Page 43 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

The final section was photographs from the auction—the night everything changed.

Me in that blue dress my father had chosen, the one that had made me feel like merchandise.

But Alexei's notes were different here, angrier: "He's displaying her like property.

" "She's worth more than this." "Decision made—I'm taking her. "

The last photo was me leaving the auction, and his final note: "Three years of watching ends tonight. Time to act."

I set the folder down with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

Three years. Three years of surveillance, of obsession, of documenting my life in details I'd forgotten myself.

He'd known everything before he'd taken me.

Known my favorite tea, my mother's real story, my secret therapy, my hidden tears.

He'd studied me like I was a doctoral thesis, learned me like a language, memorized me like poetry.

The violation of it was breathtaking. But so was the care. Every note showed someone seeing my pain, my emptiness, my slow drowning in a life that was killing me. He'd watched my father destroy me piece by piece and had finally decided to stop it the only way he knew how—by taking me.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to reconcile the creeping horror of being watched with the desperate gratitude of being seen.

No one had ever paid this much attention to me.

My father didn't know my coffee order after twenty-three years.

Alexei had known it after a week. My father had never noticed my depression.

Alexei had documented every sign, every cry for help I hadn't even known I was sending.

The front door opened—three locks turning in sequence. Alexei was back. I heard his footsteps, measured and careful, probably checking each room the way he always did. Safety first, then finding me. Always finding me, like he'd been doing for three years without my knowledge.

I spread the folder across the coffee table, evidence laid out like accusations. Or love letters. I couldn't decide which.

When his footsteps reached the office door, I looked up, meeting his eyes with the weight of three years of surveillance between us.

"We need to talk," I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded when everything inside me was earthquake.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene—me, eerily calm, surrounded by proof of his obsession.

No surprise crossed his face. Just resignation, like he'd always known this moment would come. Maybe he'd wanted it to.

"You've been watching me for three years," I said, voice level in a way that would have made him proud in different circumstances. The same tone I'd used with his lieutenants, controlled despite the chaos underneath. "Three years, Alexei. Before any of this with my father."

"Yes," he said simply. No deflection, no excuse. He moved into the room but kept distance between us, respecting the danger radiating from my stillness.

"Why?" The word cracked out of me despite my control. "Was I just some . . . project? Some broken girl you decided to collect? Add to your portfolio of damaged things?"

"No." He sat in the chair across from me, and I noticed blood on his knuckles from the discipline meeting.

Fresh blood over old scars, the story of his life written in violence.

"It’s our business to learn about allies and enemies.

Your father was both. We needed to know about potential leverage against him.

Any things we could use. That was you. I saw you at a fundraiser three years ago.

The Alexandria Children's Hospital benefit.

Your father was giving a speech about family values while you stood behind him like a ghost. "

I remembered that night. The dress that had been too tight, the shoes that had cut into my heels, the smile I'd held until my face ached while my father talked about the importance of nurturing children. He'd never nurtured anything in his life.

"You looked . . ." Alexei paused, searching for words in a way I'd rarely seen. "Like you were drowning in plain sight. This beautiful woman disappearing in real-time while everyone watched and no one saw. I couldn't stop watching you."

"So you stalked me." Not a question. The photos made that clear.

"Yes." Still no excuse, no attempt to soften it.

"I told myself it was strategic intelligence at first. Learning about Viktor's family, potential pressure points.

But that was a lie I needed to function.

The truth was I'd become obsessed with the contradiction of you —this bright, fierce soul trapped in designer clothes and empty smiles. "

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, blood from his knuckles dotting his expensive pants.

"I watched you give money to homeless people when you thought no one was looking.

Watched you volunteer at shelters your father didn't know about.

Watched you build an entire life in the margins of his neglect.

You'd read in parks for hours, losing yourself in books like they were oxygen.

You'd visit your mother's grave and tell her about your week, about the charity work that actually mattered to you, about how tired you were of being invisible. "

My throat tightened. Those graveyard conversations had been sacred, private. The one place I could be honest. Except I'd never been alone.

"I documented everything," he continued.

"Every coffee order, every book purchase, every therapy session you paid cash for.

I learned you like your eggs over easy but only when you're sad.

That you bite your lip when you're nervous but only on the left side.

That you touch your mother's ring when you need strength. "

My hand went automatically to the chain at my neck, proving his point.

"And the kidnapping?" I asked, voice smaller than I wanted. "Was that always the plan?"

"Yes and no." He met my eyes directly, unflinching. "When we found out about your father’s betrayal, my brothers had other ideas. But to me, you were the perfect solution."

He stood, pacing now, energy that needed movement.

"But . . . the leverage story was for the bratva, for my brothers who needed to understand it in terms of business.

The truth is simpler and worse—I couldn't watch you disappear anymore.

Every week you got thinner, quieter, less present.

You were fading like an old photograph, and I couldn't stand it. "

"You could have just talked to me," I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew how naive they sounded. "Approached me normally."

"Could I?" He stopped pacing, faced me fully.

"The pakhan of the Volkov bratva approaching Viktor Petrov's daughter for coffee?

You would have run, or your father would have forbid it, or you'd have seen me as another transaction in his world of deals and leverage.

We would never have been equal, never have been real. "

The truth of that sat heavy between us. He was right. If he'd approached me normally, I would have assumed it was about my father, about business, about anything except me.

"So you decided kidnapping was better?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm out completely.

"I'm not a good man, Clara. I'm not even trying to be. I'm a killer who runs half of New York's underworld. But I saw you drowning and I decided to pull you out, even if you hated me for it."

"The notes," I said, gesturing to the photos. "You wrote that I looked hollow, that someone should save me. You wrote that you wanted to kill my father after he humiliated me."

"I meant every word." No shame, no regret.

"I've wanted to kill him dozens of times over three years.

Every time he ignored your achievements, dismissed your intelligence, used you as decoration while treating you like furniture.

The only reason he's still breathing is because killing him then wouldn't have saved you.

It would have just left you alone with his fortune and no idea who you really were. "

I stood, needing to move, to pace, to do something with the energy coursing through me.

"You're sick," I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I wasn't sure I meant them. "You watched me for three years, planned to kidnap me, and I'm supposed to what—be flattered? Grateful? Fall into your arms because you're the first person to actually see me?"

"No," Alexei said, voice steady as granite. "You're supposed to be furious. Violated. You should hate me for the invasion, the theft of your privacy, the absolute arrogance of deciding your life for you."

"I do hate you," I said, but tears were streaming down my face, betraying the complexity of what I actually felt.

"I hate that you saw me when no one else did.

I hate that you knew I was drowning and waited three years to throw me a rope.

I hate that the most fucked up thing anyone's ever done to me is also the only time I've ever felt truly seen. "

The words hung between us, too honest for comfort. I wiped at my face angrily, hating the tears, hating him, hating myself for not hating him enough.

“Honesty,” he said, with respect in his voice.

"Do you understand how twisted this is?" I continued, voice climbing. "And the worst part? The absolute worst part is that I'm standing here feeling grateful. Grateful! Because at least someone gave enough of a damn to pay attention."

The room felt too small suddenly, like the walls were pressing in. My breath came short and sharp, panic mixing with anger mixing with something that might have been love if I'd let myself examine it too closely.

"I can't process this," I said, pressing my palms against my eyes.

"It's too much. The violation and the care, the obsession and the attention.

You took away my agency but gave me structure.

You kidnapped me but saved me. Everything about this is wrong, but it's the first thing in my life that's felt right. "