Page 39 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Alexei

"Here," he said, freezing a frame from six weeks ago.

A white van, different from today's but with the same tinted windows, parked across from my building.

"And here." Another frame, three weeks back, a man in a baseball cap walking past the entrance four times in an hour.

"Here." A delivery truck that stayed forty minutes for a five-minute job.

The pattern emerged like a photograph developing in solution—gradual, inevitable, undeniable. The Kozlovs hadn't just attacked today. They'd been circling for months, patient as wolves, learning my routines, mapping my defenses, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"No mole," Ivan confirmed, adjusting his glasses in that way that meant he'd triple-checked his conclusion. "No communication intercepts, no unusual financial transfers to our people, no meetings that shouldn't have happened. They've been watching since before Clara arrived, waiting for leverage."

Relief and fury twisted through my chest in equal measure.

My men hadn't betrayed me—that was worth something.

But the Kozlovs had been studying me like a specimen, and I'd been too focused on Clara to notice.

When she hadn't appeared at public events after the auction, when whispers started about her disappearance, they'd connected dots I hadn't realized I'd left visible.

"They saw opportunity," Dmitry said from across my desk, still wearing someone else's blood on his knuckles. "The girl made you vulnerable."

"The girl made me focused," I corrected, though part of me knew he was right. Clara had changed my patterns, disrupted my careful routines. But she'd also given me something worth protecting beyond territory and profit margins.

"Regardless," Ivan continued, pulling up more footage, "the penthouse is compromised. They know entry points, security rotations, response times. You can't stay."

"The Brooklyn safe house?" Dmitry suggested, but I was already shaking my head.

"Too obvious. First place they'd check." I stood, decision crystallizing. "I have another location."

Both brothers looked at me with surprise. Even in our world of secrets, we didn't keep operational details from each other. Usually.

"Insurance," I explained. "Bought it five years ago through a shell company that doesn't trace back to us. Renovated it myself, off the books. No one knows about it except the contractor, and he's been dead three years."

"Paranoid," Dmitry observed, but there was approval in it.

"Prepared," I countered. "We move tonight. Take only essentials. Everything else stays as distraction."

"What about the girl?" Dmitry asked, and I noticed his tone had shifted since yesterday. Not dismissive anymore, but genuinely curious. Watching Clara stand calm while I washed blood off my hands had earned something from him—not quite respect, but its younger cousin.

Before I could answer, Clara appeared in the doorway, looking tired, but alert.

One of my shirts hung to her mid-thigh, black leggings underneath, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that made her look incredibly pretty.

But her eyes were sharp, focused, carrying that particular intensity that meant her mind had been working.

"I remembered something," she said, not asking permission to enter, just claiming space in my office like she belonged there. "About my father. Something that might help."

Six weeks ago, I’d watched her from afar, viewing her as a beautiful asset in a blue dress. Three weeks ago, she'd been a captive learning rules. Now she stood in my operational center at four in the morning, inserting herself into bratva business without hesitation. She really was something.

"Tell us," I said, and made a decision that would have been unthinkable a month ago. I pulled her onto my lap despite my brothers' presence, settling her against my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She tensed for a heartbeat—surprise at the public display—then relaxed into me, understanding this for what it was. Not just affection but declaration. She wasn't just mine in private anymore. She was mine in front of my brothers, my lieutenants, my entire world.

"Three months ago, my father had dinner with Sergei Kozlov and the harbor commissioner. Private room at The Russian Tea Room. That set off alarm bells, because my father hates authentic cuisine."

Ivan's fingers were already flying across his keyboard, pulling up reservation records I didn't want to know how he accessed.

"He took me, of course. Some ‘brainless’ eye-candy for the big bad men.

They sat in the back room, the one with the Firebird mural," she continued.

"Commissioner Bradley arrived twenty minutes late, sweating through his suit.

Kept apologizing, saying traffic was bad, but Kozlov just stared at him until he stopped talking. "

"Power play," Dmitry observed. "Making the commissioner wait, then making him squirm."

Clara nodded against my chest. "They ordered vodka first. My father pretended to like it—he's never developed a taste for anything stronger than champagne, but he matched them shot for shot. By the third round, they stopped talking in code."

Ivan's fingers paused on his keyboard. "Direct discussion of criminal activity?"

"Kozlov had the room swept for bugs first," Clara said. "Made a show of it, actually. Said trust was earned through paranoia. My father laughed like it was a joke, but his hand shook when he poured the next round."

She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and I tightened my arm around her waist.

"Kozlov said, and I'm quoting exactly, 'On the 24th, everything changes. Forty million in pure Colombian product arrives at Pier 47 at midnight. Uncut, pharmaceutical grade, ready for distribution.'"

"Pharmaceutical grade?" Ivan looked up sharply. "That's not street product. That's for high-end distribution, celebrity clients, Wall Street."

"Kozlov mentioned Manhattan specifically," Clara confirmed. "Said they had buyers lined up in every investment bank, law firm, and entertainment company that mattered. Called it 'capturing the luxury market.'"

The scope of it was impressive, even by our standards. The Kozlovs weren't just moving drugs—they were positioning themselves as suppliers to the elite. The profit margins would be astronomical.

"My father asked about security," Clara continued, eyes closed now, fully immersed in the memory. "Kozlov said they'd have fifteen men at the pier, another ten in vehicles nearby. Plus a boat in the harbor as backup escape route."

"Twenty-five men for forty million in product," Dmitry mused. "Light security for that value. They're counting on police blindness."

"Which my father guaranteed," Clara said, and bitterness crept into her voice. "He made Commissioner Bradley promise no patrol cars between Piers 45 and 50 from eleven PM to three AM. Any 911 calls from that area would be mysteriously delayed or misdirected."

She opened her eyes, looked directly at Ivan. "Bradley used the phrase 'technical difficulties with the dispatch system.' My father offered to increase his monthly payment to ensure those difficulties."

"How much?" Ivan asked, already calculating.

"Hundred thousand extra, on top of his usual fifty," Clara said. "My father actually haggled—tried to make it seventy-five—but Bradley held firm. Said the risk was worth the price."

The casual corruption of it, the way they'd negotiated people's safety like a used car sale, made even my stomach turn.

"There's more," Clara said, straightening slightly. "Kozlov mentioned the source. Someone named Vargas in Bogotá. Said he was exclusive, only dealt with one organization per major city. Choosing the Kozlovs over the Sinaloa cartel was apparently a coup."

Ivan was typing furiously now, cross-referencing names, pulling up intelligence from sources I didn't ask about. "Hector Vargas," he confirmed. "Ghost in the DEA files. They know he exists but can't prove it. If the Kozlovs lose his shipment . . ."

"He finds a new partner," Dmitry finished. "Maybe one that already has established distribution networks. Maybe one named Volkov."

The possibility hung between us, bright as a beacon. Not just destroying the Kozlovs but absorbing their supplier, their routes, their entire potential empire. It was almost too perfect.

"The 24th," I said, decision crystallizing. "We hit them at 12:30, after they've unloaded but before they can disperse. Maximum evidence for authorities, maximum loss for them."

"I want to be there," Clara said again, turning to look at me. "Not in the action. But watching. I need to see my father's world collapse."

The need in her voice was razor-sharp, desperate. This wasn't about violence or excitement. It was about witnessing the fall of the man who'd ignored her for twenty-three years, who'd called her crazy on live television, who'd sold her childhood for political points.

"You'll stay in the command vehicle with Ivan," I said, making it clear this wasn't negotiable. "You'll watch through cameras, safe and protected. The moment something goes wrong, Ivan gets you out. No arguments."

She nodded immediately, understanding the gift I was giving her. Most bratva women never saw operations, were kept ignorant for their own protection. But Clara had earned this—with her intelligence, her acceptance, her transformation from victim to partner.

"But first," I continued, standing with her still in my arms, "you help us plan. You'll present the intelligence to my lieutenants yourself. Make them understand what we're dealing with."

"They'll listen to me?" she asked, uncertainty creeping in.

"They'll listen," I said. "They'll respect you because you'll make them. You've been preparing for this your whole life, Clara. Every dinner where you memorized conversations, every meeting where you cataloged crimes. This is your moment."

Dmitry stood, checking his phone. "Lieutenants are gathering. Conference room in ten minutes."