Page 2 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

I pulled out a navy blue silk blouse—Armani, conservative neckline, nothing that could be construed as provocative.

Paired it with a pencil skirt that hit just below the knee.

Professional. Appropriate. Invisible. The fabric whispered against my fingers, expensive and empty as everything else in this mausoleum.

My feet knew the path to the ensuite bathroom without conscious thought.

More marble and gold than a Roman emperor's tomb, with a vanity that could seat three and mirrors that reflected my face from every unforgiving angle.

The classical music that piped through the penthouse's hidden speakers followed me here—Chopin tonight, a nocturne that felt like a funeral march.

I sat at the vanity and opened the drawer containing my stage makeup.

Foundation to even out my complexion, though my skin was already perfect from expensive facials I didn't want.

Concealer for the dark circles that betrayed how little I slept, lying awake most nights staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was all there was.

A neutral eyeshadow palette—nothing too dramatic, nothing that might draw attention.

The routine was automatic. I could do it blindfolded, had done it half-asleep on mornings when facing another day felt impossible.

Primer, foundation, blend. Concealer, set with powder.

Eyeshadow in browns and taupes—colors as forgettable as I was supposed to be.

Mascara, but not too much. Lips in a shade called "Barely There," which might as well have been my life's motto.

Each stroke of the brush erased more of Clara and constructed more of The Daughter.

The real me—the one who'd once dreamed of teaching literature, who'd written poetry in secret journals, who'd given a homeless woman her last fifty dollars just to feel useful—disappeared under layers of expensive products.

I stared at my reflection when I finished.

Twenty-two years old and already a ghost. The girl in the mirror looked polished, refined, exactly what a corrupt city official's daughter should look like.

Her smile never reached her eyes. Her hands never quite stopped shaking.

Her worth measured in how well she could disappear at dinner parties while still reflecting favorably on her father's reputation.

"Practice," I whispered to her, and stretched my lips into the empty smile I'd perfected. Pleasant but not too bright. Interested but not too eager. The smile of someone who existed solely as an accessory to someone else's life.

The Chopin nocturne swelled through the speakers, the minor key filling me with melancholy.

Somewhere in this penthouse, my father was probably on his third glass of wine, reviewing whatever corrupt deal he was orchestrating today.

He wouldn't look up when I entered the dining room. Wouldn't ask about my day.

A knock at my bedroom door interrupted my spiral toward self-pity. "Miss Clara?" Mrs. Brown's voice, soft and respectful. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown," I called back, injecting false cheer into my voice.

"The salmon looks beautiful tonight," she added, and I heard the sympathy in her tone. She knew. Of course she knew. She'd worked for my father for five years, had witnessed hundreds of these silent dinners where I might as well have been furniture.

"I'm sure it's perfect. Your cooking always is."

"You're too kind, Miss Clara." A pause, then: "I've set your place with the good china. The blue pattern you like."

My throat tightened. Such a small gesture, but it really meant something to me. The blue china reminded me of my grandmother’s dishes. Back then, our family hadn’t had money, but we’d had love and laughter.

"That's very thoughtful. Thank you."

Her footsteps retreated down the hallway, and I was alone again.

I wondered what would happen if I walked into that dining room in sweatpants and no makeup. If I told him I'd given money to a homeless woman. If I said I was tired of being a ghost in my own life, tired of being valued only for my ability to not embarrass him at campaign events.

But I wouldn't.

I’d smile, dying inside.

T he table could seat twelve but held only two place settings, marooned at opposite ends like rival kingdoms separated by a mahogany sea.

My father was already three glasses deep into a bottle of 1998 Chateau Margaux.

His tablet—a dinner companion he actually valued—was propped beside his plate, the screen's blue glow reflecting off his reading glasses.

He didn't look up when I entered. Didn't acknowledge my existence beyond the slight pause in his scrolling that said he'd registered another body in the room.

I took my designated seat at the opposite end. The distance between us was vast. We could barely hear each other without raising our voices, which suited Viktor perfectly. He preferred monologues to conversations anyway.

There were documents near to my side of the table though. No doubt he’d been pouring over these before I arrived. Spreadsheets, letters, signed contracts. They looked important.

Mrs. Brown emerged from the kitchen with practiced silence, placing the salmon before us with surgical precision.

The fish lay on its bed of asparagus and saffron rice like something from a food magazine, too beautiful to eat.

My father cut into it without looking, without thanking her, his attention still focused on whatever corruption he was orchestrating via email.

"The Kozlov family has made a very compelling offer," he said suddenly, not bothering to look up from his tablet.

His voice carried the casual tone of someone discussing the weather, not the destruction of people's livelihoods.

"They understand the value of having the right city officials on their side.

Much more generous than our previous Russian associates. "

I knew exactly who those previous associates were.

The Volkov organization had been sending gifts to our penthouse for three years—Italian wine, Russian caviar, anonymous donations that appeared in my father's campaign fund like clockwork.

They'd bought his loyalty, or so they thought.

But loyalty was just another commodity to Viktor Petrov, traded to the highest bidder.

He scrolled through his tablet, cutting his salmon with mechanical precision between swipes. "Twenty percent more than what the Volkovs offer, plus some additional considerations regarding the harbor redevelopment project. Smart men, the Kozlovs. They understand how this city really works."

How this city really works.

Bribes and betrayal.

At least the bratva was honest about what they were. My father wrapped his corruption in campaign speeches about civic duty.

"The transition will need to be handled delicately," he continued, speaking to his tablet more than to me. "Can't have the Volkovs suspecting anything until the contracts are already redirected. I'll need to maintain the appearance of cooperation for at least another month."

He speared a piece of asparagus, chewing thoughtfully while reviewing what looked like construction permits on his screen. City letterhead. Official seals. The machinery of government bent to serve the highest bidder.

"Their Brooklyn waterfront project alone is worth twelve million," he said, washing down the fish with wine that probably cost more than Mrs. Brown made in a month.

"Kozlov's people are prepared to take over the contract immediately once I revoke Volkov Construction's permits.

Some regulatory violations that suddenly come to light, a few failed inspections, and the whole thing collapses. "

My stomach turned. He was discussing destroying a legitimate business—one that employed hundreds of people—with the same detachment he'd use to order office supplies.

Those weren't just numbers on his screen.

They were construction workers with families, suppliers with contracts, an entire ecosystem that would crumble because Dmitri Kozlov had offered a better bribe.

Viktor finally looked up from his tablet, not at me but through me, toward the window overlooking Central Park.

"The beauty of municipal authority," he said, lips curving in what might have been a smile on someone capable of actual emotion, "is that everything can be legal if you file the right paperwork.

Volkov Construction will lose their contracts due to entirely legitimate regulatory concerns.

The fact that Kozlov Industries happens to be positioned to take over those contracts? Pure coincidence."

He returned to his tablet, to his fish, to his wine. I might as well have been one of the chairs for all the attention he paid me. This was how our dinners always went—him monologuing about his schemes while I served as a silent audience, a prop to maintain the image of a family man.

"Alexei Volkov won't take this quietly," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"But that's what the police department contribution fund is for.

Any retaliation from his organization will be met with sudden intense scrutiny from law enforcement.

Amazing how efficient the NYPD becomes when properly motivated. "

Alexei Volkov. I'd heard the name whispered at various political functions, always with a mixture of fear and respect.

The kind of man who controlled half of Brooklyn's construction industry through a combination of legitimate business and less legitimate enforcement.

The kind of man who didn't forgive betrayal.

And here was my father, planning to destroy him over salmon and Chateau Margaux.

"Excellent salmon tonight," he said to the air, maybe to Mrs. Brown if she was listening from the kitchen, maybe to no one at all.

I watched him eat, this stranger who shared my DNA but nothing else.