Page 45 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

T he instant I woke, I knew something was wrong.

The hand over my mouth wasn't gentle. Alexei's palm pressed hard enough to trap the scream before it formed, his body above mine tense as piano wire in the pre-dawn darkness.

"FBI," he whispered against my ear, and those three letters turned my blood to ice water. "They're surrounding the house."

I went completely still beneath him, suddenly aware of sounds I'd missed in sleep—car doors closing with deliberate quiet, footsteps on gravel trying for stealth but not quite achieving it. Multiple sets of footsteps. Multiple sides of the townhouse.

My heart hammered against my ribs hard enough that Alexei had to feel it through his chest. We were so close to taking down my father. But he must have moved first, played a card we hadn't seen coming.

"How many?" I managed against his palm when he eased the pressure slightly.

"Too many." His voice carried that flat tone that meant he was calculating odds, trajectories, acceptable losses. All the calculations were coming up red. "Eight vehicles that I can see. More agents than we can fight."

The Queens safe house had been secure for years, unknown to anyone outside Alexei's innermost circle. But somehow my father had found us. Somehow he'd convinced the FBI we were worth this kind of response.

"You need to cooperate," Alexei said urgently, pulling me from bed with movements too controlled for the situation.

My robe appeared around my shoulders—the silk one he'd bought me, soft as water against my skin.

His hands framed my face, forcing eye contact in the darkness.

"Listen to me, Clara. Don't fight them. Don't resist. I'll fix this. "

But I saw the truth in his gray eyes, visible even in the pre-dawn gloom.

He couldn't fix this, not immediately. The FBI wasn't the bratva or the NYPD, weren't the local players he could leverage or threaten or buy.

They were federal, untouchable by his usual methods, operating on a different level entirely.

"They think you kidnapped me," I said, understanding crystallizing like frost on glass.

"I did." No apology in it, just fact. "The paperwork's clear. You've been missing for weeks. Your father's been playing the concerned parent. They have every reason to—"

The front door exploded inward with a crack that made me scream despite myself. Wood splintered, the frame tearing away from the wall.

"FBI! Everyone on the ground!"

Flashlights turned the bedroom into a chaos of moving shadows and blinding light. I couldn't count the agents—too many, all in tactical gear, all with weapons drawn and voices sharp with adrenaline. They moved like water, flowing around furniture, covering all the angles.

Alexei raised his hands slowly, deliberately, stepping in front of me like a shield. Even now, even with federal agents pointing rifles at his chest, his first instinct was to protect me.

"She's here voluntarily," he said, voice carrying that calm authority that had commanded rooms full of killers. "Clara, tell them—"

"Alexei Volkov, you're under arrest for kidnapping and human trafficking."

The words hit like physical blows. Human trafficking. They thought he'd—what? Sold me? Used me?

An agent grabbed Alexei's wrists, forcing them behind his back. The click of handcuffs seemed impossibly loud. Another agent pushed him down to his knees, and something in my chest shattered at seeing him forced to kneel.

"No!" The scream tore from my throat. "I'm here voluntarily! This is my choice!"

I tried to move toward him, but hands caught my arms—not rough but firm, professional, treating me like a victim who didn't know she was a victim.

"Ms. Petrov, we're here to help you." The agent who spoke was female, maybe forty, with a sympathetic face and lying eyes. "Your father's been looking for you. He's been so worried."

"It's Albright!" I snarled, hating my father's name on her lips. "My name is Clara Albright, not Petrov. And I don't need help! I'm exactly where I want to be!"

I twisted in their grip, desperate to reach Alexei. He was still on his knees, an agent's hand on his shoulder keeping him down, but his eyes never left mine.

"Please, listen to me," I begged, words tumbling over each other in my desperation to make them understand. "I signed a contract. I chose this. I love him—"

"She's exhibiting signs of Stockholm syndrome," someone said behind me, clinical and dismissive. "Exactly what the father described."

Nothing I said would matter because they'd already written the story.

"That's not—I'm not—" I struggled harder, but there were too many hands, too many bodies between me and Alexei. "Please, you have to listen! My father is lying! He's involved with the Kozlovs, he's taking bribes, he's—"

"Get her out of here," someone ordered. "We need to process the scene."

They started pulling me toward the door, and panic made me wild. I kicked, twisted, bit at the hands holding me. Not to escape but to stay, to not be separated from the one person who'd ever truly seen me.

"Alexei!" His name ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.

"Don't fight them, baby girl," he called back, voice steady despite everything. "Remember what I taught you. Be smart. Be patient."

An agent shoved him toward the hallway, toward a different exit, and I realized with horrible clarity that they were separating us. Different vehicles, different destinations. They were making sure we couldn't coordinate stories, couldn't plan, couldn't even say goodbye.

"No, please," I begged the female agent. "Just let me say goodbye. Please, just one minute—"

"You'll be okay," she said with that false sympathy that made me want to claw her eyes out. "You're safe now. We're taking you to get help."

The last glimpse I got of Alexei was his profile in the hallway light, jaw set, hands cuffed behind his back, surrounded by agents who had no idea they were arresting the only person who'd ever loved me without conditions.

Then they dragged me into the pre-dawn darkness, and the Queens safe house—our sanctuary, our planning center for justice—became just another crime scene.

The gravel bit through my thin slippers as they dragged me toward a black SUV with government plates.

The pre-dawn air was cold enough to make me shiver, or maybe that was shock.

Two agents flanked me, hands firm on my upper arms, while others secured the perimeter like this was some kind of terrorist raid.

"Get me Viktor Petrov on the phone!" I demanded, voice cracking with desperation. "Call him right now! He's lying to you!"

The female agent—Agent Sanchez, according to her jacket—exchanged glances with her partner. Something passed between them, some silent communication that made my stomach drop.

"Your father is meeting us at the facility," Sanchez said carefully. "He's very concerned about your well-being."

"Check his finances," I insisted, trying to wrench free even though it was pointless. "He's taking bribes from the Kozlov bratva. Sergei Kozlov, specifically. There's a drug shipment coming in on the 24th—Pier 47, midnight. Forty million in cocaine. My father arranged for the police to ignore it."

The agents weren't even pretending to listen anymore. One pulled out a folded document from his jacket, official seals visible even in the darkness.

"Ms. Petrov," he said, using that name again like a slap, "we have a psychiatric hold order signed by Judge Morrison. Your father has provided extensive documentation of your mental health struggles, including a history of paranoid delusions and violent outbursts."

"What mental health struggles?" The words came out almost laughing because it was so absurd. "What violent outbursts? I organize charity galas! I read books! The most violent thing I've ever done is dance!"

But even as I said it, I heard how I sounded—denying, defensive, exactly what someone with mental health issues might say. My father had thought of everything.

Movement near the other SUV caught my eye. They were loading Alexei into the back, two agents on either side. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the controlled fury in every line of his body. He wasn't fighting—he was too smart for that—but his eyes found mine across the chaos.

"Baby girl, don't fight," he called out, voice carrying despite the distance. "Remember what I taught you—"

An agent shoved him fully into the vehicle, cutting off his words, but I understood. Be smart. Play their game. Survive until he could fix this. But how could he fix federal charges? How could he fix a psychiatric hold that painted me as delusional?

"I'm not mentally ill!" I screamed, and heard how that sounded too—protesting too much, too loud, too desperate. Every denial just dug me deeper. "I'm not the one who needs help! My father is a criminal! He's been taking bribes for years! I can prove it—I have names, dates, amounts—"

"She's becoming hysterical," one of the agents said, not even to me but over my head like I wasn't there. "Exactly what the father warned us about."

"Please," I tried again, forcing my voice calmer even though my heart was trying to escape through my ribs. "Just investigate. One phone call to verify what I'm telling you. The 24th, Pier 47. You'll find the drugs, you'll find the Kozlovs, you'll see I'm telling the truth."

Sanchez's face softened with what she probably thought was compassion. "Honey, you've been through a terrible ordeal. It's natural to be confused, to create narratives that make sense of trauma—"

"I'm not creating anything!" The calm shattered, and I was thrashing again, wild with the need to make them understand. "He's using you! My father is using the FBI to silence me because I know about his crimes!"

I managed to break free for exactly two seconds before three agents converged, hands everywhere, pressing me against the SUV's side. My cheek hit cold metal, and I could see Alexei's vehicle pulling away, red taillights disappearing into the darkness.