Bratva Daddy, page 28
"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.”
The 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."
Chapter 19
Clara
"Take off my tie, little one." His voice came out guttural, rougher than the cultured tones he'd used at the gala. This was the Pakhan's voice, the one that had commanded rooms full of killers, now focused entirely on me.
My body responded before my mind caught up, arousal flooding through me so fast it made me lightheaded. He looked devastating standing there—controlled violence wrapped in Italian wool, watching me with the focused intensity of a predator who'd already caught his prey but wanted to play with it first.
He didn't move from the doorway. Didn't step forward to meet me halfway. Just stood there, waiting, making me come to him. Making me choose this, every step of it.
My bare feet whispered across the plush rug, each step measured and deliberate. I could feel his gaze tracking my movement, cataloging every breath, every tremor, every sign of how badly I wanted this. The champagne had left my fingers cold, and they trembled slightly as I reached for his tie—deep burgundy silk that probably cost more than most people's rent.
The fabric was warm from his body heat, soft between my fingers. I had to rise up on my toes to reach the knot properly, bringing me close enough to smell his cologne mixed with the faint trace of champagne on his breath. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. Close enough that if I leaned forward just an inch, I'd be pressed against him.
But he wanted me to focus on the tie. Only the tie.
The knot was complex—a full Windsor, tied with the same precision he brought to everything. My cold fingers fumbled with the silk, trying to find the right angle to loosen it. He could have helped, could have tilted his chin to give me better access, could have at least guided my hands. Instead, he stood perfectly still, a statue of patient dominance, forcing me to navigate the intimacy myself.
"That's it," he murmured when I finally found the right loop to pull. "Such careful fingers. So good for Daddy."
The praise made my hands shake harder. I had to stop, take a breath, steady myself before continuing. The silk whispered as I worked it loose, each tug revealing more of his throat. My knuckles brushed against his skin—just the barest contact, but enough to feel his pulse, steady and strong where mine was racing.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I lifted my eyes to meet his, hands still working the tie by feel alone. His gaze was molten silver, desire and control warring in those depths. But he held himself still, held himself back, making this moment stretch like taffy between us.
"Good girl," he said, and I nearly moaned at how those two words could undo me so completely. "My perfect little one, undressing Daddy so sweetly."
The tie was almost free now, the knot completely undone, just the length of silk around his collar keeping it in place. I had to slide my hands up, fingers grazing the sides of his neck as I lifted the fabric over and around. He tilted his head just enough to allow it, the first movement he'd made since giving the command, and somehow that tiny concession felt like a gift.
The silk slithered free all at once, pooling in my hands. Without it, his collar hung open, revealing the strong column of his throat, the hint of tattoos that started at his collarbone and disappeared beneath white cotton.
"You did so well," Alexei said, his voice dropping even lower, rumbling through his chest in a way I could almost feel across the space between us. "Such a good girl, following Daddy's instructions perfectly."
The room seemed to shift around us, the soft pink walls darkening in my peripheral vision, the gentle lighting taking on a more intimate glow. Even the air felt different—thicker, charged, alive with possibility. The sounds of the city forty floors below faded to nothing. There was only this room, this moment, this man who could command my body with four simple words.
"What do you do with Daddy's tie, little one?" he asked, and I realized I'd been standing there, frozen, just holding it like some kind of talisman.
"I . . . I don't know," I admitted, honesty being the only option when he looked at me like that.
"Put it on the vanity," he instructed. "Fold it properly. Show Daddy you know how to take care of his things."
I moved to the vanity on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his eyes following me. The tie wanted to slip and slide, but I managed to fold it into a neat rectangle, placing it precisely on the white-painted wood. When I turned back, he'd finally stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded like a promise.
"Come here," he said, and I went, drawn by invisible threads he'd been weaving around me since the moment he'd carried me out of my father's penthouse. "We're just getting started."
When I stood before him, close enough to feel his breath on my face, he gave the next command.
"Undress me." Simple words that carried the weight of ritual. "Piece by piece. Take your time."
He stood perfectly still as my hands went to his shirt buttons, a statue of controlled power that I had to navigate like a supplicant before an altar. My fingers shook as I worked the first button free, then the second, each small disc of mother-of-pearl slipping through its hole with a whisper of fabric that seemed impossibly loud in the charged silence.
With each button, more of him was revealed. First the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. Then the beginning of the bratva tattoos—Orthodox crosses and Cyrillic script. The ink was beautiful and terrible.
Lower buttons revealed scars. A puckered mark near his ribs that had to be from a bullet. A thin white line across his abdomen that spoke of knives and close calls. Another scar, jagged and angry, disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
No matter how many times I saw his body, it was still a thrill.
I was his. Had chosen to be his. Was choosing it again with every button I freed.
The shirt hung open now, revealing the full canvas of his chest. Muscle corded and defined from years of controlled violence, skin marked by both ink and injury, the kind of dangerous beauty that should have sent me running. Instead, I pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting the expensive shirt fall to the floor in a whisper of white cotton that neither of us moved to retrieve.
"Good girl," he murmured, but stayed still, making me acknowledge what I'd unveiled.
Then he did something that shocked the breath from my lungs. He dropped to his knees before me.
The Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva, the man who'd never knelt to anyone, was on his knees on the plush rug of the room I'd designed. His hands went to my feet with a gentleness that seemed impossible from fingers that had dealt so much death.
"These pretty feet," he said, lifting one to cradle in his palm, "have been hurting all night."
He removed my heel with the same careful precision he brought to everything, then began massaging my arch with strong thumbs that found every ache, every pain from hours in those torture devices. I had to grab his shoulder for balance, my fingers finding warm skin and solid muscle, grounding myself in his physical presence while my world tilted on its axis.
He worked my foot with methodical attention, pressing into the spots that made me gasp, smoothing away the tension until I was practically purring. Then he switched to the other foot, giving it the same treatment, the same reverence. The man who could have anyone, who commanded an empire, was on his knees massaging my feet like I was something precious.
My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. Between my legs, I throbbed with an arousal so intense it bordered on pain. Every careful press of his fingers sent sparks through me, building something wild and desperate in my core.
"Stand up straight for me," he commanded, still on his knees, and I obeyed even though my legs felt like jelly.
He rose with fluid grace, towering over me again, and his hands went to the zipper of my gown. The sound it made coming down was obscene in the quiet room—a long, slow descent that made me shiver. The silk pooled at my feet in a puddle of midnight blue, leaving me in just my lingerie.
"This skin," he said, running one finger down my arm so lightly I might have imagined it, "belongs to me."
The stockings came next, his fingers finding the clips of my garter belt with practiced ease. He rolled each one down with excruciating slowness, his palms following the silk down my thighs, my calves, making me step out of them one at a time.
"These legs that shake when I touch them," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee that made me gasp, "mine."
The garter belt itself, unclipped and discarded. My bra, reached behind to unhook with one hand while the other steadied me at my waist. As it fell away, his eyes darkened to storm clouds.
"These breasts that ache for my touch," his thumb barely grazed my nipple, making me arch toward him desperately, "mine."
Each word was a claim, a promise, a prayer. He was mapping my body with ownership, but it didn't feel like possession. It felt like worship. Like recognition. Like coming home.
His hands skimmed down my sides, barely touching, raising goosebumps in their wake. When they reached my hips, he hooked his thumbs in the elastic of my panties, and I tensed, ready for him to remove this last barrier.
But he didn't.
His hands stilled, then withdrew, leaving me standing there in just black lace that was soaked through with my arousal. I whimpered at the loss of his touch, at the denial of that final unveiling.
"Not yet," he said, and his voice had gone rough again, dark with his own need. "TYou have to show Daddy how badly you want to be completely his."
