Page 46 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

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

"We need to sedate her for transport," someone said behind me. "She's a danger to herself in this state."

"No!" I twisted to see an agent pulling out a small case, a syringe visible inside. "No, please, just listen to me! The 24th! Pier 47, midnight, you'll see—"

"Hold her still."

Three sets of hands pinned me—arms, shoulders, hips. I fought with everything I had, kicking, biting, completely feral. My elbow connected with someone's ribs, my heel found a shin, but there were too many of them.

"Please," I begged as they forced my arm straight. "Please don't do this. I'm not crazy. I'm not sick. I just need someone to listen—"

"This is for your safety," Sanchez said, holding my arm steady as the needle approached. "You'll feel better soon."

"I'll feel nothing soon," I snarled, but the needle was already piercing my skin, sharp pain followed by burning pressure as they pushed the plunger.

The effect was almost immediate. The world started softening at the edges, like someone had thrown gauze over reality. My legs went weak, and the agents' grip changed from restraining to supporting.

"There we go," she murmured. "Just relax."

"You're making a mistake," I managed, tongue already feeling thick. "My father . . . he's playing you . . ."

They were loading me into the SUV now, hands gentle but firm. The leather seats were cold against my skin where the robe had fallen open. Someone buckled a seatbelt across my chest, and I couldn't even lift my arms to stop them.

"Alexei," I whispered, but his vehicle was long gone, just empty road where he'd been.

"He can't hurt you anymore," Sanchez said from the front seat.

I wanted to scream that he'd never hurt me, that he'd saved me, that they were delivering me back to the real monster. But my mouth wouldn't form the words anymore. The sedative was pulling me under like a riptide, and fighting it was pointless.

The last coherent thought I managed was that my father had won. He'd turned my truth into symptoms, my reality into delusions, my love into sickness. And now I was being delivered back to him, drugged and discredited, while the only person who'd ever truly seen me was heading to federal prison.

C onsciousness came back in slow, bleak, layers, each one heavier than the last. First the white ceiling, industrial tiles with water stains that looked like countries I'd never visit.

Then the beeping—steady, mechanical, tracking my heart rate like it was data instead of feeling.

The antiseptic smell hit third, sharp enough to cut through the chemical fog but not enough to clear it completely.

My wrists wouldn't move. Soft restraints held them to the bed rails, medical-grade fabric that wouldn't leave marks but wouldn't give either.

"Ah, she's awake."

The voice made my stomach lurch hard enough that the heart monitor stuttered.

My father sat in an expensive chair that didn't belong in this sterile room, wearing a suit that cost more than most people's cars.

His face was arranged in an expression of paternal concern that would have been convincing if I hadn't seen him practice it in mirrors before important meetings.

Behind him stood a doctor—fifty-something, kind eyes, clipboard ready. The kind of doctor who'd believe whatever story paid his bills.

"Clara, darling," Viktor said, reaching for my hand.

I tried to pull away, but the restraints held me in place.

"You're safe now," he continued, voice dripping false sympathy. "That monster can't hurt you anymore."

"Not . . . monster." The words came out slurred, tongue thick from whatever they'd pumped into me. "Love him."

Viktor exchanged a look with the doctor, perfectly choreographed concern mixed with vindication. See? their faces said. Just like I told you.

"Classic Stockholm syndrome,” Viktor said to the doctor but loud enough for me to hear. “Just as I feared. My poor daughter, thinking she loves her captor."

"Fuck . . . you." The profanity took enormous effort, but the satisfaction of seeing his mask slip for a microsecond was worth it.

The doctor made notes on his clipboard, pen scratching against paper. "Aggression toward the rescuing parent. Textbook trauma response. We'll need to adjust her medications."

"You're lying," I managed, fighting through the fog to find words that mattered. "The Kozlovs . . . you took their money . . ."

"She's having delusions," Viktor told the doctor, voice heavy with practiced sorrow. "She's created elaborate fantasies about my supposed corruption to justify her attachment to her kidnapper. It's easier for her to believe I'm evil than to accept she was victimized."

The doctor nodded like this made perfect sense, like every word from my father's mouth wasn't calculated manipulation. "These narratives are common in trauma victims. The mind creates stories to make sense of the incomprehensible."

"He’s bribed judges," I tried again, desperate. "Law enforcement, the planning dep—"

"You see how detailed the delusions are?" Viktor interrupted. "It's quite elaborate."

The doctor leaned closer, studying me like I was a specimen. "Ms. Petrov, your father is trying to help you. Fighting treatment will only make recovery harder."

"Albright," I corrected, that one word clearer than the rest. "My name is Albright."

"She refuses to use my name," Viktor said sadly. "Another symptom of her illness—rejecting family connections, creating distance from those who love her."

The room spun slightly, whether from drugs or rage I couldn't tell. They'd turned everything into symptoms. My mother's maiden name became rejection. The truth became delusion. Love became sickness.

"Mr. Petrov," the doctor said, turning to my father with deference that said money had definitely changed hands, "your daughter is very ill. But with proper medication and therapy, we can help her recover from this trauma."

"Whatever she needs," Viktor replied, still holding my hand despite my weak attempts to pull away. "Cost is no object. I just want my little girl back."

His little girl.

Like I'd ever been that.

Like he'd ever seen me as anything more than an obligation or an asset.

"She'll need to stay here for extended treatment," the doctor continued. "Given the severity of her condition and the danger she poses to herself, I'm recommending a minimum of six months inpatient care."

Six months. Six months of drugs and restraints and being told my reality was wrong. Six months of my father controlling everything while I was locked away.

They were going to brainwash me.

"Of course," Viktor agreed immediately. "I've already started the paperwork for a conservatorship. Until she's well, I'll manage her affairs. It's the least I can do after failing to protect her from that monster."

Conservatorship.

The word cut through the chemical fog like ice water. He'd have complete control—medical decisions, financial decisions, every choice about my life would be his. I'd be legally incompetent, unable to sign contracts, unable to testify, unable to do anything without his permission.

"No," I whispered, but it came out more like a moan.

"Don't worry, darling," Viktor said, patting my hand with mock tenderness. "I'll take care of everything. Including your inheritance."

"There's . . . no money." The confusion must have shown because his smile turned predatory for just a moment before resuming its concerned facade.

"Oh, darling. You didn't know?" He leaned closer, and I smelled his cologne—Tom Ford, the same one he'd worn to Mom's funeral.

"Your mother's trust fund has been waiting for you to turn twenty-five.

Nearly three million dollars that she set aside before she died.

I've been protecting it for you all these years. "

Three million. My mother had left me three million dollars, and he'd never said a word. Never mentioned it during all those years I'd worried about money, about college, about the future. He'd kept it secret, waiting for the perfect moment to steal it.

"She never told you?" the doctor asked, making more notes. "Memory gaps are common with trauma. She may have repressed significant information."

"Mom's . . . money?" I managed, needing to understand the full scope of his betrayal.

"She wanted to make sure you'd be taken care of," Viktor said, voice syrupy with false emotion. "She knew she was dying and set it all up—iron-clad trust, excellent lawyers. It's been growing for years. You were going to be a very wealthy woman."

Were. Past tense. Because now he'd make sure I never saw a penny of it.

"But don't worry about any of that," he continued, standing now, preparing to leave me here in this medical prison. "Focus on getting well. The money will be there when you're better."

No, it wouldn't. We both knew it wouldn't. By the time I got out—if I got out—he'd have found ways to drain it, invest it badly, lose it in mysterious fees and treatments and whatever else he could invent.

"The Kozlovs," I tried one more time, forcing the words past uncooperative lips. "You're working with them."

"Doctor, you see?" Viktor sighed dramatically. "The fixation on these imaginary crimes. It breaks my heart."

"We'll put her on some antipsychotics," the doctor assured him. "The delusions should fade as the medication takes effect."

They were going to bury me in chemicals until I couldn't think, couldn't remember, couldn't fight. Until I became the broken daughter Viktor had always wanted—silent, compliant, profitable.

"Rest now, darling," Viktor said, heading for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow. You’ve got all the time in the world to heal."