Page 48 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

T he hospital gown hung off my shoulders, thin cotton that might as well have been tissue paper for all the dignity it provided. They'd positioned me at the end of the conference table like a specimen for examination.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing everything in that particular shade of institutional green that made healthy people look sick and sick people look dead.

I kept my hands folded in my lap, hiding the slight tremor that had started two days ago—not from the medications they thought I was taking, but from the effort of pretending to be medicated while my mind stayed sharp as broken glass.

Three psychiatrists sat across from me, their white coats and careful expressions forming a wall of professional judgment.

Dr. Harrison, the lead, had kind eyes that had fooled me the first day before I realized kindness here meant compliance, meant agreeing that love was sickness and truth was delusion.

Behind them, my father occupied a leather chair someone had brought in special—because even in a psychiatric facility, Viktor Petrov got the comfortable seat.

He'd dressed for the performance, of course.

The concerned father in a two-thousand-dollar suit, his face arranged in an expression of paternal worry that would have been convincing if I hadn't seen him practice it in mirrors before important meetings.

He kept glancing at me with this perfectly calibrated mixture of love and disappointment, like I was breaking his heart by being mentally ill.

Beside my father, for some reason, his lawyer, Mr. Brennan. His presence was setting off alarm bells.

"Clara has been compliant with medication for three days," Dr. Harrison announced to the panel, flipping through my chart with manicured fingers. "She's taking her pills without resistance, attending group therapy, engaging with staff appropriately."

Compliant.

Ha.

I'd palmed every damn pill they'd given me, tucking them behind my tongue until I could spit them into my palm during bathroom breaks.

Forty-three pills hidden behind a loose tile near the toilet, my own personal pharmacy of sedatives and antipsychotics I refused to let destroy my mind.

But I'd played the part perfectly—slightly sluggish movements, occasional confusion, the flat affect they expected from someone properly medicated.

"However," Dr. Harrison continued, and that single word made my stomach clench, "we recommend escalating to electroconvulsive therapy to address the persistent delusions about her relationship with her kidnapper."

ECT. Electroconvulsive therapy. They wanted to run electricity through my brain until I forgot Alexei's face, his voice, the way he'd seen through twenty-three years of invisibility and decided I was worth saving.

"I don't consent," I said immediately, my voice cutting through the clinical atmosphere like a scalpel.

The words hung there for a moment before Viktor's lawyer slid a manila folder across the table with practiced precision.

"Ms. Petrov's mental state prevents informed consent," Brennan said in that smooth courtroom voice that made lies sound like gospel. "We're filing for immediate conservatorship based on psychiatric recommendation. Her father would make medical decisions in her best interest."

"It's Albright," I said, but even to my own ears, my voice sounded thin, exhausted. Three days of constant vigilance, of Viktor's gaslighting, of being told every true thing I knew was actually a symptom—it was eroding me from the inside out.

"She still can't even remember her legal name," Viktor told the panel, his voice heavy with perfectly performed sorrow. "My daughter—my precious Clara—she's lost in these fantasies. She genuinely believes she loves the man who kidnapped her, who held her prisoner for weeks."

Dr. Harrison nodded, making notes in my file. "The fixation is concerning. She's created an elaborate narrative about government corruption, about her father being involved with Russian criminals. Classic paranoid delusions mixed with Stockholm syndrome."

They discussed me like I wasn't there, like I was already too far gone to understand. The other two psychiatrists murmured agreement, one mentioning something about "trauma-induced psychosis" while the other suggested increasing my antipsychotic dosage before the ECT.

"The medications aren't working fast enough," Viktor said, leaning forward with urgency that almost looked real.

"Every day she spends in this delusional state is another day of suffering.

I need my daughter back—the real Clara, not this traumatized victim who thinks criminals are heroes and family are villains. "

My hands clenched in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. Without the medications clouding my thoughts, I could see his manipulation so clearly—every word chosen to paint me as dangerously delusional, every expression calculated to seem like paternal concern.

But fighting would only prove their point.

Anger would be labeled as mania. Logic would be called elaborate delusion.

"We'll schedule ECT for tomorrow morning," Dr. Harrison decided, the other psychiatrists nodding in agreement. "Eight AM. With a proper course of treatment—maybe six to twelve sessions—we should see significant improvement in the delusional architecture."

Six to twelve sessions. Six to twelve times they'd shock my brain, burning away memories like old photographs held to flame.

Would Alexei disappear first, or would it be the truth about my father?

Would I wake up one day believing Viktor's version of reality, grateful to the father who'd saved me from my kidnapper?

I let the tears fall then—not forced but real, terror and rage mixing into something that probably looked like the breakthrough they wanted.

"I want to get better," I lied, making my voice small and broken. "But please, not ECT. Give the medications more time. I'm trying so hard to understand what's real."

"The medications aren't enough," Viktor said firmly. "Dr. Harrison, you've seen cases like this before. The longer we wait, the more entrenched these delusions become."

"I'm afraid I agree," Dr. Harrison said with what he probably thought was compassion. "ECT has an excellent success rate for treatment-resistant delusions. You'll be sedated, Clara. You won't feel anything. And when you wake up, the world will start making sense again."

Their version of sense.

Viktor paused by my chair as the others filed out, his hand settling on my shoulder with weight that felt like ownership.

"This is for your own good, darling," he said softly. "Someday, when you're better, you'll thank me for saving you from that monster."

I didn't respond.

T he water stains on my ceiling where a map of nowhere.

Seventeen distinct patches, I'd counted, some shaped like countries I'd never visit, others like bruises spreading across cheap acoustic tile.

From my narrow bed with its plastic-covered mattress that crinkled with every breath, I could trace each one's borders.

Four hours since the panel. My wrists still showed faint marks from the restraints they used during "aggressive episodes"—their term for when I'd tried to explain about the Kozlovs, about my father's bribes, about the truth they'd labeled psychosis.

The door clicked open with that particular sound of magnetic locks disengaging. Not meal time—I'd forced down the gray meat and soggy vegetables an hour ago.

But this wasn't my usual orderly. This man moved differently—younger, maybe thirty, with the kind of controlled movements that suggested he paid attention to his body. Dark hair, forgettable face, but something in his eyes that made my breath catch.

"Water change," he announced, though my pitcher was still three-quarters full. His voice carried just the faintest trace of accent—Russian, but barely there, like someone who'd worked hard to lose it.

I stayed still on the bed, watching him through half-closed eyes as he moved to the small table by the window. He turned toward the bed, and that's when his phone slipped from his breast pocket. It hit my mattress with a soft thump, screen face up, already unlocked.

"Oops," he said loudly, clearly, for the benefit of the camera that couldn't quite see the bed from its angle. Then, quieter, barely moving his lips: "Thirty seconds. Delete after."

He moved to retrieve it with deliberate slowness, fumbling like someone embarrassed by clumsiness while giving me time. My fingers shook as I grabbed the phone, muscle memory finding the voice message icon even as my heart tried to pound its way out through my ribs.

One new message. No name, just a timestamp from six minutes ago.

I pressed play with my thumb, holding the phone close to my ear, and nearly sobbed at the voice that came through the tinny speaker.

"Little one." Alexei's voice, rough like he hadn't been sleeping, tight with controlled emotion.

"Daddy's coming. Remember what I taught you about being brave.

Today is the 24th. The operation is going ahead.

Tomorrow, when you hear sirens, that's your signal.

Ivan's been inside their systems for days.

The Kozlovs are going down, your father with them. Little Alex is waiting for you."

The message ended.

The orderly was still fumbling, buying me time. I deleted the message, cleared the recent apps, set the phone exactly as it had been. When he finally retrieved it, our eyes met for just a moment.

"Spasibo," he whispered, so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it. I recognized the word—thank you in Russian.

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut with that magnetic finality, leaving me alone with the knowledge that Alexei was alive, free, and coming for me.