Page 91 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

He shakes his head, downright denying responsibility. “It wasn’t like that.”

“There’s proof, Dad. So much proof, in fact, that the jury took less than an hour to deliberate, remember?” I say. “You let Bowman and Smith do whatever they wanted. To be honest, I still think you knew what they were going to do with me.”

“No, Lyric, I swear to you, I had no idea!”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m safe now. The FBI is still busy doing its spring cleaning, getting rid of their rotten apples. The city council, too. Everybody’s got a hell of a reckoning to deal with, but it’s looking better and better. The world is a safer place with Bowman dead, with you and Smith behind bars. And it’s breaking my heart to have to say such things.”

My father nods slowly, but not because he agrees with me. He just wants this to be over with. I’m not sure what I’d hoped would happen when I came to see him. A year has passed since he was found guilty. A year, during which time my Sokolov-funded think tank has brought the algorithm to a whole new level of excellence, while the guys and I have been raising our sons and building a wonderful life together.

“How old are the boys now?” my father asks after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“They’re going to turn two next month,” I say, cradling my belly underneath the counter. There’s a third one on the way, but I haven’t told the guys about it yet. The doctor just confirmed it this morning. “They’re strong and healthy. Happy and safe.”

“When am I going to get to meet them?”

I chuckle dryly. “You will never come anywhere near my family.”

“You’re being cruel,” he says. “They should know their grandfather.”

“After you tried to feed me to the wolves? Fat chance. You had plenty of opportunities to be a father to your daughter, Dad. You’re not getting another. This is your life now.”

He’s on edge, restless in his seat. But he can’t bring himself to walk away from me either. Max thinks he’s like this because, deep down, he does love me. I’m his daughter. His only child. But he loves his career and his ego a whole lot more. It’s an ongoing personality clash unfolding within him. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but it does make some sense of his sometimes-contradictory behavior.

“So the Bratva is still running the show, huh?” he asks.

“They’ve gone mostly legit. The businesses that stayed under were passed over to family and friends who chose to keep a more traditional trajectory,” I reply, still remembering that meeting behind closed ebony doors between the biggest Brava families. “The Sokolov Corporation took most of the holdings and refurbished them into legal sectors. What’s left behind is no longer their concern, but they retain their influence and notoriety. People know not to mess with them, and the city is safer because of their business decisions.”

“I find that hard to believe,” my father mutters, looking away for a second.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention—my algorithm is coming along nicely. I’ll be the only one using it though.”

He gives me a startled look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, as a researcher at UC, I now have free reign over the research department. I also have the Sokolov think tank behind me. Limitless resources to test countless scenarios, including the political field. Oh, the possibilities.”

I can see the life draining from my father’s face. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. See, Dad? Everything worked out for the best. Well, not for you. But it’s what happens when you get drunk on your own power. You lose sight of your own mortality,” I say.

“You seem to be enjoying this a little too much.”

I lean forward and give him a hard look. “I had a gun pointed at my head, Dad. Your best friend was holding it, and he was ready to kill me, convinced that you’d forgive him. That you would choose to believe him. It was in that very moment that I understood we’re not really family. By blood, yeah. But family isn’t blood anymore. It’s in the bonds we build. All you ever wanted to do was use me. Or my algorithm. Or my best friend. You never wanted me as your daughter. Not really. You never even bothered to really get to know me.

“And what hurt me the most, Dad, is that even after you were sentenced, after you were supposed to see the evil of your ways, you decided to double down and try to screw me over some more by giving a Chicago tabloid dirt about me and my supposed relationship with the Sokolov men.”

“Lyric, I didn’t—”

“I have you on tape, Dad,” I cut him off and get up, swallowing back my own tears. I will not let him see me cry. “This is the last time we meet.”

“Lyric, hold on, I want to see them!” he calls out, standing up in sheer despair.

“Who?” I give him an over-the-shoulder glance.

“Sasha. Alexander. My grandchildren.”

I shake my head. “I will not have my sons exposed to criminals such as yourself.”

And with those hard-hitting words, I leave. His incessant pounding on the glass, his strings of words bouncing between begging me and insulting me become mere mumblings that echo on the heels of my red pumps as I walk out of the prison building and get in the passenger seat of Max’s SUV.

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