Page 40 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

"I should change," Clara said, gesturing to my shirt and her leggings.

"No," I decided. "You'll present exactly as you are. Let them see you comfortable in my clothes, casual in my presence. Let them understand that you're not performing for them—you're sharing intelligence because it serves our purposes."

She kissed me then, quick and fierce. "Thank you," she whispered against my lips. "For believing me. For including me. For everything."

"You've earned it," I said simply, then added in a lower voice, "Make me proud, little one."

The smile she gave me could have powered the city. "I will, Daddy. Watch me."

T he conference room filled with cigarette smoke and testosterone, fifteen of my most dangerous lieutenants arranged around the mahogany table like wolves at a kill.

They'd come quickly—Petrov from his Brooklyn territory, Krupin from the docks, Morozov from the financial district where he ran our money laundering operations.

Men who'd killed for me, who'd built my empire with blood and brutality, now staring at Clara like she was either prey or a joke.

She stood at the head of the table in my shirt and her leggings, looking young among these scarred veterans. But her spine was straight, her shoulders back, and when she spoke, she used the voice I'd heard her deploy at charity galas—clear, carrying, impossible to ignore.

"Gentlemen, the Kozlov shipment arrives on the 24th at midnight. Forty million in uncut cocaine. The NYPD won't respond to any calls from that area between eleven PM and three AM."

She moved to the wall where Ivan had projected a map of the harbor, and I watched my lieutenants watch her. Some with hunger—she was beautiful, vulnerable-looking—but most with skepticism. What could this girl know about their world?

"Pier 47 has been closed for renovation for three months," she continued, using a laser pointer Ivan had provided. "But no actual work has been done. It's a shell permit my father pushed through to give the Kozlovs cover."

"Your father," Mikhail interrupted, bandages still wrapped around his forehead from yesterday's fight. His voice carried challenge, testing. "The same father who called you mentally ill on television? Why should we trust intelligence from someone he claims is delusional?"

The room went still. It was a fair question but a cruel one, and everyone waited to see if she'd crumble. I started to stand, to intervene, but Clara's hand moved in a small gesture—wait, I've got this.

"Because my father is a meticulous drunk," she said, meeting Mikhail's eyes directly. "He documents every illegal transaction in a ledger he keeps in his home safe. Behind my dead mother's portrait."

She paused, let that sink in.

"I've been reading that ledger since I was sixteen. At first because I was looking for information about my mother's death—I thought maybe he'd had her killed. He hadn't. Cancer did that job for him. I kept reading because knowledge felt like power in a house where I had none."

The room had gone completely silent now. Even the smoke seemed to pause in its drift toward the ceiling.

"For seven years, I memorized every crime, every payoff, every dirty deal that man made.

I know which judges he owns, which cops he's bought, which construction companies pay him kickbacks.

I know about the harbor master who looks the other way for the right price.

I know about Commissioner Bradley's gambling debts that make him desperate for cash. "

She set down the laser pointer with deliberate precision.

"I'm offering you my father's throat, and through him, the Kozlovs'. Are you interested, or would you prefer to debate my mental health?"

Dmitry laughed—a harsh bark that shattered the tension. "The little princess has teeth," he announced to the room. "And good intelligence. Ivan?"

"I've verified what I can," Ivan confirmed from his seat, fingers still moving across his laptop. "Port schedules align. Police patrol routes have been adjusted as she described. Commissioner Bradley did receive a large cash deposit three days ago, source unknown."

The lieutenants leaned forward now, skepticism replaced by interest. Clara had their attention, and she wielded it like a blade.

"The Kozlovs will have fifteen men at the pier," she continued, back to the map. "Another ten in vehicles here and here." She marked positions with precision. "They think the police blindness makes them invulnerable, but it also means no one will come when they call for help."

She was magnificent. Every moment of those charity galas, every skill she'd developed to navigate New York's elite, now turned to dissecting our enemies. She'd learned to read powerful men, to understand their weaknesses, and she was laying them bare for my wolves to devour.

"The shipment comes from Hector Vargas in Bogotá," she continued. "Exclusive supplier, only one organization per major city. If the Kozlovs lose this shipment, he'll need a new partner."

The implications rippled through the room. Not just stopping the Kozlovs but potentially absorbing their entire supply chain. It was the kind of opportunity that came once in a decade.

"The boat arrives at midnight exactly," Clara said.

"They'll need ninety minutes to unload and verify the product.

My father will be at the Four Seasons with his mistress—alibi established, receipts saved.

Commissioner Bradley will be conveniently at a poker game in Atlantic City with twelve witnesses. "

"Leaving the Kozlovs exposed," Morozov said slowly, understanding dawning. "No political cover, no police protection."

"We hit them at 12:30," I decided, standing now to take control of the tactical planning.

"After they've unloaded but before they can disperse.

Krupin, your men take the perimeter. Petrov, you handle the vehicles.

Morozov, you coordinate with our contacts at the FBI—anonymous tip about major drug shipment, timed for 1:00 AM. "

The men nodded, already calculating logistics, but their eyes kept drifting to Clara with something approaching respect. She'd walked into a room of killers and made them listen through pure intelligence and will.

"Questions?" I asked the room.

"The harbor master," Petrov said. "If he's bought—"

"He'll have a family emergency Thursday afternoon," Clara interrupted smoothly. "His replacement doesn't know about the arrangement. My father mentioned that as a potential problem in the original meeting."

More nods, more respect. She'd thought of everything, remembered every detail that mattered.

"Dismissed," I ordered. "Full operational planning tomorrow, 0800. Come prepared."

The lieutenants filed out, several nodding to Clara as they passed—acknowledgment from men who rarely acknowledged anyone. Mikhail stopped at the door, turned back.

"Good intelligence," he said simply, then to me: "She's an asset, Pakhan. Unexpected, but valuable."

When the room emptied except for my brothers and Clara, she sagged slightly, adrenaline wearing off. I pulled her against me, felt her trembling finely like a wire under too much tension.

"You were perfect," I murmured into her hair. "Absolutely perfect."

"They listened," she said, wonder in her voice. "They actually listened."

"You made them listen," Dmitry corrected, gathering his things. "That's a rare skill. Pakhan, with your permission, I'll coordinate the ground teams."

I nodded dismissal, and my brothers left us alone. Clara turned in my arms, looking up at me with eyes bright with accomplishment.

"Did I make you proud, Daddy?" she asked, voice dropping to that softer register she used when we were alone.

"So proud," I confirmed, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "My brilliant girl, commanding a room of killers like you were born to it."

T he Queens safe house had belonged to a paranoid accountant who'd skimmed from the wrong people—reinforced walls, multiple exits, and a bedroom that felt more like a bunker than a sanctuary.

I'd bought it through untraceable channels after arranging his disappearance, seeing potential in his paranoia.

Now, watching Clara unpack the few things we'd grabbed from the penthouse, I appreciated the previous owner's attention to security even as I planned something that required absolute privacy.

She'd been quiet during the drive here, processing everything—the attack, the move, presenting to my lieutenants.

Her hands moved efficiently, folding clothes into drawers, but I caught the slight tremor in her fingers.

Not fear. Adrenaline finally burning off, leaving her raw and ready for something I'd been planning since I'd first seen her kneel.

I spent an hour walking the perimeter, checking sight lines, testing locks, confirming Ivan's surveillance setup was operational.

When I returned to the bedroom, Clara had finished unpacking and sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing one of my shirts again—she'd claimed half my wardrobe as hers, and I let her because she looked perfect drowning in fabric that smelled like me.

The closet held what I needed. The previous owner had installed a full-length mirror, probably to check for intruders behind him. I wheeled it out, angling it at the foot of the bed with precise care. Clara watched with those intelligent eyes, cataloging every movement.

"I want to try something new. A reward for your bravery," I said, voice deliberately even. Not commanding yet, but preparing her for what was coming. "It's about control and trust. We agree the rules out loud, and your safeword ends everything."

She shifted on the mattress, knees drawing up slightly. "What kind of something?"

"Positions," I said simply. "Formal ones. They give structure to submission, create a framework you can rest in when thinking becomes too much."