Page 34 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

"I want him to suffer," she said quietly. "Not physically. I want him to lose everything that matters to him—his position, his reputation, his freedom. I want him to know what it feels like to be powerless."

I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb, gentle despite the violence we were discussing.

"Then that's what you'll have," I promised. "But we do it my way. Strategic. Calculated. Devastating."

She nodded, then looked at the destruction she'd wrought on my office. Books scattered everywhere, coffee dripping down the wall, crystal fragments catching the light like fallen stars.

"I'll clean this up," she offered weakly.

"No," I said firmly. "You needed to break things. Sometimes rage needs outlet, and better my office than keeping it poisoned inside you. Every rule has an exception."

Ivan moved closer, stepping carefully over the book massacre. "You said you have information. Records of conversations?"

Clara nodded, steadier now that we were talking strategy instead of emotion. "Everything. I might have been invisible, but I listened to everything. Remembered everything."

"Good," Ivan said, and coming from him, it was high praise. "We'll need it all. Every detail, every conversation, every crime you witnessed."

"I can do that," she said, and there was steel in her voice now, forged in the fire of betrayal. "I can bury him."

"We," I corrected, tilting her chin up. "We bury him. You're not alone in this anymore."

T he shower started running down the hall—Clara needing to wash off the rage and tears—while Ivan and I retreated to what remained of my office.

Books lay scattered like casualties, coffee still dripped down the wall, and crystal fragments crunched under our feet.

Ivan studied the destruction pattern with the same intensity he brought to financial spreadsheets.

"Dmitry needs to hear this," I said, pulling out my phone.

Our middle brother answered on the second ring, engine noise in the background telling me he was at the warehouse. "Tell me someone's dead," he said by way of greeting. "I'm bored, and the Kozlov shipment isn't until Thursday."

"Viktor Petrov held a press conference," I said, putting him on speaker. "Called Clara mentally ill, aligned publicly with the Kozlovs."

The engine noise cut off abruptly. "He did what?"

Ivan pulled up the video on his laptop, and we could hear Dmitry watching, his breathing getting heavier with each of Viktor's lies. When it ended, the silence stretched for three seconds.

"Let me kill him," Dmitry said immediately, voice carrying that particular edge that meant he was already planning methods. "One shot, back of the head, make it look like suicide. Guilty conscience over betraying his daughter. Clean, simple, satisfying."

"No," I said, stepping over the Tolstoy casualty. "Clara deserves better revenge than blood."

"Better than blood?" Dmitry's laugh was sharp. "Brother, have you forgotten who we are? Blood is our currency."

"Not this time." I picked up a miraculously unbroken paperweight, turning it over in my hands. "She wants him to suffer legally, publicly. Wants him to lose everything that matters—position, power, reputation."

There was a pause, then: "You've changed, brother. The girl's made you soft."

Before I could respond, Ivan spoke—unusual enough that both Dmitry and I went silent.

"The girl's made him complete," Ivan said quietly, adjusting his glasses in that way that meant he was about to dissect something. "Not soft. Complete."

"Complete?" Dmitry repeated, skepticism dripping from the word.

"I ran a psychological profile," Ivan continued, ignoring our surprise. "Professional curiosity."

"You profiled my—" I started, then stopped, unsure what to call Clara. My captive? My submissive? My little girl?

"Your mate," Ivan supplied simply. "That's what she is on a psychological level. Your matching pathology."

Dmitry made a sound of disgust. "Pathology? Jesus, Ivan, they're not lab rats."

"Aren't they?" Ivan pulled up something on his laptop, though we couldn't see it through the phone.

"Alexei shows classic signs of protective dominance rooted in childhood trauma—the need to control stems from the chaos leading up to our father's death.

Clara displays complementary submission patterns, also trauma-based—a need for structure and boundaries stemming from emotional neglect. "

"You're saying we're both damaged," I said flatly.

"I'm saying you're both damaged in ways that fit together perfectly.

" Ivan's voice carried an unusual warmth.

"She needs exactly what you need to give—structure, protection, controlled environment.

You need exactly what she needs to give—trust, submission, someone to protect who won't betray you like Father did by dying. "

The casual mention of our father's death should have angered me. Instead, I found myself considering Ivan's words with uncomfortable clarity.

"She's dangerous for him," Dmitry argued through the phone. "A weakness enemies could exploit. The Kozlovs already know about her—Viktor just giftwrapped that information."

"She's perfect for him," Ivan countered, and the conviction in his voice surprised me. Ivan never had convictions about emotional matters.

"It started wrong, Ivan," I said quietly. "Kidnapping, coercion—"

"Roses that bloom in the harshest soil grow the strongest roots," Ivan interrupted. "You think normal courtship would have worked? She'd have been too guarded, you'd have been too controlled. You needed the crucible."

He pulled up new files on his laptop, fingers flying across keys. "With her information and my forensic accounting, we can destroy him legally. No blood, no bratva violence that brings heat on our operations. Clean devastation using the system he thought he owned."

"You're really on board with this?" Dmitry asked, disbelief coloring his tone. "Ivan Volkov, the ice prince, supporting his brother's Stockholm syndrome romance?"

"I'm supporting my brother's evolution," Ivan said simply.

"She makes you human, Alexei. We all benefit from that.

The construction contracts you've negotiated since she arrived have been more favorable—you're thinking long-term instead of immediate gratification.

You haven't killed anyone in two weeks, which has to be a record. "

"I've been busy," I muttered.

"You've been happy," Ivan corrected. "Or as close to it as men like us get. She grounds you, gives you purpose beyond the bratva."

"And when enemies use her against me?" I asked the question that had been haunting me since I'd signed that contract.

"Then you'll protect her," Ivan said simply. "Like you protected us after Father died. Like you've protected the family for fifteen years. But this time, you'll be protecting something that's purely yours, not an obligation you inherited."

Dmitry sighed through the phone, heavy and resigned. "You're both insane. But if we're doing this—destroying Viktor legally—we do it thoroughly. I want him to rot in federal prison, not some minimum-security country club."

"Agreed," I said, feeling something shift in my chest. My brothers, supporting this insanity. "Ivan, what do you need?"

"Everything Clara knows. Every conversation, every detail, every crime she witnessed. I'll build a case so airtight the Southern District will name buildings after us." He paused. "Metaphorically."

"She'll do it," I said with certainty. "She wants him destroyed more than we do."

"Good," Dmitry said. "Because if this fails, if he hurts her again, I'm going back to my original plan. One bullet, problem solved."

"It won't fail," Ivan said with that particular tone that meant he'd already run probabilities. "Viktor Petrov thinks he's protected himself, but he's actually exposed his throat. Clara's his weakness—he just doesn't know it yet."

The shower turned off down the hall, and I knew Clara would emerge soon, ready to plan her father's downfall.

"I have to check on her," I said.

"Alexei," Ivan said, stopping me. "For what it's worth, I like her. She threw a book directly at my head and didn't apologize. That takes backbone."

From Ivan, that was practically a declaration of love.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "Both of you."

"Just keep her safe," Dmitry said. "And if you need bodies disposed of later, call me first. I'm still bored."

I hung up, looking at the destruction Clara had wrought. My brothers were right—she'd changed me, made me something more than just the pakhan.

C lara emerged from the bedroom transformed—not the raging woman who'd destroyed my office or the little girl who'd needed chocolate milk, but something deadlier: focused.

She'd pulled her wet hair back in a severe bun that emphasized her cheekbones, making her look older, sharper.

My shirt hung loose on her frame, sleeves rolled up like she was ready for manual labor, and she'd paired it with jeans that had seen better days.

This wasn't the polished charity hostess or the controlled daughter. This was Clara preparing for war.

"We'll need a clean workspace," she said without preamble, moving past us toward the dining room. "Somewhere we can spread out, organize everything chronologically."

Ivan and I exchanged glances—her transformation from emotional to tactical was impressive—then followed her. She was already clearing the dining table with efficient movements, stacking my morning newspapers in neat piles, arranging space for what was to come.

Ivan set up three laptops while I brought legal pads and pens.

Within minutes, we'd transformed my formal dining room into a war room, the space where we'd plan Viktor Petrov's legal destruction.

Clara stood at the head of the table like a general surveying maps, then pulled out a chair with decisive movements.

"We'll start with January," she said, voice clinical. "He's most vulnerable there—new fiscal year means new bribes, everyone needs their payments reset."