Page 6 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

"Clara Petrov—or is it Albright?" Ivan said, pulling up information on his screen with practiced efficiency.

"Twenty-three years old. NYU graduate, art history degree.

No criminal record, no connections to her father's corruption.

Clean social media presence. Charitable work with three different foundations.

" He paused, scanning more data. "By all accounts, she's exactly what she appears—a sheltered rich girl playing at charity work. "

"Perfect," Dmitry said, the violence in his voice shifting to something else, something hungry. "Daddy's little princess. He'll do anything to get her back safe."

"It's personal enough to wound Petrov, valuable enough to force cooperation, and clean enough to avoid federal scrutiny," I said, keeping my voice measured, professional. As if this was purely strategic. As if I hadn't been staring at her photos for the last hour, imagining her in my penthouse.

"A missing person case," Ivan mused, already working through logistics.

"NYPD would investigate, but without a body or ransom demand, it goes cold fast. Petrov can't reveal the real reason she's missing without admitting his corruption.

He's trapped between losing his daughter and losing his freedom. "

"We could make him watch," Dmitry suggested, his enthusiasm taking a darker turn. "Send him videos of his precious daughter learning what happens when daddy makes bad decisions."

"No videos," I said sharply. Too sharply. Both brothers looked at me with curiosity. "We're not animals like the Kozlovs. This is about leverage, not torture."

"Since when do you care about the comfort of leverage?" Dmitry asked, and there was something knowing in his scarred face.

Since I saw her laugh, I thought but didn't say.

"We maintain standards," I said instead. "The girl is valuable intact. Damaged goods serve no purpose."

“Where do we keep her?” A sharp question from Ivan.

“Here,” I replied. “I have a space, I can have it prepared within days.”

His eyes narrowed at this answer, but he didn’t ask any more questions.

"How long do we hold her?" Dmitry asked, already moving past debate to planning. That was his value—once a decision was made, he executed without question.

The answer came too quickly, betraying thoughts I hadn't admitted even to myself. "Until I decide we're finished with her."

Ivan's eyes sharpened behind his glasses. My youngest brother missed nothing, filed everything away in that computer brain of his. He'd heard the possessive note in my voice, the way I'd said 'I' instead of 'we.' But Ivan kept his observations to himself, another trait that made him invaluable.

"The logistics are manageable," Ivan said, pivoting to practical matters.

"She has routines, predictable patterns.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, she visits the Neue Galerie.

Alone. Stays for exactly two hours, then walks through Central Park.

Multiple extraction points, minimal security.

" Ivan had been a big part of the intel gather on Clara.

Sometimes I wondered if he had a photographic memory.

"Tuesday is in three days," Dmitry noted. Yup, that was about his level. He could just about count to three. "Enough time to prepare, not enough for Petrov to sense anything wrong."

They continued planning, my brothers falling into their familiar roles. Dmitry would handle the physical extraction—the grab team, the vehicles, the safe house preparations. Ivan would manage intelligence—surveillance footage, communication intercepts, ensuring no digital trail led back to us.

But my mind was already elsewhere, imagining Clara Petrov in my space. In my penthouse. My bed. Under my control.

"She'll need to understand the situation quickly," I said, pulling myself back to the present. "This only works if she cooperates."

"And if she doesn't?" Dmitry asked, though his grin suggested he'd enjoy that possibility.

"She will," I said with certainty that came from studying those photos, from seeing the desperate need for structure hidden behind her perfect smile. "Clara Petrov has been waiting her whole life for someone to give her boundaries. She just doesn't know it yet."

"You've been studying her," Ivan observed, not a question but a statement of fact.

"Know your enemy," I replied, the lie comfortable on my tongue.

"Petrov is the enemy," Ivan corrected softly. "The girl is just leverage."

"Of course," I agreed.

Dmitry poured himself one more vodka, raising it in a mock toast. "To leverage, then. And to teaching Viktor Petrov what happens when you steal from the Volkov family."

We didn't touch glasses—that was reserved for completed operations, not planned ones. But the decision was made, the path set. In three days, Clara Albright would belong to us.

Belong to me.

T he office fell silent after my brothers left just before midnight, their footsteps fading down the metal stairs until only the hum of the city remained.

Dmitry had clasped my shoulder on his way out, his scarred hand heavy with promise of violence to come.

Ivan had nodded, already lost in planning, his laptop tucked under his arm like a weapon.

They'd both accepted the plan without question—taking Clara Petrov was strategic, logical, the kind of calculated move that had built our empire.

I returned to my desk, pulling up tomorrow's legitimate construction schedules on my computer.

The Greenpoint project needed forty more workers.

The Queens Boulevard site required new permits now that Petrov's interference had been cleared.

Normal business that required my attention, decisions that affected hundreds of employees who'd never know their paychecks came from a man who'd just planned a kidnapping.

But the schedules blurred on the screen. My hand moved without conscious thought to the desk drawer, pulling out the manila folder I'd hidden from my brothers. Clara's photographs spilled across the mahogany surface like accusations.

There she was again, laughing outside the Neue Galerie.

The photo captured her mid-motion, head thrown back, one hand raised to push hair from her face.

She looked nothing like the posed charity photos where she stood beside her father, smile empty as a politician's promise.

This was real. This was the woman hiding beneath designer armor and practiced pleasantries.

I told myself this was strategic reconnaissance.

The daughter of a corrupt official made perfect leverage—valuable enough to force Viktor's cooperation, innocent enough to avoid federal scrutiny.

It was clean, controlled, elegant. The kind of solution that demonstrated Volkov sophistication versus Kozlov brutality.

We didn't leave bodies in the Hudson. We took what mattered most and made our enemies watch it disappear.

But my thumb traced the edge of her photograph, and my body betrayed the truth my mind wouldn't acknowledge.

I pulled out another picture—Clara at a charity gala two weeks ago, dressed in black silk that hugged curves she tried to hide with a modest neckline.

But I saw through the camouflage to the woman underneath.

Saw the way she clutched her champagne glass like a lifeline.

The forced smile that never reached her eyes.

The barely contained energy that suggested she wanted to run, to scream, to be anything other than Viktor Petrov's perfectly behaved daughter.

She needed structure. Boundaries. Someone strong enough to contain all that suppressed rebellion and channel it into something beautiful.

She needed a man who'd grab those delicate wrists and tell her exactly how things were going to be.

Who'd put her over his knee when she tested limits, then hold her after until she understood she was safe.

My cock hardened against my will, pressing against Italian wool that suddenly felt too tight.

My hand clenched on the photo's edge. She'd probably fight at first—that chin tilt promised defiance.

But underneath the bratty exterior, I saw the truth.

Clara Petrov was desperate to belong to someone who'd actually value what they owned.

Her father treated her like furniture, valuable only for its appearance.

The weak men in her social circle probably begged for her attention, let her walk all over them with those designer heels.

She'd never experienced real possession. Never been claimed by someone who'd kill to keep her.

The computer screen had gone dark, construction schedules replaced by my reflection.

Thirty-five years old, pakhan of the Volkov bratva, controlled and calculating and completely fucked because I wanted something I shouldn't.

Clara Petrov was supposed to be leverage.

A message to her father and our enemies.

A business transaction dressed up as kidnapping.

Instead, she was becoming something infinitely more dangerous—an obsession.

No. I couldn’t let it happen.

I put the photos away, made myself a coffee.

This wasn’t about lust. This was about business. And I was fucking good at business.