Page 52 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

“Let them watch. They think I’ve gone soft.

” He spun me again, this time dipping me slightly, using the movement to maintain his observation of the watchers.

"It’s true—I've delegated more to Dmitry and Ivan," he admitted when he pulled me back up.

"The construction business runs itself. Most of the bratva operations continue without my daily involvement. "

His gray eyes met mine, and for a moment, the mask dropped. "I haven't attended a torture session in six weeks," he said quietly. "Haven't personally handled enforcement in a month. Last week, I spent more time reviewing charity proposals than territory reports."

"Do you miss it?" The question came out smaller than I'd intended.

"I have . . . other priorities now," he said carefully. "You. This life we're building. The legitimate power that comes with charitable influence." He paused, then added with typical honesty, "But soft? Not a chance. Just selective about what deserves my violence."

The song changed to something faster, but we kept dancing slow, creating our own rhythm. Around us, the gala continued—laughter, conversation, the clink of champagne glasses.

The Morozov brothers were moving now, setting down their drinks, heading for the exit. One caught my eye as they passed the dance floor, and his smile was all teeth and possibility. A promise or a threat—probably both.

"They're leaving," I reported.

"Good," Alexei said. "They've seen what they came to see."

"Which was?"

"Me, dancing with you instead of conducting business. Attending charity galas instead of bratva meetings." He pulled me closer, and I could feel the controlled violence humming under his civilized surface. "They see a man who's chosen a woman over an empire."

"And that's not true?"

He stopped dancing, right there in the middle of the floor, and looked at me with an intensity that made everyone else disappear.

"It's partially true," he said. "I've chosen you.

But they don't understand that you're not separate from the empire—you're the evolution of it.

Every connection you make, every donor you charm, every political door your charity work opens—it all feeds back into power.

Just a different kind than they recognize. "

"So I'm still an asset," I said, not sure how I felt about that.

"You're everything," he corrected. "Strategic and beloved. Useful and essential. The empire and my reason for it."

The band finished their song, and polite applause rippled through the room. But we stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, his hands still on me, my world still narrowed to just him.

"Will the Morozovs be a problem?" I asked.

"Tomorrow's problem," he replied. "Tonight is yours. Your triumph, your gala, your moment to show Manhattan that Clara Albright is no one's victim."

He was right. I'd spent too much of my life letting men like my father—and potentially men like the Morozovs—dictate my emotions, my reactions, my choices. Tonight was mine, and I wasn't going to let two bratva scouts ruin it.

"Then dance with me again," I decided.

“Your wish is my command.”

T he locks on our new penthouse clicked open in sequence—three deadbolts, one electronic, all unnecessary given the building's security but Alexei insisted on them anyway.

Old habits died hard, even when you lived forty floors above Manhattan in a building with a doorman who'd worked CIA security details.

"These things are definitely torture devices," I declared the moment we were inside, kicking off my heels with enough force to send them skittering across the hardwood. "I'm convinced they were invented by someone who hated women."

"They make your legs look incredible," Alexei observed, hanging his coat in the front closet with typical precision.

"So does standing on my tiptoes, but you won’t catch me doing that for five hours straight," I countered, heading for the kitchen while rubbing my aching arches.

I'd chosen everything in the penthouse, from the warm amber walls that replaced Alexei's preferred stark white to the oversized sectional that could fit all three Volkov brothers when they came for their weekly dinners. The old penthouse had been a fortress. This was a home.

Soft textures everywhere—cashmere throws, silk pillows, the kind of deep rugs you could sink your toes into.

Art on the walls that I'd selected, including one of Marcus Chen's pieces from before he became tonight's sensation.

The kitchen was still Alexei's domain, all professional-grade appliances and German engineering, but I'd added touches there too—colorful dish towels, a collection of novelty coffee mugs, a cookie jar shaped like a bear that made him roll his eyes every time he saw it.

"Champagne to celebrate?" I asked, opening the refrigerator.

"Already handled," Alexei said, appearing behind me with a bottle of Dom Pérignon that definitely hadn't been in the fridge this morning. "To my genius girl who raised six hundred thousand in one night."

"Six hundred and thirty-seven thousand," I corrected, accepting the glass he poured. "The last-minute bidding war over your Moscow estate pushed us over."

"Our Moscow estate," he corrected. "Everything I have is yours."

We carried our champagne to the terrace. The city spread out below us, glittering and alive, and I pulled Alexei's tuxedo jacket around my shoulders when the wind picked up.

"You look good in my clothes," he observed, leaning against the railing beside me.

"I look good in everything," I replied, then laughed at my own arrogance. "God, when did I become so confident?"

"When you realized you deserved to be," he said simply.

I studied him in the city light—still devastating in his tuxedo shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that marked him as Pakhan, but there was something softer about him now. Not weakness, just . . . settlement. Like he'd finally stopped looking over his shoulder.

"The Morozovs concern me," he admitted, setting down his champagne. "They're testing boundaries, seeing if I've truly stepped back."

"Have you?" I asked, genuinely curious. "You haven't been to the warehouse in a week. Dmitry's handling most of the enforcement. Ivan manages the books without your daily input."

"I'm still Pakhan," he said firmly, but then his expression shifted. "But I'm learning to be more than that."

"You know more about art than half those pretentious trustees," I pointed out.

"Six months ago, I was torturing men for information," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Now I'm discussing Impressionist paintings with socialites. Using words like 'provenance' and 'chiaroscuro.'"

"Do you miss it?" I asked seriously, moving closer to him. "The power? The violence? The fear everyone had when you walked into a room?"

He was quiet for a long moment, and I knew he was really considering the question, not just giving me what he thought I wanted to hear.

"I have power," he said finally. "Just different kinds. Political connections through your charity work. Legitimate business influence. The ability to shape the city through construction and development without bribes or threats."

"That's not what I asked."

His hand found my throat, gentle but unmistakably possessive, thumb pressing against my pulse. "The violence is still there," he said quietly. "It hasn't gone anywhere. I've just . . . refined its application."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's for private now," he said, and his voice dropped to that register that made my knees weak. "For you. For us. For our particular needs."

Heat flooded through me despite the cold air. "Speaking of private," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "want to see what I did with the spare bedroom?"

His eyes sharpened with interest. "The one you wouldn't let me enter during renovation?"

"That one."

I led him back inside, down the hallway past our bedroom to the door I'd kept locked for two weeks while contractors worked. My hand shook slightly as I turned the key—not from fear but from anticipation of his reaction.

The room was everything the word "littlespace" conjured and more.

Soft pink walls, but sophisticated rose gold, not childish bubble gum.

A reading nook with built-in bookshelves filled with my favorites.

A vanity with a mirror bordered by soft lights.

The closet I'd filled with specific outfits—some innocent, some decidedly not.

But the centerpiece was the bed—wrought iron painted white, with restraint points disguised as decorative scrollwork. Piles of pillows, and a toy chest that contained items definitely not meant for children.

"Clara," Alexei breathed, and I heard awe in his voice.

"You gave me control over decorating," I reminded him. "This is what I chose. A space where I can be little when I need it. Where you can be Daddy without the weight of the bratva."

He moved into the room slowly, taking in every detail. His fingers trailed over the bedframe, testing the hidden restraint points with professional interest.

"The construction workers—" he started.

"Thought I was a rich girl with questionable taste in vintage furniture," I finished. "The contractor was very discrete. Cash payment, no questions."

"You continue to surprise me," he said, turning to face me with heat in his eyes.

"Good," I said. "I'd hate to become predictable."

"Never," he assured me, then pulled me against him with sudden intensity. "Is this why you wanted to come home? To show me this?"

"Partially," I admitted. "Also because my feet hurt and I wanted champagne and I knew if we stayed longer, you'd end up having to handle the Morozov situation publicly."

"Always thinking three steps ahead," he murmured against my hair.

“Tonight I want to be your good girl," I finished. "Or your bad one. Dealer's choice."

His control visibly cracked, eyes going dark with the particular hunger I'd learned to recognize and crave.

"Both," he decided. "Always both with you."