Page 1 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

H ere’s what I’ve learned in life: if you’re in a shitty situation, smile through it.

That’s what I did when my dad used to bully me for not being tough enough.

That’s what I did when the kids at school teased me for being a politician’s daughter.

And that’s what I do now, age 23, every time I have to sit through a pointless three-hour meeting with people I despised.

At least it was over now.

The trouble with the meeting is that they should have been positive.

They were for fundraising events, for hospitals and youth centers and community buildings.

But you wouldn’t have thought that if you were there.

You would have thought, “Why are they all talking about whether the hospital gala's centerpieces should feature white orchids or cream roses, instead of trying to make as much money for the cancer ward as possible?”

It made me want to scream. I didn’t, though. I smiled.

It was infuriating. Especially when I had my own event coming up—the "Home & Hope" auction I'd spent the last three months organizing. That was real work, raising real funds for homeless services throughout Manhattan. I’d personally curated every lot, begging and bargaining for original artwork from emerging artists and that week-long cooking class with a James Beard winner.

That mattered. The color of the damn roses did not.

Still. I smiled. It's what Viktor Petrov's daughter did—performed politeness like a trained seal while the city's elite pretended their charity lunches actually changed anything.

October air hit my face, sharp enough to cut through the Chanel No.

5 fog that had suffocated me in the Oak Room.

I shifted the Bergdorf Goodman bags in my hands—a cashmere scarf I didn't need, shoes that would join dozens of others in my closet, a handbag that cost more than most people's monthly salary.

Shopping as anesthesia.

Buying things to feel something, anything, even if it was just the brief flutter of acquisition before the numbness returned.

I turned into Central Park at the Pulitzer Fountain entrance, needing trees and sky instead of marble and crystal.

The path was familiar, worn into my muscle memory from hundreds of walks when the penthouse walls pressed too close.

Joggers passed in their expensive athleisure, nannies pushed designer strollers, and tourists snapped photos of fall foliage that blazed orange and gold against the afternoon sun.

The bench near Bethesda Fountain came into view, and my steps slowed.

Maria sat in her usual spot, a fixture as reliable as the angel statue hovering over the water.

Her thin coat—the same one she'd worn last March—hung loose on her shrinking frame.

October had teeth this year, and she huddled into herself, weathered hands tucked into opposite sleeves for warmth.

"Maria," I called softly, not wanting to startle her.

Her head lifted, eyes focusing slowly like she was pulling herself back from somewhere far away. Recognition sparked, and her face creased into the kind of smile that made her beautiful despite the missing teeth and deep lines etched by a hard life.

"Miss Clara." Her accent wrapped around my name like a blessing. "You look pretty today. Always so pretty."

I sat beside her, setting the shopping bags between us like an offering. The bench was cold through my designer jeans, but Maria radiated a different kind of chill—the bone-deep cold of someone who'd been outside too long.

"How have you been?" I asked, though the answer was obvious. Her cheeks had hollowed since last I saw her, and her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her coat.

"Is okay. God provides." She patted my hand with fingers that felt like ice. "You? Your father, he is well?"

My father. The man who owned half of Manhattan's political machinery. "He's fine. Busy with his important work."

Maria nodded sagely, as if she understood the weight of important men and their important work. Maybe she did. Maybe that's how she'd ended up here, discarded by someone who'd decided she wasn't important enough.

I reached into the Bergdorf bag and pulled out the cashmere scarf—soft as a whisper, the color of fresh cream. Three hundred dollars of warmth that I'd bought because the salesperson said it brought out my eyes. My eyes didn't need bringing out. Maria needed warmth.

"For you," I said, wrapping it around her neck before she could protest. The cashmere looked incongruous against her worn coat, like a swan had landed on a pigeon, but her eyes filled with tears.

"No, no, is too much—"

"It's nothing." I pulled a fifty from my wallet, pressing it into her shaking hands. "For coffee and something warm to eat. Promise me you'll get something hot today."

She clutched the bill like it might disappear, tears spilling down her cheeks. "God bless you, Miss Clara. God bless your kind heart."

Kind heart. If she knew the truth—that I gave her things because she was the only person in my life who looked at me with genuine gratitude, who saw me as more than Viktor Petrov's decorative daughter—would she still call me kind?

Or would she recognize the selfishness in my charity, the desperate need to matter to someone, anyone, even for a moment?

"There's a diner on 66th Street," I said. "They have good soup. Tell them Clara sent you—they know me there."

Maria nodded, already standing, eager to escape the cold now that she had the means. She touched my cheek with one freezing hand, a benediction from someone who had nothing but still found something to give.

"You are good girl," she said. "Someone will see. Someone will know your worth."

Then she shuffled away, my cream cashmere scarf the brightest thing about her retreating figure. I sat alone on the bench, watching tourists toss coins into the fountain and make wishes.

The encounter left a familiar ache in my chest. Fifty dollars and a scarf was a band-aid on a gaping wound.

It was why the "Home & Hope" auction had become my obsession.

I needed to believe that I could do more—that I could help build something lasting.

Every lot I'd curated, from the vintage jewelry sourced at estate sales to the emerging artists' work, felt like a small prayer for people like Maria who didn’t have much more than wishes to keep them going.

What would I wish for? Not money—I had that. Not opportunity—I had that too, for whatever it was worth. Not even love, exactly, because love was too abstract, too fairy-tale.

There was only one wish for me.

To be seen.

Not as the pretty girl in the designer clothes who showed up at the right parties and smiled at the right people. I wanted someone to see the messy, complicated truth of me and decide I was worth keeping anyway.

The October wind picked up, scattering leaves across the fountain plaza.

I gathered my bags—which felt suddenly empty despite their weight—and started the walk home.

Fifth Avenue stretched ahead, lined with doorman buildings and old money fortresses.

My father's penthouse waited fifteen stories up, a gilded cage with Central Park views and Egyptian cotton sheets and a loneliness so profound it had its own gravitational pull.

Maria's words echoed as I walked. Someone will see. Someone will know your worth. But it didn’t feel possible. I was worth exactly what my father could trade me for—no more, no less.

The doorman tipped his cap as I passed. "Good afternoon, Miss Albright." Good of him to remember that I liked to be called by my mother’s maiden name.

"Good afternoon, George."

He held the door, and I stepped into the lobby. The elevator carried me up, and I thought about Maria, hopefully warming herself with soup by now.

M y walk-in closet was bigger than most people's entire lives. I stood in its center at 6 PM sharp, surrounded by ten thousand dollars worth of armor that never quite fit right.

For a while, I’d started donating items, in secret, to charities. It felt good to get rid of the clothes and help others. But my dad had put a stop to that. He’d realized what I was doing and had hired someone to run an inventory of my damn wardrobe!

He monitored my spending, my schedule, even my clothes.

The only thing he hadn't sunk his claws into, yet, was the "Home & Hope" auction.

Maybe he thought it was just another harmless distraction.

He didn't realize it was the most important thing in my life right now, the one place I could channel my energy into something that wasn't about him or his political maneuvering. I’d spent the entire afternoon finalizing the catalog, agonizing over the descriptions.

Even though I was immensely privileged, it was hard not to feel like a prisoner in my own life.

The overhead lighting was museum-quality, designed to show every piece in its best light.

Designer dresses hung in color-coded rows like soldiers awaiting orders.

Shoes lined custom shelves—Louboutins, Manolos, Jimmy Choos—each pair worn once or twice before being retired to their designated spot.

Handbags sat in individual cubbies, some still wearing their tags like prisoners' numbers.

This wasn't a closet. It was a costume department for a show I'd never auditioned for, playing a character named "Viktor Petrov's Perfect Daughter.

" Tonight's performance required careful selection.

Too casual, and he'd make cutting remarks about "dressing like a college student.

" Too formal, and he'd accuse me of trying to upstage him.

Too fashionable meant "you look like a whore," while too conservative meant "you have no sense of style befitting our status. "