Bratva daddy, p.17
Bratva Daddy, page 17
"Tangled!" I squeaked, recognizing the tower and the girl with the long hair.
"A princess like you," he said, and the words made my chest feel full of something warm and soft like the blanket.
Big Clara would have argued that she wasn't a princess, wasn't special, wasn't anything but a disappointment. But small me just smiled and picked up the purple crayon because Alexei said I was a princess, and Daddies didn't lie about important things.
He settled on the couch with his laptop, doing work things that looked complicated and important. But his hand stayed on my head, fingers moving through my hair in patterns that made me feel melty and safe. Sometimes he'd stop to take a call, speaking English or Russian in his business voice, but his hand always came back to my hair like it belonged there.
I colored three whole pictures while Rapunzel sang about wanting to see the floating lights. Made her dress purple to match her hair, gave Flynn Rider a blue vest because blue was better than brown, turned Pascal pink because why should chameleons always be green? Each time I finished one, I'd hold it up for Alexei to see.
"Beautiful, little one," he'd say every time, like I'd painted the Mona Lisa instead of going outside the lines with crayons. "Should we hang it on the refrigerator?"
The idea of my pictures on his expensive fridge, mixed in with his important papers and schedules, made me giggle. "Really?"
"Every good Daddy displays his little girl's artwork," he said, serious like this was a law or something.
My tummy made a rumbly sound right when Rapunzel was meeting Maximus the horse. Hungry, but asking for food felt big and scary, like maybe I was being too needy. But Alexei had said good girls ask for what they need, and maybe that included when your tummy was empty.
"Daddy?" I started, then stopped, then started again. "Can I maybe have chocolate milk?"
The question came out tiny, like maybe he'd say no, like father would have said it would ruin my dinner or make me fat or wasn't appropriate for Albright women.
But Alexei just pulled out his phone immediately. "Of course, baby. Anything else you want?"
"Just chocolate milk?" I said, not wanting to be greedy.
"Hmm," he said, typing something. "I think little girls need more than just chocolate milk for lunch."
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Mikhail came in looking like he always did—serious and a little scary—but carrying grocery bags that crinkled with promise.
"The items you requested," he said to Alexei, then looked at me all small on the floor with my coloring book. His face did something complicated, like he was solving a math problem in his head.
"Thank you, Mikhail," Alexei said in his boss voice. "That will be all."
After Mikhail left, Alexei unpacked the bags like it was Christmas. Chocolate milk in the little bottles that were just the right size for small hands. Juice boxes in every flavor—apple, grape, fruit punch. String cheese in individual wrappers. Goldfish crackers in the rainbow colors, not just regular orange.
"Lunch time," he announced, and went to the kitchen to make magic.
He came back with a plate that would have made father faint. Peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off, sliced into triangles like how Mom used to make them. Apple slices cut into bunny shapes with the skin peeled off. Goldfish crackers in a little bowl arranged by color. And chocolate milk in an actual glass but a small one, one that fit perfect in my hands.
"This is the best lunch," I told him, sitting at his feet with my plate because the coffee table was still covered in my coloring supplies. "Better than fancy restaurants."
"Little girls need little foods," he said, hand back in my hair while I munched on a sandwich triangle. "Food that makes them happy, not food to impress people or to be fancy."
The sandwich tasted like being taken care of. The chocolate milk was cold and sweet and exactly right. Even the goldfish crackers tasted better than usual, probably because someone had sorted them special just for me.
By the time Tangled was ending and Rapunzel was reuniting with her real parents, my eyes felt heavy. Lunch had made me sleepy, and crying had made me tired, and being small was exhausting in a way that being big never was.
"Sleepy," I admitted, leaning against Alexei's leg, Little Alex clutched tight in my arms.
"Nap time for little girls," he said, closing his laptop without hesitation.
He carried me again, and this time I was too sleepy to even enjoy it properly. His bed was huge and soft and smelled like him. He tucked me and Alexei Junior under the covers, made sure the blanket was smooth, checked that we were comfortable.
"Sleep tight, little one," he said, kissing my forehead. "Daddy will fix everything while you rest."
"Promise?" I asked, already mostly asleep.
"Promise," he said, and because he was Daddy and Daddies didn't lie, I believed him completely.
Little Alex was still in my arms when I woke, fur pressed against my cheek, and for a moment I couldn't remember why I was holding a stuffed animal in Alexei's bed.
Then everything crashed back—the news report, the breakdown, sucking my thumb while calling him Daddy in a voice that belonged to someone much younger than twenty-three. The coloring books. The juice box. Being carried to bed for a nap like an actual child.
Heat flooded my face so fast it made me dizzy. I'd completely regressed, turned into some little version of myself that needed stuffies and Disney movies and peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And Alexei had seen all of it, had taken care of me through it, had tucked me into bed with a kiss on the forehead.
"You're back," his voice came from the chair by the window, and I realized he'd been sitting there the whole time. Not working on his laptop or making calls, just reading a book and watching over me while I slept.
"I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I don't know what happened. I've never—that's never happened before. Not like that."
He set his book aside with careful movements, like everything needed to be precise. "Don't," he said firmly, standing and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Never apologize for needing care. This is exactly what I signed up for—all of you, including the little girl who needs juice boxes and stuffies when the world gets too big."
The words should have made me feel better, but shame still burned in my chest. "It's just—God, I actually sucked my thumb. And asked for chocolate milk. And named a stuffed wolf after you."
"Little Alex is an excellent name," he said, completely serious. "I’m honored to share it."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "You can't be okay with this. I turned into a child. Like, an actual child. That's not what you signed up for."
"Clara." His hand found mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles. "It's called age regression. It happens when stress breaks through your adult walls, when you need care so desperately that your mind provides it by returning to a simpler state. And it's beautiful."
"Beautiful?" I stared at him. "I was on the floor crying about frozen money with my thumb in my mouth."
"You trusted me enough to be that vulnerable," he corrected. "Do you understand how rare that is? You let me see you completely defenseless, let me take care of you when you couldn't take care of yourself. That's not shameful—that's the ultimate submission. The ultimate trust."
Something in my chest unclenched at his words. He really wasn't disgusted or disturbed. If anything, he looked proud, like I'd done something special instead of having a complete breakdown.
"It's never happened like that before," I admitted, fingers finding Alexei Junior's soft fur. "I mean, I've imagined it, wanted it, but actually going that small, that young . . ."
"How often have you imagined it?" he asked, and there was no judgment in the question, just curiosity.
"Since I went to college maybe? When things got bad, I'd imagine having someone who'd take care of me. Let me be small and not have to make decisions or handle problems. Someone who'd just . . ." I paused, searching for words. "Someone who'd let me color and watch cartoons and not think about anything important."
"Not just a Dom, but a Daddy Dom," he supplied simply.
"Yeah," I whispered. "But I never thought it would actually happen. Never thought I'd actually slip that far into little space."
"The stress of seeing the news report triggered it," he said, analytical but gentle. "Your mind needed escape from the guilt and fear, so it provided one. Took you somewhere safe."
"The charity money though . . ." The worry tried to resurface, but he squeezed my hand.
"Is already handled. Ivan's creating documentation showing you're safe but traveling for personal reasons. The funds will be released within forty-eight hours. David Maguire will receive confirmation tomorrow morning."
I stared at him. "You actually fixed it?"
"I told you I would. When you're little, when you need care, Daddies handle the big problems so little girls don't have to worry."
The casual way he said it, like this was just our dynamic now, made something warm bloom in my chest. "We should probably talk about boundaries. About what happens next time."
"Next time?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're already planning to regress again?"
"I don't think I can control it," I admitted. "Now that it's happened once, now that my brain knows it's safe to be little with you . . . it might happen again."
"Good," he said simply. "We should set up a proper littlespace room. Somewhere that's just for you when you need to be small."
"A whole room?" The idea seemed excessive and perfect simultaneously.
"You'll need somewhere to keep your supplies. Coloring books, toys, comfort items. Somewhere decorated just for little you, where big girl problems can't intrude."
The thought of having a dedicated space to be small, to not have to be perfect adult Clara, made my eyes burn with grateful tears. "That's . . . you'd do that?"
"I'd do anything to take care of you," he said, and the sincerity in his voice destroyed me. "All versions of you. The bratty submissive who challenges my rules. The woman who runs charities and changes lives. And the little girl who needs chocolate milk and Disney movies."
"What if I get stuck?" The fear spilled out before I could stop it. "What if I regress and can't come back?"
"Then I take care of you until you do," he said simply. "That's what Daddies do. We provide safety and structure and care for as long as our littles need it. Hours, days, however long."
"You really studied this," I observed, something like wonder in my voice.
"I study everything about you," he replied. "Your needs, your fears, your desires. It's my job to know you better than you know yourself. To provide what you need before you know you need it."
"Is that why you already had little supplies? The wolf and the blanket and the coloring books?"
A slight smile crossed his face. "I may have been optimistic. You've been calling me Daddy since day one, even sarcastically. I suspected you might need little space eventually. The way you seek structure, crave boundaries, need care—all signs of someone who might regress under the right circumstances."
"Or the wrong ones," I corrected, thinking of the news report.
"Either way, I was prepared." He reached out, fingers brushing over Little Alex's fur. "Though I didn't expect you to name him after me."
"It just felt right," I said, hugging the wolf tighter. "He's protective and soft and makes me feel safe. Like you."
Something shifted in his expression, vulnerability flashing across his features before disappearing behind his usual control. "You can keep him, you know. He's yours now."
"Really?" I asked, even though I was already attached, couldn't imagine giving the wolf back.
"He's yours, baby girl," he confirmed, then added with that intensity that made my stomach flip, "Just like you're mine."
The words settled over us like a blanket, warm and encompassing. I was his—his submissive, his baby girl, his little one, his to protect and care for and cherish. And somehow, impossibly, this dangerous man who ran half of New York's underworld was mine too. My Daddy, my protector, my safe place when the world got too big.
"Thank you," I whispered, meaning for everything—the wolf, the care, the acceptance of parts of me I'd never shown anyone.
"No, little one," he said, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Thank you for trusting me with all of you."
Chapter 11
Alexei
The security monitor cast blue light across my desk, showing Clara curled in my bed like she belonged there. Little Alex—the wolf she'd named after me—was crushed against her chest, and even in sleep, her fingers worked through his gray fur in self-soothing strokes that made my chest tight with something I refused to name.
I'd been watching her for twenty minutes, pretending to review construction contracts while really studying the way she breathed, how her face had lost all its careful guards in sleep. Yesterday kept replaying—finding her on my living room floor, thumb in her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she apologized for problems that weren't hers to solve. The trust required to let herself become that small, that vulnerable, in front of me—a man who'd kidnapped her, who'd laid out rules like prison bars—defied every logical explanation.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket, containing the message thread with Ivan from three days after Clara arrived. "Need items for age regression," I'd typed, no explanation offered. Ivan never asked for one.
Ivan was a good man. He understood me. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t judge. I had thoughts about him, wondered if he was a Daddy Dom, too. We’d never discussed it, of course.
Within six hours, he'd sourced everything—the wolf from an estate sale in Connecticut, handmade by someone's grandmother forty years ago. The blanket from a specialty shop that understood the weight and texture littles needed. The coloring books and crayons, the juice boxes, even the specific brand of chocolate milk I'd remembered her mentioning once.
Some instinct had told me she'd need them. The same instinct that had me checking on her every hour, bringing her tea she didn't ask for, choosing her clothes each morning like a ritual of care. Twenty-three years old, but something in her eyes looked ancient and infant simultaneously—someone who'd been forced to grow up too fast and never got to be small when it mattered.
I turned from the monitor to the window, Manhattan spreading below in the early morning light. Somewhere out there, men I'd had killed were buried in concrete foundations. Their faces visited me sometimes—not in guilt but in inventory. Seventeen by my own hands, dozens more by my orders. The Kozlov lieutenant who'd threatened Dmitry. The accountant who'd stolen from us.
Their blood was on my hands. The same hands that had held Clara yesterday while she colored princesses with purple hair. The same hands that had cut the crusts off her sandwich, arranged goldfish crackers by color, tucked her and a stuffed wolf into bed for a nap.
The contradiction should have bothered me. The pakhan of the Volkov bratva didn't make peanut butter sandwiches or keep juice boxes in his penthouse. He didn't spend three hours researching age regression psychology or order custom furniture for a little space room that would arrive next week. He didn't feel his heart crack open when a twenty-three-year-old woman called him Daddy with complete trust.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe the violence and the tenderness weren't opposites but the same impulse expressed differently—the need to control, to affect, to matter. With my enemies, that meant fear and death. With Clara, it meant safety and care. Both were power, just wielded with different intentions.
My phone buzzed—Ivan's ringtone, the one reserved for urgent family business.
"Coming up. We have a problem. Check Channel 4 now."
Ivan never panicked. In the fifteen years of my leadership, I'd seen him upset exactly twice—when our father died and when he'd discovered someone skimming from our accounts. If he was texting warnings, something had gone catastrophically wrong.
I grabbed the remote, clicked to Channel 4, and Viktor Petrov's face filled my office television. He stood at a podium wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, his expression arranged in practiced sorrow. Even from here, I could see the calculation in his eyes—this was performance, not pain.
"—deeply concerned for my daughter's wellbeing," he was saying, hands clasped in front of him like a grieving father rather than the piece of shit who'd sold her childhood for political favors. "Clara has always been fragile, taking after her dear mother in unfortunate ways."
My hand clenched around the remote hard enough that plastic creaked. On screen, Viktor produced a handkerchief, dabbed at eyes that were definitely dry.
"What many don't know is that Clara's mother suffered from severe mental illness before her tragic death. We kept this private to protect my dear wife’s memory, but recent events have forced my hand. Clara has shown signs of similar instability—paranoid delusions, violent outbursts, inappropriate attachments to older men who might take advantage of her vulnerable state."
The words were surgical in their precision. Clearly, he was worried that Clara might let slip some of his secrets. He was moving to preemptively discredit her.
I turned off the television before I threw something through it. Thirty seconds of Viktor Petrov's voice was enough to make me want to paint walls with his blood. But this required strategy, not violence. At least not yet.
Clara needed to wake up properly, needed to be big enough to handle this betrayal. I couldn't have her slipping back into little space when she learned her father had just publicly destroyed her reputation to save his own ass.
I moved through the penthouse on silent feet, a skill learned long before I became pakhan. The bedroom door opened without sound, and there she was—still curled around Little Alex, hair spread across my black pillows like spun gold. In sleep, she looked impossibly young, impossibly trusting, impossibly mine.
I sat on the edge of the bed carefully, not wanting to startle her. My hand found her hair, stroking gently, the way that always soothed her.
