Bratva Daddy, page 10
"Worth potentially millions in future leverage against her father's political connections," I continued, needing to fill the silence with logic, with reasons that weren't about the way she'd looked at me this morning—defiant and needy and absolutely magnificent in her rebellion. "Short-term thinking would destroy long-term value."
Dmitry stopped pacing, fixed me with those scarred features that had terrified hundreds of men. "You're getting attached."
"I'm being practical."
"You're being something," he said, "but practical isn't it. When's the last time you spent three consecutive nights at the penthouse? You usually can't stand being away from operations for more than a few hours."
He was right. I'd built my life around constant motion, constant work, the kind of schedule that didn't leave room for personal connections. But these past three days, I'd found excuses to work from home, to be where Clara was, to watch her test boundaries and wait for her to break them.
"The asset requires supervision," I said.
"You want to keep her." Dmitry's words weren't a question. "That's what this is about. You don't want Viktor to pay because you want to keep his daughter."
The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Yes, part of me wanted Viktor to never pay. Wanted Clara to stay in my penthouse, learning my rules, accepting my control, becoming mine in ways that had nothing to do with debt or leverage. The thought of her leaving, of returning to her father's indifference, of pretending these days never happened—it made something in my chest tighten painfully.
"What I want is irrelevant," I said, voice hard as winter ice. "We're running a business, not a kidnapping ring for personal gratification. Viktor Petrov owes us three million dollars plus interest. When he pays, she goes. Until then, we maintain professional standards."
Dmitry shrugged, accepting the logic even if he didn't entirely buy it. "So what do we do? Let him ignore us?"
"Double the interest," I said, the decision coming easily. "Every day he delays costs him another hundred thousand. Eventually, the mounting debt will force his hand. Plus, I have a feeling that Clara knows things. About him, and his dealings. Blackmail isn’t off the table."
Or Clara stays with me indefinitely, a traitorous voice whispered in my mind. The thought of her in my penthouse for weeks, months, learning my rules, accepting my control, calling me Daddy without sarcasm—
I crushed the thought before it could fully form.
"Send him photos," I added, voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Her holding today's newspaper. Make sure he sees she's unharmed but under our complete control. Let him know the debt compounds daily."
"And if he never pays?" Ivan asked, fingers resuming their dance across the keyboard. "If he's truly abandoned her?"
Then she's mine, I didn't say. Then I keep her, teach her, protect her, give her the structure she's been craving her whole life.
"Then we leverage her against his political connections directly," I said instead. "Use her as a bargaining chip with his associates. Someone will value her enough to pay, even if her father doesn't."
But even as I outlined the contingency plan, I knew I'd never go through with it. Clara wasn't going to be traded to another organization, wasn't going to become someone else's leverage. If Viktor abandoned her completely, if the debt became impossible to collect, then I'd figure out another solution. One that kept her exactly where she was—in my penthouse, under my control, calling me Daddy in that breathless voice that haunted my dreams.
Time to check on the asset.
The music hit me before I even opened the penthouse door—something aggressive and modern that bled through the soundproofing like a challenge. My key turned in the lock, and the wall of sound that crashed over me made my teeth ache. Bass lines that belonged in underground clubs, not my carefully controlled space. The kind of music designed to provoke, to announce rebellion before I even saw what she'd done.
The kitchen told the story first. Broken dishes scattered across granite counters like ceramic confetti, sharp edges catching the afternoon light. The breakfast I'd specifically instructed her to eat—scrambled eggs with dill, fresh fruit, whole grain toast—had been deliberately poured onto the floor. Coffee splashed like a Jackson Pollock across the light wall.
And in the center of this destruction stood Clara, still in her silk nightgown at 2 PM despite rules clearly stating she should be dressed by 9 AM.
The nightgown had been a careful choice when I'd stocked her closet—modest enough to be comfortable, silk that would feel good against her skin, a soft pink that should have made her look innocent. Instead, she looked like a goddess of chaos. Hair wild from what must have been hours of pacing, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and fury, that chin tilted up in defiance that made my blood run hot despite everything.
I’d told her this morning that I’d be checking in on her dad today. Clearly, that had triggered this rebellion.
Music. Destruction. Not getting dressed.
"Let me guess," she said, voice pitched to carry over the music. Each word dripped sarcasm, but I heard the hurt underneath. "Daddy didn't pay up? Decided his reputation is worth more than his daughter?"
The laugh that followed was bitter as burnt coffee, sharp enough to cut. "I could have told you that three days ago. Could have saved you the trouble of hoping for ransom money that was never coming."
I pulled out my phone, opened the app that controlled the penthouse systems. The music died mid-beat, leaving silence that felt heavier than sound. Clara's breath came quick and shallow in the sudden quiet, the silk nightgown rising and falling in a rhythm that drew my attention despite my fury.
"You broke seven rules," I observed, keeping my voice dangerously quiet as I surveyed the destruction. The control in my tone was a lie—inside, I burned with conflicting desires. To punish her for destroying the place. To comfort her for the pain of her father's abandonment. To bend her over the kitchen counter and show her exactly what happened to bratty girls who pushed too hard.
"Eight if we count the nightgown," I added, letting my gaze travel deliberately over the silk that clung to curves she should have hidden, that she'd displayed specifically to provoke me.
She'd been planning this all morning. Waiting for me to return, choosing each broken rule like weapons in an arsenal. The destroyed breakfast—rule eight, no refusing meals. The shattered dishes—rule seven, no destruction of property. The nightgown at 2 PM—rule fourteen, wearing appropriate clothes. The music loud enough to disturb the entire floor—rule seventeen, no raised voices extended to unreasonable noise.
"Going to give me another pacifier?" she taunted, but her breath quickened, pupils dilating slightly. She remembered yesterday—the humiliation of it, but also what came after. My hands on her jaw, gentle and caring. The ice cream I'd brought. The soft praise that had made her melt despite her fury.
"Or are you finally going to do what we both know you want to do?"
The words hung between us like a lit fuse. What we both know you want to do. As if she could see into my mind, see the fantasies that had plagued me since I'd first seen her on Fifth Avenue. Clara bent over my knee, that nightgown pushed up, my hand marking her pale skin as mine. Clara crying out my name—my title—as I taught her what real consequences meant.
"What I want," I said slowly, moving closer with deliberate steps that made her breath hitch, "is irrelevant. You're here because of your father's debt, nothing more."
"Liar." The word came out breathless, desperate. "You watch me on those cameras. I know you do. Watch me pace at night, watch me read, watch me try to follow your stupid rules. You could have locked me in a cell somewhere, but instead you gave me silk nightgowns and Egyptian cotton sheets and rules designed to—"
She stopped, color flooding her face as she realized what she'd been about to say. Rules designed to make her feel owned, cared for, controlled in ways she'd craved her entire life.
"Designed to what?" I prompted, now close enough to smell her—vanilla bodywash, the faint musk of arousal she couldn't hide, something wild and desperate underneath.
"To make me need you," she whispered, and the honesty of it hit like a physical blow. "To make me want this. Want you."
My hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to grab her, to press her against the wall and show her exactly how much I wanted her too.
"Your father received proof of life photos an hour ago," I said, needing to establish distance even as her proximity made my blood burn. "He hasn't responded."
Something broke in her expression—not surprise but confirmation of what she'd already known. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the defiant chin dropping for just a moment before she forced it back up.
"Of course he hasn't." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm worth less than his wine collection. Much less than his reputation. I’m worth less than a fucking dinner reservation at Le Bernardin."
The urge to comfort her warred with the need to punish her for the destruction. But how could I punish a woman who'd just had her worst fears confirmed? Who'd learned definitely that she was disposable to the one person who should have valued her above everything?
"That doesn't excuse this," I said, gesturing at the chaos she'd created.
"No?" She stepped closer, close enough that the silk nightgown brushed my suit. "Then what are you going to do about it, Daddy?"
The title on her lips—mocking but also not, sarcastic but also desperate—made heat pool in my gut. She was testing me, pushing to see if I'd follow through on consequences or if I was just another man who'd abandon her when things got difficult.
"Careful, devochka," I warned, voice rough with barely controlled want.
"Or what?" She pressed closer, and I felt every curve through the thin silk. "You'll spank me? Send me to bed without dinner? Make me follow more rules I don't care about?"
"You care," I said with certainty. "You care so much it's killing you. That's why you destroyed my kitchen. Because you care about the rules, about the structure, about having someone who gives enough of a damn to stop you."
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back with vicious determination. "Prove it then. Prove you're different from him. That consequences mean something. That I mean something more than just leverage. Do what you want to do."
"What I want," I said slowly, removing my suit jacket with deliberate precision, "is a woman who can follow simple rules. What I have is a brat who needs to learn consequences."
The jacket folded over the back of the leather chair with practiced care—every movement calculated to build tension, to make her wonder what came next. My fingers found my cufflinks, removed them with the same unhurried precision. Cartier white gold, a gift from a grateful politician we'd owned for years. They clicked against the marble counter like dice being thrown.
Clara's eyes tracked every movement as I rolled up my sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of violence dressed up as business. It was the first time she’d seen my tattoos—Russian Orthodox crosses mixed with bratva symbols that told the story of my rise through blood and discipline. Each mark earned, each symbol a promise to the family that I'd lead them or die trying.
"Your father is a pig," I told her, watching her lip tremble. "Three days, and he hasn't lifted a finger to get you back. Had dinner with his cronies last night, told everyone you're vacationing in the Hamptons."
"Figures," she whispered, and the pain in her voice almost made me relent. Almost.
But she needed this. Needed consequences that meant something, boundaries that held firm, someone who wouldn't abandon her the moment she became inconvenient. She'd been screaming into the void of her father's indifference for twenty-three years. Now she was screaming at me, and I was going to answer.
"So what happens to me now?" she asked, chin lifting with that defiance that made my blood burn. "Now that I'm worthless to everyone?"
"Now you learn that someone in your life actually follows through," I said, sitting on the leather couch that had hosted million-dollar deals and blood-soaked confessions. The leather creaked under my weight, familiar as my own heartbeat. "You've been begging for more consequences all day. Come here."
She didn't move. Stood there in that pink silk nightgown that had become armor and vulnerability wrapped in one, feet bare against marble that cost more than most people's cars. The afternoon light streaming through the bulletproof windows caught the silk, making it almost transparent. I could see the outline of her body, the way her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, the tension in her thighs.
"You’re gonna spank me?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Like I'm a child?"
"I’m going to teach you that actions have consequences. That someone cares enough to correct you." The words came out rougher than intended, too much truth bleeding through the control. "But I won't touch you without permission. You can walk to your room right now, and we'll pretend this didn't happen."
The offer hung between us like a test. I could see her processing it, understanding that I was giving her power in this moment. The choice to submit or walk away. To acknowledge what we both knew was building between us or maintain the fiction that this was just about debt and leverage.
"And if I don't walk away?" she asked, taking a step closer.
"Then you come here, position yourself over my lap, and accept what you've earned. Seven broken rules means seven consequences. You'll count each one, and you'll thank me for the correction."
Her pupils dilated at that, a flush spreading from her chest up her throat. "Thank you? For hitting me?"
"For caring enough to correct you. For giving you what you've been begging for since you walked through that door." I leaned back, spreading my arms across the back of the couch in a gesture that was invitation and challenge combined. "But the choice is yours, Clara. It's always been yours."
That was the lie and the truth tangled together. The choice was hers, but we both knew she'd already made it. Had made it the moment she'd destroyed my kitchen, the moment she'd put on that nightgown at 2 PM, the moment she'd called me Daddy with sarcasm that barely masked her desire.
She took another step closer, then another, each one deliberate as a signature on a contract. The space between us disappeared inch by inch until she stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could see the pulse hammering in her throat.
"I hate you," she whispered, but her hands were already moving to position herself.
"You know, it’s the third time you’ve said that to me," I said, guiding her with gentle pressure until she was draped across my thighs. "That’s three lies, davochka. Not clever."
The position was intimate, vulnerable, her body stretched across mine with that silk nightgown riding up to reveal black lace panties that were already damp. The sight sent blood rushing south, my cock hardening against her stomach where she pressed against me. She had to feel it, had to know what this was doing to me, but she didn't pull away.
Her breathing came quick and shallow, hands gripping the couch cushion like an anchor. The curve of her ass presented perfectly, begging for correction, for marks that would remind her someone gave a damn about her choices.
"Seven rules," I reminded her, hand settling on the silk covering her ass. Just resting there, letting her feel the weight of it, the promise of what was coming. "You'll count each consequence and thank me for it. If you lose count, we start over. Understood?"
"Yes," she breathed, then added with defiance that made my cock throb, "Daddy."
The word hit different this time. Not pure sarcasm like at dinner, not desperate need like I'd imagined she'd say it. This was both and neither—acknowledgment of what this was, what we were becoming to each other. She was giving me a role I hadn't asked for but desperately wanted, one that came with responsibilities that went far beyond her father's debt.
"Good girl," I murmured, feeling her shiver at the praise.
My hand lifted, and I felt her tense in anticipation. But I waited, let the moment stretch until her breathing became ragged, until she squirmed slightly against my thighs seeking friction or punishment or both.
This was the moment everything changed. Once I spanked her, once we crossed this line, there was no going back to kidnapper and leverage. This would make us something else—Daddy and little girl, dominant and submissive, two broken people finding something necessary in each other's damage.
"Please," she whispered, and I didn't know if she was begging me to stop or start.
"Tell me what you need," I commanded, hand still hovering.
"I need . . ." Her voice broke, rebuilt itself, came back stronger. "I need consequences. I need to know my choices matter. I need someone to care enough to stop me when I'm destroying everything."
"And?" I prompted, because I could feel there was more, words she was afraid to say.
"And I need you to be the one who does it." The admission came out in a rush, like she was embarrassed by the truth of it. "I need you to be my Daddy, to set rules and enforce them and make me feel like I exist for more than decoration."
The words destroyed something in me—some last wall between what I should do and what I wanted. She wasn't just accepting this; she was asking for it. Begging for the structure and discipline and care that came wrapped in control.
"Then that's what you'll get," I promised, and finally let my hand fall.
The first strike was gentle, testing—barely more than a firm pat through the silk nightgown. Clara gasped anyway, her whole body tensing across my lap. The sound went straight to my cock, already hard from having her draped over me like an offering.
"One," she breathed, then added with a shaky voice, "Thank you, Daddy."
The title on her lips, sincere this time instead of sarcastic, made my blood burn hotter. The second strike came firmer, the sound of my palm meeting silk echoing through the penthouse. She squirmed against my thighs, and I had to fight not to groan at the friction.
"Two. Thank you, Daddy."
By the third strike, the nightgown had ridden up enough that I could see those black lace panties clearly, could see the damp spot that had spread since she'd first positioned herself. She was getting wet from this, from the punishment, from calling me Daddy while I spanked her like the bratty little girl she'd been all day.
