Daddy’s Hidden Heir (Bratva Daddies #3)

Chapter 1

TATI

I’ll bet old Yanny has never even seen a pussy.

The thought makes me smile and almost makes me laugh. I have to turn my head and look away, out at the city passing us by on the last leg of this nightmare. I cannot believe my father’s men found me in Amsterdam. I thought for sure I was finally far enough away from him to be free…

Yanov hasn’t spoken a word to me since we got on the plane.

I keep trying to imagine what must have gone through his mind when he saw me on that stage.

Old Yanny probably clutched his imaginary pearls.

Nikolai’s perfect little angel! Stripping in Amsterdam!

The shame of it! After he and his men grabbed me and dragged me out into the night, wearing nothing but a G-string and a jacket somebody threw over me, I’ll bet he couldn’t wait to tell my father what a wanton tramp I’d become.

It’s weird that I can make jokes about it now.

I was pretty terrified the minute I saw his stone face and cold ice-blue eyes staring at me from the crowd.

I used to have nightmares about his face.

He looks like the marble busts that my father has around the house.

Like his entire face was constructed out of rock when he was born.

I can count on one hand the times that I’ve ever seen anything close to a smile on his face.

We’re rounding the corner and entering the gated community where my father’s house is.

Ugh. This is going to suck. I mean, I knew there was a chance that he would react this way when I decided to drop out of school.

You can’t run far when your father’s a Pakhan.

And after I got to Amsterdam, I did my best to settle into the idea of real freedom from being under his thumb.

I guess in my mind, I kept pushing the consequences down the line.

Saving the problem for ‘future me’. Well, here I am.

Future me, dealing with the inevitable consequences of my actions.

“You should beg your father’s forgiveness,” I hear from the driver’s seat. Yanov’s voice reminds me of a priest’s. Or maybe a diplomat of some sort. Soft and kind with a touch of a Russian accent. When I was younger, it had a tendency to lull me into a false sense of security.

“Why? It won’t make a difference,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. The trees on the street look taller to me. They reach up and over, blocking out parts of the evening sky. A few of them are even starting to form a canopy over the road, a tunnel pointed toward my prison.

“It may,” he says. “You’re his child. That means something.”

I could laugh at that. Maybe that means something to other parents. Not my father. It never has.

He lets out a long breath like I spoke that thought out loud. “He wouldn’t have bothered to pay for you to go to that expensive school if he didn’t care,” he says. “He would not have had me fly across the world to find you if he didn’t care. I believe that your father loves you in his own way.”

I have to look at him to see if he’s serious. He’s staring at the road, the light from the car’s headlights glowing cyan over his skin and lighting up his pale blue eyes. Ever the robot, programmed to follow my father’s every command.

“If he loved me, he’d let me live my life,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Maybe if you showed you could be more of an adult. You could start with your hair.”

I touch the edges of my curls self-consciously, but I don’t respond.

I know what he’s talking about. I’ve been dying it different colors since I dropped out.

It’s been bubblegum pink since I started dancing at the club in Amsterdam.

I don’t know who started the idea that odd-colored hair was a sign of immaturity, but if I ever find out, I’d like to kick them in the throat.

We finally get to the estate. Yanov pulls the car onto the private road leading up to the house, which we can already see through the trees. My stomach tightens with every inch closer that we get.

He hasn’t seen me in the flesh since I left for that stupid college almost six years ago.

I’ll never forget my last day here, my father bragging to all his Bratva buddies about how his little girl was going to the same school that taught dignitaries and royal family members.

It was only further proof to me that the man is living under the delusion that just because he’s a Bratva Pakhan, that somehow makes him royal.

We get to the large circular drive and I see him standing in the open doorway, cigarette between his fingers and a dark shadow under his brow, where his eyes should be.

He looks older somehow. His blondish-brown hair is still in the same conservative haircut, but he’s got more gray coming in on the sides.

His beard is still trimmed and perfectly lined, but it’s a little longer and much grayer in the front.

His eyebrows are still bushy… and his face seems longer, more wrinkled.

As we get closer, it occurs to me that he almost looks like he’s melting.

A chill runs up my spine as Yanov parks the car in front of the stairs. This is my stop. I don’t even bother touching the door handle to get out, this time out of terror. I’m waiting for Yanov to drag me out of this car.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. He gets out first, and I watch him walk in front of the car to my side to let me out and walk me to my doom. Dead woman walking…

The door opens, and I summon my courage to get out. I stand on the sidewalk and look up at my father. I still can’t see his eyes in this light. I can feel them, though. He’s staring daggers at me.

Yanov takes my arm, and I yank it away from him. “I can walk,” I say. He waves me forward. Go ahead.

Up the stairs to my father. As I reach the doorway, I finally see his black eyes and deep scowl on his face. He takes a drag from his cigarette as I approach. “Go to the study and wait for me there.”

A million and one responses bubble up inside me, but nothing comes out. It’s like just being in his aura has muted me. There’s nothing for me to do but walk into the house, so I do.

These brand-new tennis shoes that Yanov bought me in Amsterdam squeak across the marble floors.

He didn’t even give me a chance to get any of my things from my apartment, and now I’m stuck with these ugly, plain white shoes and stupid yellow midi dress.

The hem is about two inches past my knees, and it feels weird swishing back and forth against my thighs.

I didn’t choose this outfit. Yanov did. He took it off the rack of the store we were in and shoved it at me. “You should look nice for your father.”

I scoff at the memory and cross the foyer, past the winding spiral staircase that leads to the second floor.

I walk down the first hallway with the fine art on the walls and busts of past emperors or whatever.

If I keep walking straight down this hallway, it’ll eventually lead me to the kitchen and family room and to the sliding doors that open up to the back patio.

Beyond that are about three or four acres of land and forest. I wonder how far I can realistically get if I run.

I pass by the decorative mirror that sits on the wall just before the dining room, and I have to stop.

My reflection looks like the me that I’ve come to know—shoulder-length curls the color of cotton candy, big brown eyes, and naturally pink, heart-shaped lips.

The little gold nose ring I wear is still in place, strangely unnoticed by Yanov.

The dress I’m wearing looks a little more obscene than I know Yanov was predicting it would be, given my body shape.

Hourglass figures with full, rounded breasts, small waists, and shapely hips tend to make every outfit look sexy.

Even though this thing I’m wearing is more tent than dress, the outline of my body is still evident.

That said, I miss my actual clothes.

I hear my father’s steps down the hall, so I walk the rest of the way to the study.

The minute I walk in, his scent greets me.

Musky, old man cologne, sweat, and cigarettes.

I used to spend hours in here studying for school, and the smell was different then.

Paper, food smells, whatever perfume I was into. Not so much anymore.

It still looks the same. The wall of bookshelves, the writing desk by the window looking out over the estate, the liquor cabinet in the far corner, and the leather couch and chairs in the corner where I used to sneak vodka and hang out with my friends. Guess some things never change.

The door opens behind me and my father says, “Sit down.”

Here we go. I walk over to the couch and sit. He walks over to the liquor cabinet and starts making himself a drink.

“Stripping in Amsterdam,” he says without looking at me.

He’s set a glass down on that small bar by the cabinet and is pouring himself a glass of what looks like vodka.

“I don’t believe I’ve spent a small fortune for you to go to one of the best schools in the world just for you to show your tits to Eurotrash. ”

I don’t say anything as I watch him slam back a double shot, then pour himself another. He’s been drinking before this moment, I can see that much. And while I can’t tell yet how drunk he is, I know I need to be careful how I talk to him.

“And your hair.” He glances over at me and shakes his head. “You think walking around looking like a piece of Pastila will win you respect?”

He’s not cursing me out in Russian… yet. That’s a good sign.

“What exactly were you thinking?” he asks me. “I’m told you dropped out of your classes three years into your studies. You just left England and disappeared for almost four years.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from asking him how long it took him to realize I was even gone. He continues.

“I have been scouring Europe looking for you.” Another drink followed by another pour. “The resources I’ve gone through. The favors I’ve had to call in. If you were not my daughter…” He takes another drink and sets the glass on the bar, then turns to me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Here it is. Here’s where Yanov suggested I apologize, beg him not to punish me. I don’t have it in me to do it. I just sigh and say, “I didn’t ask you to come find me and bring me back here. I’m an adult. I can make my—”

“You are my daughter,” he growls at me. “And you will not bring dishonor to this house. I don’t care how old you are.”

The child inside me flinches from him as if he raised his hand to slap me. I straighten my back and retort, “I can make my own choices, Papa. Plenty of women my age are living their own lives by now. That’s all I was doing.”

He cocks his head at me. “Living your own life? Taking your clothes off for money? That’s how you live your life now? With low morals?”

“That’s rich coming from you.” A flame of anger rises up in my chest as I speak, and the words come out on their own. His eyes harden as he glares at me.

“What did you say?”

I lift my chin. Might as well go with this.

I’m already fucked. “You heard me,” I say.

I’m so angry right now, it’s like that’s taken over everything.

I’m asking for this fight and I don’t even fully understand it.

“The head of the Kirov Bratva is trying to teach me about morality. At least I haven’t killed anyone lately—”

He throws the glass at me. I duck, and it smashes into the wall behind me, showering me with shards.

Shaking, I stay crouched, waiting for another blow to come at me. It doesn’t, but as I look up at him, I see he’s pacing.

“You are lucky you are still alive,” he spits at me in Russian. “I should have made your mother abort you. I never wanted the burden of a daughter, especially not one like you.”

I wish I could say it hurts to hear him say that. It doesn’t. It’s not the first time he’s unloaded that fun fact on me.

“If you had done something about Nikita,” I shoot back at him, “you’d still have the son you always wanted.” My voice is shaky, but I can feel my feet are firmly on the ground. “I didn’t ask to be born or to be your burden.”

“‘Done something?’” He laughs bitterly. “You don’t know anything about what happened to him.”

“I know you let him die. All that talk about being a man who makes the world turn on your word and you couldn’t save your own—”

He moves fast. Faster than I can anticipate. He grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet, dragging me out of the study.

“Filthy little slut,” he mutters in Russian as he drags me down the hall and pulls me up the staircase. “A living disgrace to your mother and your bloodline.”

He’s dragging me down the hall, nearly pulling my arm out of the socket. I try to dig my feet into the carpet, to yank myself out of his grip, but he holds me fast, yanking at me so hard, it lifts me off the floor for a half-second.

We get to my room, and he pushes me hard into the door. It flies open and I go flying with it, landing nearly face-first onto the carpet. I scramble to my feet and just as I turn around, he slams the door. I hear the locks engage as I stand there.

“You will stay in there.” He’s out of breath, but his voice is rough with rage. “You will stay in there until you learn some respect.”

“You can’t keep me in here!” I shout back, and the door vibrates with impact from his fist.

“YOU WILL NOT TALK TO ME THAT WAY!” he shouts in Russian. “You will learn respect and you will learn to be a decent person if I have to beat it out of you!”

Another slam to the door, then I hear his shoes stomp off.

I’m standing in the middle of a bedroom I haven’t seen for nearly seven years, my knees shaking.

I dare to look around. Mostly shadows greet me, but the moonlight coming in highlights my bed.

No sheets or covers. The canopy has been stripped as well…

I’m in prison. A hard sob catches in my chest and tears burn in my eyes. He’s locked me away in a tower like some cruel king. My knees buckle and it all comes out. I start weeping uncontrollably.

Fucking bastard. He’s really decided to keep me caged up. I can’t believe this is my life now…