Page 47 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Alexei

T he shackles bit into my wrists with each pothole, federal-grade steel that wouldn't give no matter how I shifted.

Through the reinforced windows, Brooklyn passed in a blur of bodegas and brownstones, the familiar territory of my empire reduced to scenery behind bulletproof glass.

Two FBI agents sat across from me, trying to look casual while keeping hands near their weapons.

They thought they had the Pakhan of the Volkov bratva locked down tight.

What they didn’t know was that I’d been preparing for exactly this situation for years. And Ivan had been inside their system for three months, rewriting reality one line of code at a time.

My mind kept circling back to Clara—sedated, restrained, delivered back to that bastard who called himself her father.

The image of her fighting them, begging them to listen, burned behind my eyes.

But I couldn't let it show. Not yet. Control was everything now, each move calculated, each word measured.

The van lurched to a stop—red light at Nostrand and Atlantic. Perfect. The intersection cameras here had good angles, multiple feeds Ivan could manipulate later if needed. I shifted forward slightly, chains rattling just enough to draw attention.

Enough time had passed.

"Check your phones," I said, voice calm as discussing the weather.

Agent Morrison, the younger one with the nervous tic in his jaw, frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Your phones. Check them now."

The older agent, Delacroix, kept his eyes on me while Morrison pulled out his device. I watched his face change—confusion, then alarm, then something close to panic.

"Holy shit." Morrison turned the screen toward his partner. "Emergency alert from headquarters. The real Alexei Volkov just got flagged at JFK. Terminal 4, attempting to board a flight to Moscow."

Delacroix grabbed the phone, scrolling through what I knew was Ivan's masterpiece—edited security footage, manipulated biometrics, even false eyewitness reports placed in real-time.

Mikhail would be playing his part perfectly, my backup passport in hand, making himself visible to every camera while wearing enough subtle prosthetics to match my official photos.

"That's impossible," Delacroix muttered, but doubt had crept into his voice. "We verified identity at the scene. We ran preliminary prints—"

"Did we?" Morrison asked. "Or did we run prints for someone who's never been arrested, never been officially documented? Easy to match what doesn't exist."

He was pulling up files on his tablet now, the updated ones Ivan had just pushed through their system. New biometrics, slightly different facial recognition markers, all the small details that would make their case fall apart under scrutiny.

"Fuck." Morrison held up the tablet, showing a comparison photo. "The measurements don't match. Cheekbone angle is off by three degrees. Distance between pupils is wrong." He looked at me with growing horror. "We grabbed the wrong brother."

I let them see a small smile—not triumph, just resignation. "Anton Volkov," I said, giving them the name Ivan had built eighteen months of documentation around. "Legitimate businessman, unfortunately related to criminals. My lawyer will be very interested in this false arrest."

Delacroix was on his radio now, voice tight with barely controlled panic. "Control, this is Transport Seven. We have a situation. Subject in custody may not be primary target. Requesting immediate verification."

The chatter that came back was beautiful chaos—multiple units converging on JFK, confusion about jurisdiction, demands for biometric confirmation that wouldn't match because Ivan had been careful.

The real Alexei Volkov's prints were now in their system, pulled from a glass at a restaurant six months ago, just different enough from mine to create reasonable doubt.

"Sir, we're going to need to hold you while we sort this out," Morrison said, trying to maintain authority while his world shifted beneath him.

"Of course," I agreed pleasantly. "Though my lawyer will want to discuss the civil rights violations. Arresting the wrong man based on family resemblance, traumatizing an innocent woman who's already been through hell."

They exchanged glances at the mention of Clara.

They knew something was off about that situation too—the psychiatric hold, the convenient timing, the father who'd emerged from nowhere with perfect documentation.

But they were federal agents, not state.

Not their jurisdiction, not their problem. Yet.

While they argued over radio protocols, Morrison's phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, distracted by coordinating with the JFK teams.

“What the fuck? We have to deliver Mr. Volkov to AUSA Reeves. Right now.”

Perfect. Ivan had activated all of the contingency plan.

Assistant United States Attorney Sarah Reeves.

Ivan had spent months researching her—ambitious, brilliant, and most importantly, incorruptible.

She'd been trying to take down corrupt New York politicians for three years but kept hitting walls, cases mysteriously falling apart, witnesses disappearing.

She needed a win. We were about to hand her the case of the century.

The van started moving again, turning back toward Federal Plaza.

Morrison kept staring at his phone, watching the chaos at JFK unfold through security updates.

Delacroix maintained his watch on me, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

He'd been so sure this morning, breaking down our door, putting me in cuffs.

Now that certainty was crumbling, replaced by the terrible realization that they might have just handed the real Alexei Volkov the perfect escape.

I leaned back against the bench, feeling the bruises from this morning's takedown but not letting them show.

Clara was out there, frightened and drugged, believing I'd been arrested.

She didn't know about Ivan's contingencies, about the federal deal we were about to make, about the complete destruction of her father and the Kozlovs that would happen in less than forty-eight hours.

"Your people," Delacroix said suddenly, studying me. "They planned for this."

I met his eyes steadily. "Mr. Delacroix, I'm a legitimate businessman wrongfully arrested. I don't have 'people.' I have employees and a very expensive law firm that's going to be very interested in this morning's events."

He didn't believe me, but belief didn't matter.

All that mattered was my will.

A ssistant United States Attorney Sarah Reeves looked exactly like her photos—sharp cheekbones, shrewd eyes, and a suit that said success without screaming money.

She sat across from me in the proffer room like she'd been born there, fingers steady as she examined the USB drive Ivan had prepared.

No lawyers present because officially this meeting wasn't happening.

Just two people discussing hypotheticals that could reshape New York's criminal landscape.

The room smelled like old coffee and ambition. Reeves was hungry for something big. Ivan's research had been thorough—three years of solid cases destroyed by corruption, witnesses who disappeared, evidence that mysteriously went missing. She needed a win that couldn't be stolen from her.

"You're offering me Viktor Petrov and the entire Kozlov organization," she said, not looking up from her laptop screen where the preview files played out like a prosecutor's wet dream. "In exchange for what, exactly?"

I slid the document across the table—twelve pages of dense legal language that Ivan had crafted with surgical precision.

"Conditional immunity for past actions, federal protection for Clara Albright, and new identities after the 24th.

Everything you need is on that drive. Twenty years of Viktor's corruption, the Kozlov drug routes, NYPD involvement down to the badge numbers. "

Her eyes moved faster as she scrolled, absorbing the scope. I watched her realize what she was looking at—not just a case but a career-defining triumph. The kind of prosecution that got people appointed to Attorney General, maybe even higher.

"This is . . ." She paused, lawyer's training keeping her face neutral even as her pupils dilated with excitement. "Comprehensive. Fifty-seven officials named, transaction records going back two decades. How did you—"

"The how doesn't matter," I interrupted gently. "What matters is that it only unlocks if Clara is freed and I deliver the shipment on the 24th. The encryption is military-grade, unbreakable without the key that triggers when both conditions are met."

She leaned back, studying me with those prosecutor eyes that had probably broken a hundred criminals. But I wasn't here as a criminal. I was here as her salvation, the answer to three years of frustrated ambition.

"You're admitting to crimes," she pointed out. "Sitting here without counsel, confessing to federal offenses."

"I'm discussing hypotheticals," I corrected. "If someone were to have this information, and if they were willing to deliver forty million in cocaine along with the entire Kozlov leadership, what might the federal government be willing to offer?"

The dance was delicate, but we both knew the steps. She couldn't officially make deals with admitted criminals, but she could discuss theoretical situations that happened to match reality perfectly.

"Why should I trust you?" She pulled up something on her laptop—my file, probably, or what the FBI thought was my file. "The Volkov bratva isn't exactly known for cooperation with law enforcement."

"Because in forty-eight hours, you'll have the biggest corruption bust in New York history," I said simply. "Commissioner Bradley, Judge Morrison, half the harbor authority, and Viktor Petrov himself. All with evidence that will survive any legal challenge."

"And Clara Albright?" Her tone shifted slightly—less prosecutor, more human. "The kidnapping victim who's now in psychiatric treatment?"

"Has been involuntarily committed by her father." I kept my voice level despite the rage that wanted to creep in.”Access her health records.”

Reeves' fingers flew across her keyboard. I saw the moment she found Clara's previous therapy records, paid in cash, showing mild anxiety but nothing close to the psychosis Viktor was claiming.

"This is kidnapping," Reeves said, but she wasn't talking about me anymore. "What he's doing, false imprisonment, fraud—"

"All crimes you can prosecute," I pointed out. "After the 24th. After you have him on federal corruption charges that will stick. But Clara needs protection now, before he can do permanent damage with whatever drugs they're pumping into her."

The room went quiet except for the hum of air conditioning and distant phone rings from the offices beyond. Reeves was calculating—risk versus reward, career advancement versus ethical boundaries, the chance to finally nail the corruption she'd been fighting versus dealing with someone like me.

"The Kozlovs," she said finally. "You can really deliver them?"

"Gift-wrapped. The drugs, the leadership, their entire network. They'll be at Pier 47, midnight on the 24th. Your task force arrives at 12:45, catches them with forty million in product and no way to claim innocence."

"And you'll be there?"

"Long gone by then. New identity, new life, with Clara if she'll have me after this. You get the bust, the press conference, the career advancement. I get to disappear with the woman I love."

She flinched slightly at 'love'—probably trying to reconcile it with the kidnapping charges, the Stockholm syndrome narrative Viktor had been pushing. But she was smart enough to see the truth underneath the legal fictions.

"If this is fake—" she started.

"Then you've lost nothing but a few hours. But it's not fake, and you know it. You've been hitting walls for three years because Viktor Petrov and men like him own this city's pressure points. I'm offering you a way through those walls."

She pulled the immunity agreement toward her, reading Ivan's carefully crafted language. It was bulletproof—immunity contingent on delivery, identities sealed and protected, Clara's psychiatric hold vacated by federal order for witness protection.

"This meeting never happened," she said, uncapping her pen.

"What meeting?" I agreed. “Far as Petrov is concerned—and this is important—I’m locked up. Unable to co-ordinate anything.”

“Understood.”

“So? Do we have a deal?”

She signed with quick, decisive strokes. I added my signature—Alexei Volkov, the name I'd be leaving behind in forty-eight hours. The countdown had officially begun.

"The 24th," she said, standing, gathering her files. "If you don't deliver—"

"I'll deliver. Just make sure your teams are ready. The Kozlovs won't go down easy."

She paused at the door, looking back. "Why her? Why risk everything for Clara Albright?"

I thought of Clara throwing books at my wall, calling me Daddy, trusting me even after learning about three years of surveillance. "Because she's the first person who ever saw me as more than a monster. That's worth any risk."

Reeves nodded once, sharp and professional, then left me alone in the proffer room. The deal was struck. In forty-eight hours, Viktor Petrov's empire would fall, the Kozlovs would be finished, and Clara would be free.

All I had to do was survive until then.