Page 86 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

I’ve given my share of interviews to the FBI and the police, though I managed to steer clear of the press altogether. Max and the guys have had one of their top lawyers by my side through it all, covering my back against any potential charges.

From what I hear, Smith’s attorneys have been slinging mud in each direction in an attempt to get their client out of trouble, but it sounds like his best option is to make a deal.

“I had no knowledge of Mr. Bowman and Director Smith’s plans to kidnap and hold my daughter hostage,” my father tells the judge on camera. “Had I been aware, I would’ve called the police myself.”

“Yeah, right,” I grumble, knowing full well that he would’ve hesitated and sought ways to cover his own ass first.

I will need a lot of time to get over it all. Until then, however, I resort to mumbling and cursing under my breath, not able to bear even hearing his name mentioned in conversation while I focus on my future, my career, and my babies.

I was shocked when the doctor told me I was having twins after the incident at the field office, but the guys and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

“Miss Phelps, the board is ready for you,” the dean’s assistant says, poking her head through the door. “They’re waiting.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a smile and put my phone away.

I take a deep breath and follow her into the main chamber—a large circular hall with massive marble pillars and wall-mounted portraits of the city’s most revered scientists. The University of Chicago was my home for four long years, and it could be my home again if my dissertation is accepted and published.

I greet the board members with a courteous nod and give my flash drive to the assistant, who loads it into the projector-connected laptop.

“Good morning, Miss Phelps. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Dean Johnson says.

“Likewise, Dean. It’s an honor to be here,” I reply, working hard to control my breathing as I look at each of the board members and try to figure out which one of them will be rejecting my project. One of them always does. Never in the history of UC has a dissertation passed without some kind of academic dissent. “But just to be clear, I will not be discussing my predictive algorithm for this thesis.”

Johnson gives me a startled look. “Hold on. I thought that was your focus. You’ve been very adamant about it even before you earned your Bachelor’s. What gives, Miss Phelps?”

“I was actually excited to hear about it,” Professor Gallan chimes in, her brow slightly furrowed.

“I know and I do apologize. While my work continues with the algorithm, it still has a number of considerable kinks to iron out before it’s ready,” I reply. “I promise that when it is, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

The board members exchange curious and confused glances.

I’ve decided that I cannot have my predictive algorithm anywhere near the public domain. It can be a dangerous tool in the wrong hands. I’ve seen what bad men are willing to do for power—my father, Bowman, Smith. I shudder to even imagine what someone like them would do with my algorithm at their fingertips.

The world isn’t ready for this, and I’m not ready to risk it. It wasn’t an easy decision.

“For what it’s worth,” I say as the projector comes on, the first page of my slideshow filling up the main presentation screen behind me, “I can assure you my dissertation subject will incite your interest.”

Johnson stares at the title for a while, then bursts into laughter.

“Turning the Mafia Legit: An in-depth how-to for organized crime to redesign their business model,” he reads aloud. “Miss Phelps, I admit, I’m already curious.”

“It took a lot of work to put this together in such a short period of time, but I am satisfied with the results of this study. The business model itself can be extrapolated and applied to other fields, as well. It follows a specific formula with numerous ramifications.”

“Please, do go ahead then.”

And so it begins.

The next stage of my life, of my career, as I steer myself in a slightly different direction. Nothing has ever gone according to plan for me, yet somehow I managed to flow like water, to adjust and adapt and make the most of every situation. Through it all, nothing has been more beautiful and more rewarding than my relationship with Max, Ivan, and Artur.

No matter what the board decides today, I’m walking out of here as a happy and already accomplished woman, with only the sky as my limit.

I power through the dissertation one slide at a time. It’s a good subject with practical applications, studied and observed over the span of a few months. I have solid data to back up my claims, and the board grows increasingly fascinated as I progress with my conclusions.

My confidence grows as I notice their expressions softening as I near the end, especially Dean Johnson’s. His opinion matters the most— it’s his vote that will get me my PhD.

“Therefore, the model I presented follows a real-life application,” I say in closing.

“I think I recognize the real-life application,” Johnson chuckles softly. “Is it the Sokolov Corporation? Or am I wrong?”

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