Page 37 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Through the monitors, I watched the garage feed and counted. Six men exiting the vans, all in tactical gear that didn't quite hide the neck tattoos. Kozlov soldiers. Had to be. They moved with military precision, checking corners, maintaining sight lines. Professional killers coming for me.

Alexei's phone rang—Dmitry's ringtone. He answered in Russian, but switched to English mid-sentence, and his words carried clear through the reinforced door.

"Mikhail's compromised or dead. They knew exactly when to move. Someone told them she was here, not at the safe house." His voice stayed level, but I saw his free hand clench. "How far out are you?"

A pause, then: "Ten minutes is too long. They're already in the building. Six that I can see, probably more." Another pause. "No, I can hold them. Just get here."

He hung up, made another call. This time pure Russian, but I recognized Ivan's name. Every word spoken while he moved, checking weapons, testing the edge of a blade against his thumb, drawing blood he didn't seem to notice.

I found controls for the monitors, figured out how to switch between feeds. The Kozlov soldiers were in the lobby now. Eddie was slumped over his desk—unconscious or dead, I couldn't tell. They moved toward the elevators with purpose. They knew exactly where to go.

"Alexei," I called out, needing to warn him.

He appeared in the panic room doorway, fully armed now, looking like death in a white shirt. Behind him, I could see he'd overturned furniture, creating cover positions. Preparing for siege.

"They're in the elevator," I said, pointing to the monitor. "Six of them. Armed."

He crossed to me in three strides, hands framing my face again. This close, I could see the calculation in his eyes—trajectories, probabilities, acceptable losses. All of it centered on keeping me alive.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, voice dropping to that register that bypassed my brain and spoke directly to my nervous system.

"That panel leads to a tunnel. The tunnel goes to the building next door, exits through their basement.

If anyone but me or my brothers comes through that door, you run.

Don't think, don't wait, don't look back. You run."

"I can help—"

"No." The word cracked like a gunshot. "Your help is staying alive. That's all I need from you. Stay alive."

He pulled a Glock from the wall, checked it, pressed it into my hands. The metal was cold, heavier than I expected. Real in a way that made this situation suddenly, terrifyingly concrete.

"Safety here," he showed me, guiding my thumb. "Push to fire. Point at center mass—the chest—and squeeze, don't pull. Empty the entire magazine if you have to. Don't hesitate. Anyone who comes through that door who isn't me is here to hurt you in ways that make death seem merciful."

My hands shook around the gun's grip.

"I don't—I've never—"

"You can and you will," he said firmly. "You threw books at my wall with perfect aim when you were angry. This is the same thing. Point and throw, just with bullets."

Despite everything, I almost laughed.

On the monitors, the elevator passed the third floor. Fourth. Fifth.

"I have to go," he said, but didn't move, eyes locked on mine like he was memorizing my face.

"Don't die," I whispered, the only words I could manage.

"I don't plan to," he said, then pulled me against him, one hand tangled in my hair, the other pressing between my shoulder blades. For a moment, we just breathed together, existing in the space between safety and violence.

The elevator passed the seventh floor.

"Alexei," I started, not knowing how to finish.

"I know," he said against my hair. Then, pulling back, looking directly into my eyes: "I love you."

The words hung between us, impossible and perfect and absolutely the wrong time.

"I—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to my lips. "Tell me after. When this is over, when you're safe, tell me then. Give us both a reason to survive this."

The elevator dinged—our floor.

He kissed me once more, quick and hard, then stepped back. The man who'd just said he loved me vanished, replaced by the pakhan. He pulled the panic room door most of the way closed, leaving it cracked just enough for me to hear what came next.

"Stay alive, little one," he commanded, and then he was gone, striding toward the elevator where six men were coming to take me from him.

I pressed against the door frame, gun heavy in my hands, watching the monitors as Alexei positioned himself with clear sightlines to the elevator. Through the crack, I heard the elevator doors open. Heard boots on marble. Heard the sudden, sharp bark of gunfire that meant the war had come home.

The first Kozlov soldier died before his foot cleared the elevator threshold.

On the monitor, I watched Alexei move like something mythological—brutal, graceful, inevitable.

His knife opened the man's throat in one smooth motion, arterial spray painting the marble I'd walked on barefoot this morning.

The soldier's hands went to his neck, pointless, already dead but not knowing it yet.

Alexei was already moving, using the dying man as a shield while the second soldier raised his weapon.

Two soft pops from Alexei's suppressed pistol—chest shots, grouped tight enough to fit under a playing card.

The second man crumpled, his tactical gear useless against someone who knew exactly where armor didn't protect.

The third soldier tried to retreat into the elevator, but Alexei grabbed his vest, yanked him forward into a knee that shattered facial bones with a crunch I heard through reinforced walls.

Another knife appeared from somewhere—sleeve, belt, thin air—and found the gap between helmet and vest. The soldier dropped, twitching twice before going still.

Three men dead in less than ten seconds.

Movement on another monitor caught my eye—southwest stairwell, three more soldiers ascending. They moved carefully, checking corners, maintaining overlapping fields of fire. Professional. Lethal.

"Southwest stairs," I whispered urgently, knowing he couldn't hear me, willing him to somehow know anyway.

Then Mikhail appeared on that screen, and my heart nearly stopped.

Blood ran from a gash in his forehead, his usually perfect suit torn at the shoulder, but he moved with the same lethal purpose I'd learned to recognize in all the Volkov men.

He came up behind the ascending soldiers like a ghost, piano wire appearing in his hands—where had that come from?

—and the rear soldier died silent, pulled backward into the shadows.

The second soldier turned, rifle rising, but Mikhail was already inside his guard.

They grappled against the stairwell wall, and even through the grainy monitor feed, I could see Mikhail's experience overwhelming the younger man's strength.

A quick twist, a muffled crack, and another Kozlov soldier stopped being a problem.

The third soldier got a shot off—the sound echoed through the building—before Mikhail's thrown knife caught him in the throat. He tumbled down the stairs, rifle clattering against concrete, and didn't get up.

Another monitor showed the lobby. Dmitry had arrived with what looked like a small army—eight men, all armed, moving through the space with coordinated precision.

They flowed like water around obstacles, each covering the others' blind spots.

Two Kozlov soldiers who'd been stationed in the lobby as lookouts lasted exactly as long as it took Dmitry to reach them.

He didn't use weapons, just his hands, breaking one man's neck with a twist that looked almost casual, crushing another's windpipe with a strike that lifted the soldier off his feet.

But I couldn't look away from Alexei.

He'd moved into the living room now, and something was wrong.

A Kozlov soldier had gotten behind the couch—my coloring books were probably still there, crayons scattered across the coffee table.

They circled each other like predators, and I saw Alexei favoring his left side slightly. When had he been hit?

The soldier lunged, and they crashed into my carefully arranged reading corner. The lamp I'd picked out last week shattered. They grappled against the bookshelf, and I saw the soldier land a punch that snapped Alexei's head back, blood spattering from his split lip.

Alexei laughed.

Actually laughed, the sound carrying clear through the panic room door. It was the laugh of someone who'd been waiting for this, who found joy in the violence, who'd been playing civilized when his true nature demanded blood.

He let the soldier hit him again, then caught the third punch, twisting the arm with enough force that I heard the bone break from here. The soldier's scream cut off when Alexei's elbow connected with his temple. He dropped, unconscious or dead, and Alexei stepped over him without checking which.

My finger had moved to the gun's safety without conscious thought. If someone got past him, if they came for me, I'd empty this entire magazine into them. Not because I had to, but because they'd hurt him. Made him bleed. Threatened what was ours.

Another soldier appeared from the hallway—he'd been hiding, waiting for an opening. His rifle was already raised, finger on the trigger, and for one horrible second I thought I was about to watch Alexei die on monitor nine.

But Dmitry came through the penthouse door like a freight train, tackling the soldier before he could fire.

They rolled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and profanity—Russian and English mixed together in creative combinations.

Dmitry came up on top, fists falling like hammers, continuing long after the soldier stopped moving.

"Enough," Alexei said, pulling his brother off. "He's done."

"He almost shot you," Dmitry snarled, but let himself be pulled away.