Page 17 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

Instead, we ended up deflowering a doctorate candidate with the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.

Max and Ivan have been working hard for years trying to steer the family business into a different direction. I’ve been right there with them, putting my own sweat into it. We were so close to breaking the mold, until Bowman opened his mouth, forcing his federal buddies’ attention on us. The dirty bastard.

It had been quiet for almost a decade.

It was supposed to be a simple but effective operation: We tail him. We get close enough to grab him. And then we tell his big kahuna, SSA Smith, to back off our business and independent endeavors. All being things we didn’t want to do in order to achieve our goals yet we still had to do them.

Lyric stumbling in on us was an unexpected and interesting accident.

I’m about to approach her. Again.

For the past ten minutes, I’ve been lingering in the history section of the library, watching her. She has no idea, she’s so deeply wrapped up in her own thoughts. We turned her life upside down, even though we should’ve just let her go. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. But we couldn’t help ourselves. And neither could she.

“Fuck it,” I say, putting the book I’ve been pretending to peruse back in its place, before making my way across the reading hall. I need to be near her again.

I stop cold in my tracks.

A man walks up to her. A familiar face that fills me with uneasiness. He smiles down at her as she looks at him in slight confusion.

“Dad,” she says. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the campaign office? You have the debate in two days.”

“Lyric, honey, I need to talk to you,” he says.

Matthew Phelps is Lyric’s father.

“Shit,” I whisper.

If only we had known. Lyric was an innocent bystander. She was supposed to have nothing to do with our scheme, with our persistent enemies. Now she’s smack in the damn middle of it all.

“Dad, please, don’t tell me it’s about the job offer again. I already told you, I’m not interested,” Lyric says to her father. “I’ve already got so much on my plate.”

“I know but we could really use you. Your algorithm would give my campaign a definitive boost. I’d wipe the floor with Sanders with or without Sunday night’s debate. I need you, honey.”

“I don’t want to use my algorithm in this way,” Lyric snaps. “I’ve said this time and time again. It doesn’t belong in any kind of political warfare. It’s a decade away from such an application, Dad. The scenarios it gives me at this point are far too general, too easy to misinterpret. I’m still calibrating its political science analytical tools. It’s not ready for what you want it to do.”

“But you are,” Phelps insists. “Honey, you have such a brilliant mind, and you’re wasting it away in this library.”

“No, I am resting it in here. Most of my focus goes into my doctorate thesis. I should remind you that degree will get me onto the research team at the University of Chicago.”

“I could get you there. One phone call, that’s all it takes.”

“I don’t want your help,” Lyric replies with irritation. “I want to be able to do things on my own, Dad, to earn them. You know how much I hate nepotism.”

Phelps chuckles. “You never did want to follow in your daddy’s footsteps.”

“So why keep pushing this when you know the answer will always be the same?”

“My poll numbers are dropping. And the fact that one of my main contributors was kidnapped—”

“Wait, kidnapped? I thought Bowman was just missing,” Lyric blurts out.

I slide behind a bookshelf to avoid unnecessary exposure while keeping myself within earshot.

“I got a call from the FBI this morning. SSA Smith received a ransom demand,” Phelps says.

“Why did they call you about it?” Lyric asks.

He shrugs and runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Bowman is my close friend. He’s funding a large part of my campaign. They wanted to know if I could assist them financially. I have cash from the campaign’s war chest to dispense. Easier to write up and track.”

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