Page 50 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

"Jesus Christ," she breathed. "There's FBI vehicles everywhere. SWAT vans. What the—"

The television in the corner—always on, always muted, always playing NY1—suddenly commanded the room's attention as someone grabbed the remote.

The volume came up mid-sentence: "—breaking news from Federal Plaza where Deputy Mayor Viktor Petrov has been arrested on corruption charges.

We're getting reports of a massive drug bust at Pier 47, forty million dollars in cocaine seized—"

The medical wing erupted. Voices overlapping, footsteps running, everyone suddenly needing to see the screen where my father's face filled the frame—not the controlled expression he wore like armor but genuine shock as federal agents led him away in handcuffs.

"The Kozlov crime organization," the reporter continued, her voice sharp with the thrill of breaking news, "seventeen members arrested in what the FBI is calling the largest corruption scandal in New York history—"

Through the chaos, one person stayed focused on their job.

A young nurse, maybe twenty-five, with tired eyes and steady hands, checking my IV with the kind of attention that said she actually cared whether her patients lived or died.

She glanced at the television, then back at me, and I saw the moment she noticed my eyes weren't quite closed.

She leaned closer, pretending to adjust my oxygen levels. "Your father?" she whispered, so quiet I almost missed it under the chaos.

I didn't respond—couldn't risk it with others still in the room—but something in my expression must have confirmed it.

"That why you're really here?" Her fingers were gentle on my wrist, checking a pulse we both knew was racing. "Not actually crazy?"

The smallest movement of my head. Not quite a nod but enough.

On the television, they were showing footage of Pier 47—DEA agents in tactical gear, massive amounts of cocaine laid out like evidence in a courtroom drama, Kozlov soldiers face-down on wet concrete.

Everything we'd planned, everything Alexei had promised, playing out in real-time while I lay trapped in a bed I didn't need in a hospital that had become my prison.

"Holy shit." Dr. Harrison's voice cut through the noise, and not with his usual professional composure. "Petrov's been funding this wing for three years. The board's going to—"

"Forget the board," someone else said. "If he's really connected to organized crime, everyone who took his money is about to get investigated."

The young nurse was still beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm like she was taking my pulse but really offering comfort. Through the chaos, more sounds filtered in from the hallway—shouting now, not celebration but panic.

"Where is she?" Viktor's voice, not commanding anymore but desperate, almost unrecognizable. "My daughter—I need to see my daughter!"

"Mr. Petrov, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain—"

"I don't give a damn about rights! Clara's in danger! That monster, Volkov, he's probably already—"

"Sir, you need to calm down."

"Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah," came a federal agent's flat response. "You're the guy going to prison for the rest of his life."

The young nurse looked down at me, and I saw her making a decision in real-time.

She glanced around the room—everyone was fixated on the television, on their phones, on the spectacular collapse of Viktor Petrov's empire.

No one was watching the supposed overdose patient who'd caused this morning's earlier drama.

"Please," I whispered, letting her see everything—the fear, the desperation, the truth. "He's been keeping me here illegally. I'm not crazy. Please."

She hesitated, fingers still on my wrist, and I could see her calculating—her job, her career, the right thing to do. On the television, they were showing my father's office being raided, boxes of evidence being carried out, his secretary in handcuffs.

In the hallway, Viktor's voice rose to a scream: "You don't understand! She knows everything! She can testify! Alexei Volkov will kill her before he lets that happen!"

The nurse's face hardened at that. "He's lying about that too?"

"About everything," I managed. "Alexei saved me. My father's the one who—"

"Shh." She was already moving, unhooking my IV with practiced efficiency, removing the oxygen monitor, the blood pressure cuff.

Every movement looked routine, like she was just adjusting equipment, but she was freeing me.

"There's a stairwell at the end of the hall. Service access, hardly anyone uses it."

"Why?" I had to know. "Why help me?"

"Because I've seen enough actual overdose victims to know you weren't one," she said quietly. "And because any woman who'd fake an OD to avoid ECT probably has a damn good reason." She helped me sit up, supporting my weight as the room spun slightly. "Can you walk?"

"I'll crawl if I have to."

"Good." She grabbed a sweater from somewhere—lost property, maybe—and draped it over my shoulders, covering the hospital gown. "Go. Security's distracted, half the staff is in the break room watching the news. You've got maybe five minutes before someone notices you're gone."

My legs shook as I stood, three days of limited movement and stress making everything harder. But I was vertical, and that was enough. The nurse opened the door, checked the hallway, then guided me out with a hand on my elbow like she was just helping a patient to the bathroom.

The hallway was chaos—staff members clustered around phones, security guards abandoning posts to see what was happening, everyone talking at once about Petrov and corruption and what this meant for the hospital's funding. We moved through it like ghosts, invisible in the disorder.

"There," she whispered, pointing to a door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." "Down two flights, there's an exit to the loading dock. After that, you're on your own."

"Thank you," I breathed, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

"Go," she said, already turning back. "I was never here."

I pushed through the door into the stairwell, and the relative quiet hit like a physical thing.

My legs were already shaking, the adrenaline that had carried me this far starting to fade.

But I could hear Viktor still screaming in the distance, could hear federal agents trying to contain him, could hear my freedom calling from two flights down.

I made it halfway down the first flight before my knees buckled.

The wall was cold against my palm as I tried to steady myself, but the world was tilting, the lack of real food and sleep finally catching up.

I was going to fall. I was going to tumble down these stairs and they'd find me broken at the bottom and—

Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground.

"Hello, little one."

Alexei. Really here, solid and warm and smelling like that cologne that meant safety, dressed in an orderly's scrubs that didn't quite hide the controlled violence underneath.

My legs gave out completely, but it didn't matter because he was already lifting me, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, like I weighed nothing at all.

"Daddy?" The word came out broken, three days of fear and fighting cracking through that single syllable.

"Shh." His lips pressed against my hair, and I felt the tension in his body—controlled but coiled, ready to destroy anyone who tried to stop us. "I've got you. Sleep now. You're safe."

But I couldn't sleep, not yet. My fingers clutched at the fabric of his stolen scrubs, needing the physical proof that this was real.

That he'd actually come for me. The stairwell disappeared behind us as he moved with that particular grace that turned violence into art, navigating service corridors I hadn't known existed.

"The drug charges won't stick," I mumbled against his chest, my brain still trying to protect him even as it shut down from exhaustion. "Ivan needs to—"

"Ivan's already handled everything, little one. Just rest."

But resting meant missing things, and I'd been unconscious or pretending to be for too long already. A door opened ahead of us, and I caught a glimpse of gray morning light, a loading dock, and a laundry truck with its back doors already open.

"Took you long enough," Ivan's voice, dry as winter. He was behind the wheel, somehow looking immaculate despite presumably having spent the night hacking federal databases and hospital records. "Mikhail's getting impatient."

Alexei climbed into the truck with me still in his arms, settling on the floor between canvas laundry carts that smelled like bleach and provided perfect concealment. The engine was already running, vibrating through the metal floor as Ivan pulled away from the loading dock with careful precision.

"Mikhail can wait," Alexei said, adjusting his position so I was cradled more comfortably against his chest. "Status?"

"Forty million in cocaine seized at Pier 47." Mikhail's voice crackled through someone's phone speaker, triumphant. "Seventeen Kozlovs in federal custody, including Sergei himself. He was there personally to oversee the shipment."

"And Viktor?" Alexei's hand stroked my hair, gentle despite discussing my father's destruction.

"Arrested. Fleeing the hospital," This was Dmitry on the same call, his voice carrying that particular satisfaction he got from watching enemies fall. "Federal agents tackeld him when he tried to run. "

"Good," Alexei said, and I felt his chest rumble with dark amusement.

"The man was screaming about lawyers and conspiracies," Dmitry continued. "Something about his daughter being mentally incompetent to testify. The FBI seemed very interested in why he was so concerned about testimony when he hadn't been charged with anything yet."

"Self-incrimination," Ivan added from the driver's seat. "He panicked and gave them probable cause they didn't even need. Amateur."

The truck slowed, stopped. Through my haze, I heard doors opening, felt Alexei lifting me again. Cooler air hit my face—we were outside briefly—then warmth again. A house. Somewhere that smelled like leather and coffee and him.

"The penthouse?" I asked, confused.

"New place," Alexei murmured, carrying me through rooms I couldn't process. "No one knows about it except us. Made sure of it this time."

Us. The family. The bratva that had become my world.

He was laying me down on something soft—a bed with sheets that smelled like fabric softener instead of industrial antiseptic. My fingers found fur, familiar and beloved.

"Little Alex," I breathed, pulling the bear against my chest. "You brought him."

"Of course I did." Alexei's weight settled beside me on the bed, his hand stroking my hair with infinite gentleness. "I know what matters to you."

"ECT," I whispered, the horror of it breaking through my exhaustion. "They wanted to make me forget you. Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. They were going to—"

"Never." His arms tightened around me, and I felt the violence in that single word. "You're mine, Clara. No one takes you from me again."

"Didn't take the pills," I needed him to know this, how hard I'd fought. "Hid them. Stayed clear so I could remember. So when you came—"

"You’re so brave."

"Not brave. Just couldn't forget you. Couldn't let them burn you out of my brain."

"Sleep now," he commanded softly, and I felt his lips press against my forehead. "When you wake up, your father will be in federal custody, the Kozlovs will be finished, and we'll be free."

"Free," I repeated, the word tasting like a fairy tale.

"Free to disappear. Free to be whoever we want. Free to be together without looking over our shoulders."

"Sounds fake," I mumbled into Alexei Junior's fur.

"It's real," he promised. "Everything's real now."

I wanted to tell him about the three days—about Viktor's performances, about palming pills until my tongue went numb, about all of it. But my eyes wouldn't stay open, and the bed was so soft, and Alexei's hand in my hair was the best thing I'd felt in forever.

"Love you, Daddy," I managed, the words barely sound.

"Love you too, little one. Now sleep."

So I did, falling into darkness that wasn't scary anymore because Alexei was there to guard it, my stuffie clutched against my chest, finally safe in a world where the monsters were in prison and the man who'd stalked me for three years had turned out to be my salvation.