Page 17 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Alexei

T he warehouse office smelled like sawdust and diesel fuel. Through the grimy window, I watched my men load steel beams onto flatbeds. Behind me, Dmitry's boots scraped against the worn wooden floor as he shifted in his chair.

The table between my brothers had seen better days—scarred from years of planning, stained with coffee and vodka and occasionally blood.

"Petrov's not even trying to gather the money.

" Ivan's voice cut through my thoughts, precise as a scalpel.

His laptop screen reflected off his glasses as he scrolled through financial data with mechanical efficiency.

"No liquidated assets, no loans, no contact with known lenders. It's been three days, Alexei."

I didn't turn from the window. Couldn't, really, because my brothers would read my face like a confession. Three days since I'd taken Clara. Three days of her defiance and tears and that fucking vulnerability that made me want to protect her even as she threw plates at my walls.

"Maybe he's negotiating with other sources," I said, though the words tasted like ash.

"He's not." Ivan's fingers flew across his keyboard, pulling up more data. "I've monitored every account, every communication channel we have access to. Viktor hasn't made a single move to pay his debt or recover his daughter."

Dmitry's scarred fist slammed the table hard enough to make Ivan's laptop jump. "The bastard isn't paying. He's written her off."

The words hit like ice water in my veins. I'd prepared for delays, for negotiation, for Viktor to try every trick in his political playbook. But complete abandonment? What kind of father simply discarded his only child?

The kind who discussed his crimes over dinner while she sat there like furniture, a voice whispered in my mind. The kind who never noticed she was brilliant, observant, desperately trying to matter.

"That's premature," I said, keeping my voice level. "It's only been seventy-two hours."

"Seventy-two hours without a single attempt at contact." Ivan adjusted his glasses, a tell that meant he was about to deliver more bad news. "But there's more. He had dinner with the mayor last night."

The laptop screen shifted to surveillance photos—Petrov at Le Bernardin, laughing over fancy wine.

His face showed no stress, no worry, no indication that his daughter was missing.

The man who should be frantically gathering three million dollars was eating oysters and making jokes with city officials.

"When asked about his daughter's absence from the Arts Council gala, he said she was visiting friends in the Hamptons.

" Ivan's tone remained clinical, but I heard the disgust underneath.

Even my emotionally frozen youngest brother found Viktor's callousness offensive.

"He told them she needed a break from the social season. "

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. Clara was in my penthouse, still believing her father would come for her.

Still thinking she mattered enough to save.

How would she react when she learned the truth?

That she was worth less to Viktor than his reputation, his comfort, his fucking dinner reservations?

"He's calling our bluff," Dmitry said, leaning back in his chair. "Thinks we won't actually hurt her. That we'll get tired of babysitting and let her go."

"Send him proof of life," I said, finally turning from the window. "I took photos this morning with today's newspaper.” Clara had not been happy about that. “Let’s make it clear we have her and she's under our complete control."

Dmitry's scarred face split into a grin that would terrify anyone who didn't know him. "Let me break one of her fingers. Or remove it? Mail it to his office in a nice box, maybe with a bow. That'll motivate him. Nothing says 'pay up' like your daughter's pinky in your morning mail."

"No." The word came out sharp enough to cut glass.

Both my brothers looked at me with surprise. In our world, violence was currency, and Dmitry's suggestion wasn't unreasonable. We'd done worse to men who'd betrayed us for less. A finger was almost gentle by bratva standards—reversible with good surgery, a clear message without permanent damage.

But the thought of anyone hurting Clara—the mental image of her delicate fingers broken, her crying in real pain instead of frustrated tears—made rage rise in my throat like bile.

"No?" Dmitry repeated, his scarred face skeptical. "Since when are you squeamish about persuasion tactics? Last month you personally removed three of Piotr Kozlov's teeth."

"That was different."

"How?"

Because Clara isn't just leverage anymore, I didn't say. Because she's mine to protect, not harm. Because the thought of her afraid of me—truly afraid, not the anticipatory fear that made her breath quicken—made something in my chest tighten painfully.

"The asset is worth more intact," I said instead, falling back on cold logic. "She's Viktor Petrov's only child. Her value decreases if she's damaged."

Ivan watched me with those analytical eyes that missed nothing, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell I couldn't quite hide. My youngest brother's ability to read people had saved our organization dozens of times, but right now it felt like standing naked in a snowstorm.

"Strategic thinking," I continued, needing to fill the silence before Ivan voiced his observations. "Viktor has political connections we'll need in the future. If we maim his daughter, those bridges burn permanently. Keep her unharmed, and we maintain leverage for years."

It was a good argument. Logical. The kind of long-term thinking that had built our empire while others fell to short-sighted violence.

But we all knew it was bullshit. I'd never hesitated to use violence before, had never let future political considerations stop me from sending clear messages written in blood and bone.

"The girl is affecting your judgment," Ivan observed quietly, and there it was—the conclusion I'd been dreading. His voice held no accusation, just that clinical detachment that made him so valuable and so dangerous. "You've been different since you brought her to the penthouse."

"The girl is a strategic asset," I responded, but the words sounded hollow even to me. Strategic assets didn't make me check security monitors every hour. Strategic assets didn't make me massage their jaws after punishment, bring them ice cream, call them 'little one' in moments of weakness.

"Worth potentially millions in future leverage against her father's political connections," I continued, needing to fill the silence with logic, with reasons that weren't about the way she'd looked at me this morning—defiant and needy and absolutely magnificent in her rebellion.

"Short-term thinking would destroy long-term value. "

Dmitry stopped pacing, fixed me with those scarred features that had terrified hundreds of men. "You're getting attached."

"I'm being practical."

"You're being something," he said, "but practical isn't it. When's the last time you spent three consecutive nights at the penthouse? You usually can't stand being away from operations for more than a few hours."

He was right. I'd built my life around constant motion, constant work, the kind of schedule that didn't leave room for personal connections. But these past three days, I'd found excuses to work from home, to be where Clara was, to watch her test boundaries and wait for her to break them.

"The asset requires supervision," I said.

"You want to keep her." Dmitry's words weren't a question. "That's what this is about. You don't want Viktor to pay because you want to keep his daughter."

The truth of it hit like a physical blow.

Yes, part of me wanted Viktor to never pay.

Wanted Clara to stay in my penthouse, learning my rules, accepting my control, becoming mine in ways that had nothing to do with debt or leverage.

The thought of her leaving, of returning to her father's indifference, of pretending these days never happened—it made something in my chest tighten painfully.

"What I want is irrelevant," I said, voice hard as winter ice. "We're running a business, not a kidnapping ring for personal gratification. Viktor Petrov owes us three million dollars plus interest. When he pays, she goes. Until then, we maintain professional standards."

Dmitry shrugged, accepting the logic even if he didn't entirely buy it. "So what do we do? Let him ignore us?"

"Double the interest," I said, the decision coming easily. "Every day he delays costs him another hundred thousand. Eventually, the mounting debt will force his hand. Plus, I have a feeling that Clara knows things. About him, and his dealings. Blackmail isn’t off the table."

Or Clara stays with me indefinitely, a traitorous voice whispered in my mind. The thought of her in my penthouse for weeks, months, learning my rules, accepting my control, calling me Daddy without sarcasm—

I crushed the thought before it could fully form.

"Send him photos," I added, voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Her holding today's newspaper. Make sure he sees she's unharmed but under our complete control. Let him know the debt compounds daily."

"And if he never pays?" Ivan asked, fingers resuming their dance across the keyboard. "If he's truly abandoned her?"

Then she's mine, I didn't say. Then I keep her, teach her, protect her, give her the structure she's been craving her whole life.

"Then we leverage her against his political connections directly," I said instead. "Use her as a bargaining chip with his associates. Someone will value her enough to pay, even if her father doesn't."