Page 29 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

T he leather squeaked under me as I shifted, trying to find the perfect position where I could see both the TV and Alexei through his office door.

Three days since I'd signed the contract, and my body had already learned his rhythms—the way he paced during calls, how his shoulders tensed before difficult conversations, the particular shade of gray his eyes turned when he was pleased with me.

I pulled my legs up under me, the cashmere throw he'd draped over me earlier pooling around my waist. The morning had been good—better than good.

He'd woken me with coffee exactly how I liked it, chosen a soft blue dress that made me feel pretty rather than displayed, and given me a kiss on the forehead that lingered just long enough to make my stomach flutter.

These small intimacies had become my new currency.

Through the doorway, I watched him lean back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Russian to someone who was clearly disappointing him.

His free hand moved through the air, conducting an orchestra of irritation only I could see.

The thought of making lunch for him later made me warm—not the elaborate dinners he usually prepared, but something simple.

Maybe that soup his grandmother used to make, the recipe he'd mentioned two nights ago while tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

I was already imagining his surprised pleasure, the way he'd taste it thoughtfully before pronouncing it "almost right, but missing something," when my own face filled the television screen.

The remote slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, bouncing off the coffee table with a crack that should have brought Alexei running.

But I couldn't process anything beyond the photograph—me at the charity auction six weeks ago, wearing the burgundy dress my father had chosen, smiling like I hadn't been dying inside.

"Socialite Clara Petrov's mysterious disappearance has led to complications for the Home & Hope charity," the reporter's voice cut through the static in my head.

Professional concern layered over barely concealed excitement at having actual news to report.

"Sources confirm the $180,000 raised at her recent auction has been frozen pending investigation into her whereabouts. "

One hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

Hearing it now made my chest constrict. Every dollar had been fought for, charm deployed like a weapon against New York's elite who'd rather spend that money on another vacation home.

I'd smiled until my face ached, laughed at terrible jokes, let Harold Morrison rest his liver-spotted hand on my lower back for an uncomfortably long time because his check had five zeros.

"Board member David Maguire states they cannot access funds without Clara's signature and verification of her safety.

" David's face appeared on screen, and I wanted to vomit.

He looked exhausted, stressed in a way that had nothing to do with cameras and everything to do with promises he couldn't keep.

The reporter continued, but her words became white noise against the roaring in my ears.

Marcus Chen's art installation—sold for forty thousand to fund after-school programs. The emergency shelter renovations scheduled for October, before the real cold hit.

The soup kitchen expansion that would double their capacity.

All of it frozen, suspended, destroyed because I'd let myself be kidnapped by a beautiful monster who made me feel alive.

My chest started heaving, but no air seemed to reach my lungs. The room tilted sideways, or maybe I did, the coffee table rushing up to meet my knees as I slid off the couch.

"My fault, my fault, my fault," I heard myself saying, but the voice was all wrong.

Higher, smaller, like when I was seven and learned Mommy wasn't coming home from the hospital, that the cancer had won, that I'd never hear her read me another story.

The memory hit fresh as a new wound, and more tears came, endless tears, like my body had been saving them up for sixteen years.

My hands felt clumsy and too big as I reached for the throw pillow that had fallen with me.

Needed something to hold, needed it so bad my chest hurt worse.

The pillow smelled like Alexei's cologne, that sandalwood and bergamot that meant safe, and I crushed it against my chest hard enough that my arms ached.

If I didn't hold something, I might float away, might disappear, might stop existing altogether.

"Need . . . need . . ." The word came out broken, incomplete.

I knew there were more words, bigger words, but they'd gone somewhere I couldn't reach.

Everything I wanted to say got stuck behind this wall of small, behind tears that wouldn't stop, behind the part of me that had forgotten how to be a grown-up.

The news lady kept talking on the TV, her voice sharp and mean even though she probably wasn't trying to be.

More words about money and signatures and investigations.

Big girl problems that made my head hurt, made the room spin worse, made me want to hide under something soft until it all went away.

My thumb found my mouth without permission.

The shame of it—twenty-three years old with her thumb in her mouth—tried to surface, but it got drowned under the wave of comfort the action brought.

Familiar, safe, something I hadn't done since Mom died and Dad said I was too old for baby things, that Albright women didn't suck their thumbs.

But I wasn't an Albright woman right now. Wasn't anything except small and scared and sorry, so sorry for ruining everything.

"The money's stuck," I told the pillow, words muffled around my thumb. "The people need houses and food and warm places and it's stuck 'cause of me. 'Cause I'm bad. I got taken. I’m always breaking things."

My father's voice echoed in my memory—not cruel, just disappointed.

"Clara ruins everything she touches." He'd said it to someone on the phone once, not knowing I was listening from the stairs.

Or maybe knowing and not caring. The words had burrowed deep, became part of my bones, and now they were all I could hear.

The pillow wasn't enough. Needed something else, someone else, needed—

"Daddy," the word escaped in a whimper that would have mortified adult Clara. But adult Clara was gone, locked away somewhere I couldn't find her. "Daddy, I was bad. Made everything bad."

Where was he? Still in his office talking Russian to someone important, not knowing I was falling apart, breaking into pieces too small to put back together.

"The money's stuck and the people need help and I broke it," I whispered to the pillow, rocking slightly because the movement felt necessary, felt like something that might keep me from disappearing completely.

"Broke it like everything. Like Mommy's vase when I was eight.

Like Daddy's deal when I asked the wrong question at dinner. Like everything I touch."

My free hand found the carpet, fingers digging into the expensive fibers like they might anchor me to something real.

But nothing felt real except the tears and the guilt and the knowledge that somewhere in New York, David was trying to explain to homeless families why their shelter wouldn't be ready for winter.

"Daddy," I tried again, louder this time, but it still came out small and broken. "Need Daddy. Please."

The office door opened—I heard it even through the fog of tears and snot and shame. Footsteps on the hardwood, quick and purposeful, then stopping sudden like he'd hit a wall.

"Clara?" Alexei's voice, sharp with concern.

I couldn't answer properly, couldn't find the words to explain that Clara was gone, had been replaced by something smaller and needier and so much more broken. All I could do was reach for him with one shaking hand while the other kept the pillow pressed tight to my chest.

"Baby girl, what happened?" His voice changed completely on those three words, went from pakhan to something else, something that recognized this wasn't his contract submissive having a bad day.

The tears came harder at the pet name, at the care in his voice, at the way he was already moving toward me with purpose. I was too stressed, too sad to tell him what was going on. Instead, I kept sucking my thumb.

"Daddy," I sobbed around my thumb, and even I could hear how young I sounded, how different from the woman who'd signed a contract three days ago. "Daddy, please."

Alexei dropped to his knees beside me, and his bigness made me feel even smaller, but in a good way, like I could hide behind him from all the scary things.

His eyes did that thing where they looked at everything all at once—my thumb in my mouth, the way I'd made myself tiny in the corner between couch and coffee table, how I was holding the pillow like it might run away.

His face changed, got softer in a way I'd never seen before, like he was looking at something precious instead of pathetic.

"Little one," he said, and his voice was different too. Gentle like when he brought me coffee but more, like talking to something fragile. "How old are you right now?"

"Don't know," I mumbled around my thumb, the words coming out mushy. "Small. Smaller than big Clara."

Big Clara—that was her name, the one who wore nice dresses and ran charities and signed contracts. But I wasn't her right now. Was someone else, someone who didn't have a number age, just small.

He didn't laugh. Didn't look scared or confused or any of the things I thought he might. Just nodded like this made perfect sense, like finding grown women sucking their thumbs on his expensive carpet was normal.

"Stay right here, baby. Daddy's getting you something."