this softer space. "He wanted somewhere I could be little without worrying about business intrusions. The other men aren’t allowed here.”
She opened a door painted soft purple, and my chest went tight with want so immediate it stole my breath.
The room was everything my childhood never gave me. Soft couches in cream and pink, bookshelves lined with picture books and young adult novels, bins of stuffed animals organized by size and species. One wall held art supplies—colored pencils, markers, paints, glitter that caught the light like scattered stars. Another corner had a reading nook built into the wall, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, pillows piled high enough to disappear into.
