Page 18 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

But even as I outlined the contingency plan, I knew I'd never go through with it.

Clara wasn't going to be traded to another organization, wasn't going to become someone else's leverage.

If Viktor abandoned her completely, if the debt became impossible to collect, then I'd figure out another solution.

One that kept her exactly where she was—in my penthouse, under my control, calling me Daddy in that breathless voice that haunted my dreams.

Time to check on the asset.

T he music hit me before I even opened the penthouse door—something aggressive and modern that bled through the soundproofing like a challenge.

My key turned in the lock, and the wall of sound that crashed over me made my teeth ache.

Bass lines that belonged in underground clubs, not my carefully controlled space.

The kind of music designed to provoke, to announce rebellion before I even saw what she'd done.

The kitchen told the story first. Broken dishes scattered across granite counters like ceramic confetti, sharp edges catching the afternoon light.

The breakfast I'd specifically instructed her to eat—scrambled eggs with dill, fresh fruit, whole grain toast—had been deliberately poured onto the floor.

Coffee splashed like a Jackson Pollock across the light wall.

And in the center of this destruction stood Clara, still in her silk nightgown at 2 PM despite rules clearly stating she should be dressed by 9 AM.

The nightgown had been a careful choice when I'd stocked her closet—modest enough to be comfortable, silk that would feel good against her skin, a soft pink that should have made her look innocent.

Instead, she looked like a goddess of chaos.

Hair wild from what must have been hours of pacing, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and fury, that chin tilted up in defiance that made my blood run hot despite everything.

I’d told her this morning that I’d be checking in on her dad today. Clearly, that had triggered this rebellion.

Music. Destruction. Not getting dressed.

"Let me guess," she said, voice pitched to carry over the music. Each word dripped sarcasm, but I heard the hurt underneath. "Daddy didn't pay up? Decided his reputation is worth more than his daughter?"

The laugh that followed was bitter as burnt coffee, sharp enough to cut. "I could have told you that three days ago. Could have saved you the trouble of hoping for ransom money that was never coming."

I pulled out my phone, opened the app that controlled the penthouse systems. The music died mid-beat, leaving silence that felt heavier than sound. Clara's breath came quick and shallow in the sudden quiet, the silk nightgown rising and falling in a rhythm that drew my attention despite my fury.

"You broke seven rules," I observed, keeping my voice dangerously quiet as I surveyed the destruction.

The control in my tone was a lie—inside, I burned with conflicting desires.

To punish her for destroying the place. To comfort her for the pain of her father's abandonment.

To bend her over the kitchen counter and show her exactly what happened to bratty girls who pushed too hard.

"Eight if we count the nightgown," I added, letting my gaze travel deliberately over the silk that clung to curves she should have hidden, that she'd displayed specifically to provoke me.

She'd been planning this all morning. Waiting for me to return, choosing each broken rule like weapons in an arsenal.

The destroyed breakfast—rule eight, no refusing meals.

The shattered dishes—rule seven, no destruction of property.

The nightgown at 2 PM—rule fourteen, wearing appropriate clothes.

The music loud enough to disturb the entire floor—rule seventeen, no raised voices extended to unreasonable noise.

"Going to give me another pacifier?" she taunted, but her breath quickened, pupils dilating slightly. She remembered yesterday—the humiliation of it, but also what came after. My hands on her jaw, gentle and caring. The ice cream I'd brought. The soft praise that had made her melt despite her fury.

"Or are you finally going to do what we both know you want to do?"

The words hung between us like a lit fuse.

What we both know you want to do. As if she could see into my mind, see the fantasies that had plagued me since I'd first seen her on Fifth Avenue.

Clara bent over my knee, that nightgown pushed up, my hand marking her pale skin as mine.

Clara crying out my name—my title—as I taught her what real consequences meant.

"What I want," I said slowly, moving closer with deliberate steps that made her breath hitch, "is irrelevant. You're here because of your father's debt, nothing more."

"Liar." The word came out breathless, desperate.

"You watch me on those cameras. I know you do.

Watch me pace at night, watch me read, watch me try to follow your stupid rules.

You could have locked me in a cell somewhere, but instead you gave me silk nightgowns and Egyptian cotton sheets and rules designed to—"

She stopped, color flooding her face as she realized what she'd been about to say. Rules designed to make her feel owned, cared for, controlled in ways she'd craved her entire life.

"Designed to what?" I prompted, now close enough to smell her—vanilla bodywash, the faint musk of arousal she couldn't hide, something wild and desperate underneath.

"To make me need you," she whispered, and the honesty of it hit like a physical blow. "To make me want this. Want you."

My hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to grab her, to press her against the wall and show her exactly how much I wanted her too.

"Your father received proof of life photos an hour ago," I said, needing to establish distance even as her proximity made my blood burn. "He hasn't responded."

Something broke in her expression—not surprise but confirmation of what she'd already known. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the defiant chin dropping for just a moment before she forced it back up.

"Of course he hasn't." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm worth less than his wine collection. Much less than his reputation. I’m worth less than a fucking dinner reservation at Le Bernardin."

The urge to comfort her warred with the need to punish her for the destruction. But how could I punish a woman who'd just had her worst fears confirmed? Who'd learned definitely that she was disposable to the one person who should have valued her above everything?

"That doesn't excuse this," I said, gesturing at the chaos she'd created.

"No?" She stepped closer, close enough that the silk nightgown brushed my suit. "Then what are you going to do about it, Daddy?"

The title on her lips—mocking but also not, sarcastic but also desperate—made heat pool in my gut. She was testing me, pushing to see if I'd follow through on consequences or if I was just another man who'd abandon her when things got difficult.

"Careful, devochka," I warned, voice rough with barely controlled want.

"Or what?" She pressed closer, and I felt every curve through the thin silk. "You'll spank me? Send me to bed without dinner? Make me follow more rules I don't care about?"

"You care," I said with certainty. "You care so much it's killing you. That's why you destroyed my kitchen. Because you care about the rules, about the structure, about having someone who gives enough of a damn to stop you."

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back with vicious determination. "Prove it then. Prove you're different from him. That consequences mean something. That I mean something more than just leverage. Do what you want to do."

"What I want," I said slowly, removing my suit jacket with deliberate precision, "is a woman who can follow simple rules. What I have is a brat who needs to learn consequences."

The jacket folded over the back of the leather chair with practiced care—every movement calculated to build tension, to make her wonder what came next.

My fingers found my cufflinks, removed them with the same unhurried precision.

Cartier white gold, a gift from a grateful politician we'd owned for years.

They clicked against the marble counter like dice being thrown.

Clara's eyes tracked every movement as I rolled up my sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of violence dressed up as business. It was the first time she’d seen my tattoos—Russian Orthodox crosses mixed with bratva symbols that told the story of my rise through blood and discipline.

Each mark earned, each symbol a promise to the family that I'd lead them or die trying.

"Your father is a pig," I told her, watching her lip tremble. "Three days, and he hasn't lifted a finger to get you back. Had dinner with his cronies last night, told everyone you're vacationing in the Hamptons."

"Figures," she whispered, and the pain in her voice almost made me relent. Almost.

But she needed this. Needed consequences that meant something, boundaries that held firm, someone who wouldn't abandon her the moment she became inconvenient.

She'd been screaming into the void of her father's indifference for twenty-three years.

Now she was screaming at me, and I was going to answer.

"So what happens to me now?" she asked, chin lifting with that defiance that made my blood burn. "Now that I'm worthless to everyone?"

"Now you learn that someone in your life actually follows through," I said, sitting on the leather couch that had hosted million-dollar deals and blood-soaked confessions.

The leather creaked under my weight, familiar as my own heartbeat.

"You've been begging for more consequences all day. Come here."