Page 23 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

A lexei had led me to his dining table—not the casual kitchen island where we usually ate, but the formal table where he probably planned murders over imported vodka.

The city lights threw shadows across his face that made him look older, more dangerous, more like the pakhan who'd kidnapped me than the man who'd just shown me his grandmother's garden.

He put a folder down on the table in front of me.

"Before you open that," he said, voice dropping to that register that made my spine straighten automatically, "you need to understand who I am. Not the man who brings you tea and teaches you Russian. The real me."

His hands rested on the table between us, and for the first time, I really looked at them.

Not the manicured nails or the expensive watch, but the scars across his knuckles, the slight crookedness of his ring finger like it had been broken and reset wrong, the calluses that didn't come from construction work.

"I need you to understand what you're considering tying yourself to," he continued, gray eyes flat as winter ice. "The man you think you know is a fraction of who I am."

My mouth went dry. Part of me wanted to run back to my room, pretend this conversation wasn't happening. But the larger part—the part that had been craving something real my entire life—stayed seated, waiting.

"I've killed seventeen men," he said, each word deliberate as a blade between ribs.

"Not at a distance, not with a gun from across a room.

With these hands." He flexed his fingers slightly, those scarred knuckles catching the light.

"I remember each one. The first was when I was nineteen—a rival who'd threatened Dmitry.

I beat him until his face wasn't a face anymore, until my hands were so swollen I couldn't make a fist for a week. "

The words should have made me run. Should have sent me scrambling for the door, for safety, for a world where the man who'd massaged my jaw after punishment wasn't casually discussing murder. Instead, I found myself leaning forward, studying his face for signs of remorse, regret, anything human.

There was nothing. Just cold recitation of facts.

"I've ordered the deaths of dozens more," he continued. "Men who betrayed us, who threatened our operations, who simply knew too much. I've burned down businesses that wouldn't pay protection—watched families lose everything because the owner thought he could refuse the Volkov bratva."

My stomach clenched, but not entirely from horror. There was something else—a sick fascination with this darkness he was showing me, this truth beneath the tailored suits and careful control.

"I've had men's families threatened to ensure loyalty," he said, and now his eyes were studying me, cataloging my reactions like evidence. "Not harmed—I have rules about women and children —but threatened. Made them understand that defying me meant consequences for everyone they loved."

"Why are you telling me this?" My voice came out steadier than expected.

"Because you need to know exactly what you're choosing.

" He leaned forward, and I could smell his cologne mixed with something darker—gun oil maybe?

. "Three months ago, I personally broke a man's fingers, one by one, because he sold information about our shipments.

He screamed after the third one, begged after the fifth, passed out at the seventh. I finished the job anyway."

The image should have disgusted me. Should have made me see him as a monster. But all I could think about was how those same hands had been so gentle with me, how they'd brought me ice cream and massaged my sore jaw and tucked me into bed with a tenderness that didn't match these confessions.

"Last year," he continued, relentless now, "I watched a traitor drown in concrete. Held him down while it hardened around his legs, then his waist, then his chest. It took three hours. My only regret was the mess—we had to tear down the entire warehouse floor to hide the evidence."

"Jesus," I whispered.

"No," he said sharply. "No God here. No absolution. I'm not confessing to seek forgiveness, Clara. I'm telling you who I am so you can make an informed choice."

He stood abruptly, pacing to the window with movements that reminded me of a caged predator. The city sprawled below us, lights twinkling like stars that had fallen to earth, and I wondered how many of those buildings he controlled, how many bodies were buried in their foundations.

"This is who you think you want," he said, back still to me. "A man who would choose the bratva over you every time. Who could order a murder, then come home and kiss you with the same mouth."

He turned then, and the look on his face made my breath catch—not because it was frightening, but because it was so carefully blank. Like he'd already accepted my rejection, already knew I'd run.

"I'm not a good man, Clara. I'm not even trying to be. I take what I want, I keep what's mine, and I destroy anything that threatens my family."

He moved back to the table but didn't sit, looming over me with all that barely contained violence radiating from every line of his body.

"I've done things that would make you sick," he said softly. "Things that would give you nightmares."

My hands shook slightly where they rested on the table, but I didn't pull them back. Didn't flinch when he leaned down, putting us at eye level.

"So I'll ask once more," he said, voice deadly soft. "Knowing this, knowing exactly what kind of monster I am, do you still want to see what's in that folder?"

The question hung between us like a blade waiting to drop. This was my exit, my last chance to walk away from whatever dark promise that folder contained. I could go back to my room, pack my things if he'd let me, try to return to a normal life where men didn't casually discuss murder over dinner.

But normal had never been enough. Normal was my father's indifference, society's empty smiles, a life of being decorative and meaningless.

This man, this monster who was offering me something in that folder—he saw me.

The real me. The girl who needed structure and consequences and someone strong enough to contain all my chaos.

He was offering me something real, even if it came soaked in blood.

I looked up at him, at those gray eyes that had gone dark with expectation of rejection, and made my choice.

"Yes," I said.

Alexei's expression shifted—surprise flickering across his features before he schooled them back to neutral. Like he'd been so prepared for rejection that acceptance caught him off-guard.

"I know who you are, Alexei." My voice stayed steady despite my racing heart. "You're also the man who didn't hurt me when you could have. Who makes sure I eat. Who built a Russian garden in the sky because you miss your grandmother."

"That doesn't erase the blood on my hands."

"No," I agreed. "But it means you're more than just violence. You're someone who creates as well as destroys. Who protects what matters to him." I reached for the folder, fingers trembling slightly. "And for some insane reason, I think I might matter to you."

"You have no idea," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.

My hands shook as I opened the folder. The first page made my breath catch—not because of what it said, but because of how carefully it had been crafted.

This wasn't some downloaded template or hasty arrangement.

Every word was handwritten in Alexei's precise script, the kind of penmanship that belonged to someone who'd learned to write with rulers and sharp consequences for sloppy letters.

"Relationship Agreement - Dominant/submissive Dynamic with DDlg Elements" stretched across the top in letters that managed to be both beautiful and imposing.

"This isn't a game," Alexei said, settling back into his chair with predatory grace. "If we do this, I own you completely. Not like now, where you're here because of your father. This would be you choosing to belong to me."

The weight of that—choosing—made my chest tight. For twenty-three years, I'd never chosen anything real. College had been selected for me, my social circle predetermined, even my rebellion carefully contained within acceptable limits. But this? This was a choice that would remake me completely.

I read the first section, voice catching slightly: "The submissive (hereafter 'little one' or 'baby girl') agrees to submit wholly to the Dominant (hereafter 'Daddy' or 'Sir') within the boundaries set by this contract."

The words on paper made everything real in a way our interactions hadn't. Seeing "Daddy" written in his careful handwriting, seeing myself referred to as "little one"—it was like reading my own deepest needs reflected back at me in ink.

"The terminology is important," Alexei said, business-like despite the heat I could see in his eyes. "When you're feeling small, vulnerable, in need of care, you're my little one. When you're feeling bratty, testing boundaries, you're my baby girl. The distinctions matter."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Between my legs, heat gathered with embarrassing intensity. Just reading about being his, having it formalized like this, was making me wet.

"Section one," he continued, voice dropping to that instructor tone that made me automatically pay attention. "Daily structure. You'll wake when I say, sleep when I say. Usually that means up by eight, asleep by eleven, but I'll adjust based on your needs."

"My needs?" I managed.

"If you're sick, recovering from punishment, or deep in little space, you might need more rest." The casual way he said 'recovering from punishment' made my thighs clench.

"I'll choose your clothes unless you've earned the privilege to select your own.

You'll eat every meal, no exceptions. No more pushing food around your plate or claiming you're not hungry. "

"What if I'm really not—"