Bratva Daddy, page 3
But my thumb traced her photographed face, and for a moment, I wondered if I was lying to myself.
The metal stairs outside my office rang with footsteps—Dmitry's heavy tread making the whole structure vibrate, Ivan's lighter step barely audible beneath. I slid the manila folder into my desk drawer, the photos of Clara Petrov disappearing like a guilty secret. By the time my brothers entered, I was reviewing legitimate construction schedules, every inch the composed pakhan they expected.
Dmitry came through the door like a force of nature. Six-foot-four of pure muscle wrapped in a black wool coat that did nothing to civilize him. His shoulders filled the doorframe, and the office suddenly felt smaller. At thirty-two, my brother had spent the last decade perfecting the art of controlled violence. The scars on his knuckles caught the light—testimonials to problems solved with fists rather than words. He moved with the casual confidence of a man who'd never lost a fight and didn't expect to start now.
"Alexei." He nodded, shrugging off his coat to reveal a black henley stretched across his chest. Everything about Dmitry was overwhelming—his size, his presence, the way he owned space. That was his value to the family. When negotiations failed, when example needed to be made, Dmitry was the exclamation point at the end of our sentences.
Ivan followed, and the contrast was almost comical. Where Dmitry was all physical threat, Ivan was precise intelligence. Twenty-eight years old and dressed like a university professor—charcoal sweater, pressed slacks, wire-rimmed glasses that reflected the office lights. His laptop bag hung from one shoulder, probably containing enough digital evidence to destroy half of Manhattan's political structure. Ivan saw the world in patterns and probabilities, tracked money like blood trails, found weakness in firewalls and financial statements with equal ease.
"We have confirmation," Ivan said without preamble. No greeting, no small talk. That was Ivan—efficiency incarnate, emotions filed away with last year's tax returns. He moved to the conference table in the corner of my office, already pulling out his laptop. "Our contact at First National came through. Petrov's been moving money for six weeks."
The words landed like a punch. Six weeks of smiling to our faces while stabbing us in the back. Six weeks of accepting our gifts, our protection money, our good faith while selling us out to the Kozlovs. The manila folder in my desk drawer seemed to pulse with new meaning. Not just leverage anymore—justice.
Dmitry headed straight for the vodka cabinet, a tradition older than our father's death. Every family meeting started the same way—three fingers of vodka for the muscle, coffee for the brain, and whatever I chose for the authority. Tonight, I'd stay sharp. Tonight, we planned war.
"The sneaky little bureaucrat thought he was being clever," Dmitry said, pouring the vodka with surprising delicacy for such large hands. The crystal decanter had been our grandfather's, brought from Moscow in 1972. We'd buried enemies and toasted victories with that vodka. Tonight it would witness another betrayal added to our ledger. "Routing payments through three different shell companies before they hit Kozlov accounts."
He knocked back half the vodka in one swallow, his expression darkening with each word. Dmitry took betrayal personally—it offended his simple, brutal sense of honor. You were with the family or against it. No middle ground, no gray areas, no excuses.
I left my desk and joined them at the conference table. The leather chairs had hosted a hundred family meetings, absorbed decades of plans and schemes and controlled violence. Ivan's laptop screen cast blue light across his angular face, making him look even more ghostlike than usual. Data scrolled past—bank statements, wire transfers, enough financial evidence to bury a dozen men.
"How bad?" I asked, though Ivan's expression already told me. My youngest brother might hide his emotions behind algorithms and spreadsheets, but fury radiated from him like heat from a forge. Someone had touched family money. In Ivan's world, that was the only sin that mattered.
"Bad." He adjusted his glasses, a tell that meant he was struggling to contain himself. "Six weeks of systematic theft disguised as bureaucratic process. He's been feeding the Kozlovs our bid information, our project timelines, our permit applications. They've undercut us on three major contracts because they knew exactly what we'd offer."
Dmitry's scarred fist clenched around his glass. The crystal creaked but didn't shatter—he had that much control, at least. "How much?"
"Two point three million in lost contracts." Ivan's fingers flew across his keyboard, pulling up more evidence. "But that's just the immediate loss. The damage to our reputation, our relationships with legitimate contractors who think we're losing our edge—immeasurable."
I studied my brothers, seeing our father in both of them. Dmitry had inherited his capacity for violence, Ivan his strategic mind. I'd gotten the burden of keeping them both aimed in the right direction. Sometimes I wondered if the old man had planned it that way, fragmenting himself across three sons to ensure the family survived.
"Show me everything," I said, settling into my chair. The leather creaked, worn to my shape from a thousand late nights exactly like this. "Every transaction, every communication, every fucking penny that rat has stolen."
Ivan opened his laptop fully, and the screen filled with a spider's web of financial corruption that would have impressed me if it wasn't stealing from my family. Bank statements lined up like evidence in a murder trial—which, if I was honest with myself, they might become. Each transaction was highlighted, annotated in Ivan's precise handwriting on the digital documents. He'd spent hours on this, probably days, tracking every dollar with the obsession that made him invaluable.
"Look at this," Ivan continued, pulling up a permit application. "March fifteenth, we submit for the Brooklyn waterfront project. Clean application, all requirements met, backed by three years of perfect safety records. March twentieth, Kozlov submits an almost identical proposal, undercutting us by exactly eight percent."
"Exactly eight percent?" I leaned forward, seeing the pattern. "Not seven, not ten?"
"Eight point two five percent, to be precise." Ivan's smile was sharp as winter frost. "The exact margin that makes them competitive but not suspicious. They knew our numbers because Petrov gave them our sealed bid. Then he sat on our permit for 'review' while fast-tracking theirs."
The Brooklyn waterfront project materialized on screen—architectural plans for a development that would have transformed six blocks of defunct warehouses into mixed commercial space. Twelve million in contracts. Sixty union jobs. Six months of steady work that would have carried our legitimate operation through winter.
"They're already breaking ground," Dmitry growled, draining his vodka and pouring another. His scarred hands shook slightly—not from fear but from the effort of containing his rage. "I drove by yesterday. Kozlov's signs are up. His men are working. Our men are sitting home, wondering why the Volkov family can't deliver anymore."
That was the real wound. Not the money—we had money. Not even the disrespect, though that burned like acid. It was the breach of trust with our own people. Construction workers who'd followed the Volkov name for generations, believing we'd always provide. Now they saw Kozlov crews working our sites, spending our contracts, laughing at our impotence.
"There's more," Ivan said, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that meant the worst was coming. "Petrov's not just feeding them information. He's actively sabotaging our existing projects."
New documents filled the screen. Inspection reports, violation notices, stop-work orders. All dated within the last six weeks. All signed by inspectors who reported to Viktor Petrov's office.
"The Gowanus renovation—shut down for 'asbestos concerns' that didn't exist in our initial inspection. Cost us forty thousand a day in delays. The Red Hook warehouse conversion—suddenly failed electrical inspection after passing three previous reviews. The Queens Boulevard project—" Ivan's voice cracked slightly, the only sign of emotion he'd shown. "Indefinitely postponed pending 'environmental impact review.' That project employed thirty-eight men, Alexei. Men with families."
I absorbed each detail, filing it away in the mental ledger where I tracked every debt owed to the Volkov family. Viktor Petrov's bill was adding up fast, compound interest accumulating with every revelation. But beneath the cold calculation, something else stirred. The photo of Clara laughing seemed to burn through the desk drawer, reminding me that Petrov had something more valuable than money.
"He's been playing us for months," Dmitry said, his voice thick with vodka and rage. "Acting grateful for our gifts while selling us to our enemies. Remember last month's meeting? He sat in this room, drank our vodka, thanked us for the donation to his campaign fund."
I remembered. Petrov's sweating face, his nervous laugh, his repeated assurances that our permits would be expedited. All lies. All performance while he counted Kozlov money behind our backs.
"The disrespect," Dmitry continued, struggling to keep a hold of hie temper. He stood, started pacing like a caged tiger. "The fucking disrespect of it. We've owned city hall for fifteen years. We've made men like Petrov rich beyond their dreams. And this is how he repays us?"
"It's not about repayment," Ivan said coldly. "It's about market value. The Kozlovs offered more, so Petrov switched sides. Simple economics."
"Simple?" Dmitry whirled on our youngest brother. "There's nothing simple about betrayal, Ivan. Nothing economic about honor."
"Honor doesn't pay bills," Ivan replied, unmoved by Dmitry's anger. "But you're right about one thing—this is betrayal. And betrayal requires response."
They both looked at me then, waiting for direction. This was the burden of being pakhan. Not just commanding violence but choosing its precise application. Too much, and we'd have federal agents crawling through our operations. Too little, and every corrupt official in the city would think the Volkovs had gone soft.
I stood, moving to the window that overlooked our Brooklyn territory. Lights sparkled across the borough, each one representing lives that depended on Volkov strength. Legitimate businesses under our protection. Construction sites that should bear our signs. Communities that expected us to maintain order in a chaotic world.
"This isn't just theft," I said finally. "It's a declaration of war. Petrov didn't just steal from us—he gave the Kozlovs the blueprint to destroy us. Every delayed permit, every failed inspection, every lost contract weakens our position and strengthens theirs."
Dmitry sat down again, then leaned back. His scarred fingers drummed against the table as he worked through the logistics of violence with practiced ease. "We put a bullet in Petrov's head and dump his body in the Hudson. Clean, simple, sends a message." His hands carved the air, choreographing murder like a dance he'd performed before. "Maybe we do it public-style. Leave him outside City Hall with a note pinned to his chest. 'This is what happens when you steal from the Volkov family.' Let the Kozlovs see what their bribes buy them."
The enthusiasm in his voice reminded me why Dmitry was both invaluable and dangerous. He genuinely enjoyed the physical aspect of our work, found satisfaction in the crunch of bone and splatter of blood that would have haunted other men. It made him perfect for enforcement, less perfect for strategy.
"The body would be discovered within an hour," Ivan said, adjusting his glasses with the precision of someone who'd calculated exact timelines. "NYPD response time to City Hall is under three minutes. FBI involvement within six hours given Petrov's position. Federal investigation into our operations within forty-eight hours." He pulled up something on his laptop—crime statistics, probably, or response-time analysis from previous political assassinations. "The attention would cost us more than Petrov has stolen."
"Since when do we fear FBI attention?" Dmitry challenged, but I heard the acceptance in his voice. He might prefer direct violence, but he wasn't stupid. Federal investigation meant frozen accounts, seized properties, decades of carefully constructed legitimate business destroyed.
"Too messy," Ivan continued, his fingers dancing across his keyboard. "Petrov's a deputy mayor—his death would trigger mandatory federal oversight. Every construction contract we've touched in the last five years would be audited. Every permit, every payment, every connection traced." The screen filled with interconnected webs of businesses, permits, financial transfers. "We'd lose everything we've built since Father died."
They were both right and both wrong. Dmitry understood the need for blood—some betrayals demanded it. Ivan understood the need for subtlety—survival required it. But neither of them saw the third option, the one that had been taking shape in my mind since I'd first seen Clara's surveillance photos.
"There's another way," I said, interrupting their debate. Both brothers turned to me, and I saw Ivan's quick mind already calculating possibilities while Dmitry's brow furrowed in confusion.
"The daughter," I said, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. "We take the daughter."
The reaction was immediate and predictable. Dmitry's scarred face split into a grin that would have terrified anyone who didn't know him. Ivan's expression remained neutral, but his fingers stilled on his keyboard—a sign he was processing rapidly.
"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.
