Page 51 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

T wo Months Later

The Rainbow Room's windows stretched sixty-five floors above Manhattan, and I pressed my palm against the cool glass, watching the city sparkle like scattered diamonds in the October darkness.

Two months since the psychiatric ward, since FBI raids and my father's arrest, and I still sometimes couldn't believe this was real—me running a charity gala that had my name on every invitation.

As Director of Development for the Home & Hope Foundation.

The room behind me hummed with that particular energy of wealth being channeled toward purpose.

Marcus Chen's paintings lined the walls, each starting bid double what they'd been two months ago when I'd discovered him painting portraits of homeless veterans in Tompkins Square Park.

Now, society women who wouldn't have noticed him on the street were bidding wars over his work.

My phone buzzed with updates from the silent auction—already at three hundred thousand, and we hadn't even served dinner yet.

Every detail was mine, from the jazz quartet I'd hired instead of the usual string ensemble to the menu that featured comfort food elevated to haute cuisine.

No more rubber chicken and wilted salads.

If rich people were going to pay five hundred dollars a plate, they were going to eat something worth remembering.

"You've outdone yourself."

David Maguire appeared at my elbow with two champagne flutes, his silver hair catching the light.

He'd been the first board member to support hiring me officially once my trust fund was released—three million dollars my mother had hidden from my father, now funding both my new life and the foundation's expansion.

"Wait until the live auction," I said, accepting the champagne with steady hands. No tremor anymore, no flinch when men approached me. "I convinced a certain Russian businessman to donate a week at his Moscow estate."

David's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

Everyone knew who my "Russian businessman" was, though the official record showed Alexei Volkov as a legitimate construction magnate with a spotless history. The immunity deal had been thorough—past sins erased in exchange for my father’s downfall and the Kozlov empire's destruction.

Now he was the mysterious philanthropist who appeared at charity events, wrote checks that made board members weep with joy, and watched me work a room like I was performing miracles.

"He's here?" David asked, trying for casual and missing by miles.

I nodded toward the bar where Alexei stood with Ivan, both in perfectly tailored tuxedos.

The transformation still amazed me—the Pakhan who'd once ruled through violence now charming elderly donors, discussing art with surprising knowledge, teaching his ice-cold brother to approximate human warmth for the sake of appearances.

"He's my plus-one," I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Plus his brothers. Plus their checkbooks."

"The donations from Volkov Construction have been . . . substantial," David admitted. "Though I have to wonder what a man like that sees in charity work."

I could have told him the truth—that Alexei had discovered legitimate power could be just as intoxicating as the criminal kind, that building homeless shelters satisfied something in him that violence used to fill, that watching me succeed had become his new obsession.

Instead, I smiled the smile I'd perfected at a hundred galas before this one, except now it was real.

"Tax write-offs," I said lightly. "And I may have mentioned that charitable giving opens doors in Manhattan that money alone can't buy."

David laughed, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. He'd been in New York society long enough to recognize power when he saw it, and Alexei radiated it even while discussing the weather with an elderly patron.

"Three minutes until dinner," David said, checking his Rolex. "Shall I signal the kitchen?"

"Please. And David?" I caught his sleeve as he turned. "Thank you. For believing I could do this. For giving me the chance when everyone else just saw Viktor Petrov's broken daughter."

His expression softened. "I saw a young woman who organized flawless events while drowning in plain sight. The broken part was never you, Clara. It was the world that tried to contain you."

He disappeared toward the kitchen, and I turned back to the windows, catching my reflection in the dark glass.

The woman staring back bore little resemblance to the girl who'd been drugged in a psychiatric ward two months ago.

This woman stood straight, commanded attention, wore confidence like couture.

This woman had survived a father's betrayal, a kidnapping that became salvation, and came out the other side with a fortune, a foundation, and a Pakhan who looked at her like she'd invented sunlight.

The silent auction display caught my eye—the bidding on Marcus's centerpiece had jumped another fifty thousand while I wasn't looking.

By the end of the night, we'd clear half a million easy, maybe more if the live auction went well.

Money that would go to shelters, food programs, job training for people who'd been written off by society the way I'd been written off by my father.

"Admiring your handiwork?"

Alexei's voice at my ear made me smile. He'd approached with that predator's silence he'd never quite lose, appearing beside me like smoke.

"Our handiwork," I corrected. "You donated half these auction items."

"You convinced me to donate them," he murmured, his hand settling on my lower back with possessive familiarity. "My brilliant little strategist."

Through the window's reflection, I saw Ivan still at the bar, actually smiling at an elderly woman who was clutching his arm and chattering about her grandchildren. The effort it must be costing him to appear human was probably physically painful.

"You've broken your brother," I observed. "He's pretending to have emotions."

"You've broken all of us," Alexei said, but his tone was warm. "Dmitry's been to three legitimate business dinners this week. No one died at any of them."

"Progress," I agreed, then stiffened slightly as I noticed them—two men at the bar who didn't belong.

Russian, definitely, from the way they stood, the way they watched the room.

But not Volkov men. These two had a different energy, calculating and cold, and one was texting rapidly while staring directly at Alexei's back.

The warmth of the evening cracked, just slightly, like ice forming on a window.

The Kozlovs were gone, but power vacuums never stayed empty long in New York.

Someone always stepped up to fill the space, and apparently, someone was considering whether Alexei Volkov's new charitable life meant he'd gone soft enough to challenge.

"Don't turn," I said quietly. "But two o'clock, gray suits."

Alexei didn't move, didn't tense, but I felt his awareness shift like temperature dropping. "Morozov bratva," he identified without looking. "Dimitri Morozov's nephews, here to observe."

"Should we—"

"We should enjoy your triumph," he said firmly, turning me away from the window. "You've raised enough money tonight to fund the shelter expansion for a year. That matters more than bratva politics."

But I heard what he didn't say—that the Morozovs were testing boundaries, that his stepped-back role in daily operations was being noticed, that choosing charity galas over criminal enterprises might be seen as weakness by those who didn't understand that power came in many forms.

"Let them watch," I decided, lifting my chin. "Let them see that the Pakhan of the Volkov bratva has evolved beyond petty territory wars."

"My fierce little philanthropist," he murmured, and the pride in his voice was worth any threat the Morozovs might represent. "Shall we go to dinner? You have a room full of donors to dazzle."

T he band shifted into something slow and smoky, and Alexei's hand found mine with that familiar possessiveness that still made my stomach flutter.

"Four hundred thousand," I told him as we moved onto the floor, unable to contain the excitement bubbling in my chest. "The silent auction alone. We'll clear half a million tonight, easily."

"You're radiant tonight," he murmured, his accent thicker when we were close like this, when he could speak directly into my ear. His hand spread across my lower back, fingers pressing through the silk of my gown. "My sweet davochka.”

Other couples joined us on the floor—David Maguire with his wife, several board members with their partners, the usual symphony of wealth and connection that these events orchestrated.

But I barely noticed them. In moments like this, Alexei's presence eclipsed everything else, turned a room full of people into background noise.

"Marcus sold every painting," I continued, needing him to understand the scale of what we'd accomplished. "Six months ago, he was sleeping in Tompkins Square Park. Tonight, he's got enough commissions to rent a studio, hire an assistant, build an actual career."

"Because you saw him," Alexei said, spinning me with surprising grace—Ivan had been teaching him, apparently, in exchange for lessons in human emotion. "You see everyone who's been overlooked."

I was about to respond when I caught sight of them again—the two Morozov brothers, still at the bar but watching us now with undisguised interest. One lifted his phone, openly taking photos or video, not even trying to be subtle about the surveillance.

"Alexei," I said quietly. "Two o'clock. They're recording."

His body didn't tense, but I felt his awareness sharpen. He used our next turn to get a better angle, and I saw his eyes go cold as winter when he recognized what they were doing.