Page 40 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

It’s my turn to give him a cold look. “I’m not required to disclose that information, either.”

Silence falls between us, and with it comes the glares of several of his colleagues. The mild ruckus up to this point of cops and felons buzzing around, admins shouting and phones ringing seems to have slowed down. I suddenly feel pressure bearing down heavily on my shoulders.

I do not yield, however. My head stays high, my heart still in my throat, but I power through every soul-crushing second until the officer concedes with a slight nod.

“Bail was set at four-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars,” he says, a smirk testing the corner of his mouth.

“Great. I suppose cash will work?” I instantly reply as I set a black bag on top of his desk.

He stills at the sight of it, eyes round with pure shock. “Cash?”

“Taxes already deducted, and I can provide a full paper trail for every single bill, if needed,” I say, half-smiling. “I’m a city councilor’s daughter, officer. I can’t afford to play dirty while my father advocates for righteousness in this great city.”

He nods slowly and hands the bag over to one of his colleagues. “There’s a money counting machine in Rhonda’s office,” he tells the guy. “Double-check that it’s all there while I draw up the paperwork.”

“Why would you do this?” his colleague asks me with an expression of sheer disgust. “These people are the worst. Russian mobsters. Criminals. Killers. And you’re Matthew Phelps’s daughter. The man who’s trying to put them away.”

“I’m just here to pay Mr. Sokolov’s bail,” I insist with the same flat, pleasant smile. The less I say, the less I entertain this clearly tense conversation, the easier it will be for me later down the road. “Will there be anything for me to sign?”

They don’t like this, but they are compelled to oblige.

The money gets counted in a back room, while I go through a slew of paperwork with the reception officer. Signature after signature. Initial after initial. Approvals, agreements, receipts. Everything needs to be accounted for, so that nobody has any questions left to ask at any point in the future.

Once it’s all done, I sit patiently in a corner, watching the buzz of the precinct continue.

“Lyric?” Max’s voice startles me.

I didn’t see or hear him coming. I glance up and find him standing so close to me, I can smell his heady cologne. I can almost feel his heart thudding against mine. “Oh,” I mumble and get up. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“You’re angry,” I mutter.

“I’m frustrated. They’re hell bent on treating us like criminals,” he replies.

“Well, you did… you know, do that thing with Bowman,” I shoot back with a low voice, careful so no one can hear me.

Max lets a sigh leave his broad chest. “Yeah. I guess we had it coming. I just didn’t think it would be on such flimsy warrants. Our law firm is halfway done dismantling every single piece of paper that they’ve been throwing at us lately. It’s the bank accounts that really set us back, though, even if it’s just for a couple of days.”

“Oh, I took care of that. It’s why I’m here.”

He gives me a confused look just as the reception officer comes over with a final receipt. “You’re all set, Miss Phelps. The money has been counted, every penny there. I’ll have someone send Mr. Sokolov up in just a few minutes,” the guy says.

“Thank you,” I reply.

The officer backs away, stealing a dark glance at Max in the process, but he doesn’t say anything else. Max, on the other hand, is positively and understandably befuddled, unable to take his big green eyes off me.

“Lyric, what is going on here?”

“I paid Ivan’s bail.”

“You what? Are you serious?”

Shock is the first thing to hit. But then relief rushes in, softening his features before discomfort comes along. All I can do is gently touch his forearm and smile. “Yes. It’s taken care of. I didn’t want Ivan in jail for a moment longer, either.”

“That’s a lot of money, Lyric. I know your father’s well-to-do, but he’s still a public servant. Where in the hell did he get that kind of cash?”

“It’s not his cash. It’s mine.”

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