Page 22 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
“Hello, Father.” NotPapa,like she called me when she was little.
The formal title cut colder than her tone. Her voice was calm, almost rehearsed. No tremor, no anger—just distance. And it pricked more than her shouting would have.
“Moy Zakya.”My bunny.
“No. None of that,” she hissed. “My name is Katya, and youwillcall me by my name.”
I swallowed up my pride and bit out her name. “Katya.”
Hearing me say it out loud, after so long, sounded foreign, and the tightness of her expression meant she mirrored my thoughts.
She waved her hand dismissively, frowning. “You know what? Why don’t we get the small talk out of the way and get to the main shit? Like, for instance, you get to answer this multimillion-dollar question:Why?Why, all of a sudden, after almost twelve fucking years, have you decided to come back to LA? Is it to torture me with your presence? You think you didn’t torture me enough by neglecting me?”
Her voice quivered, and the rush of anger started to seep in, but she masterfully kept the emotions from her eyes. They stayed pinned on me, cold and accusing.
“You were fine with running off to Moscow, with your tail between your legs after my mom….” Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked. “You were fine with choosing yourstupid Bratva shit and fucking work over me, so why come back now, huh,Papa?”
She stared long and hard, quietly daring me to respond. Daring me to defend myself.
If anyone else had tried to challenge me in such a condescending and insulting tone, I would have snatched the bastard’s throat and slammed him against the wall without hesitation.
But I would rather take a bullet than let my daughter suffer such a terrible fate at my own hands.
I forced in a deep breath, keeping my expression neutral. If she thought her jabs were provoking enough to pry a response from me, then she obviously had more to learn than she thought.
“V kakom vide ty khochesh’ ego videt’ umeret?” Which way would you like to see him die?
Katya squinted, and her eyes snapped wide open when the realization hit her like a ton of bricks.
“No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t!”
I arched a brow. “Look at me again, Katya. Look at me and repeat those fucking words.”
Fury stole into her gaze, breaking through her placid mask. “What the hell does Liam have to do with any of this?”
“It doesn’t matter what unresolved shit you’ve got going on in there.” I pointed at her chest and narrowed my gaze. “You are still my daughter. My blood. Any fool who puts his hands on you without my permission does so at his own fucking risk.”
Katya chuckled dryly, running her hand down her face, and gave me a look like she thought I was a joke.
“I can’t believe this. Listen to me, if you have him locked up somewhere, you will let him go this instant, and pull your fucking men off his back.”
I didn’t have the son of a bitch locked up. His arms would have been the first parts of his body to be detached if I had. ButI’d gotten Roman to tail him and watch his every move in case we needed an execution.
“The only way to guarantee his safety or anyone else’s is if you stay away from the fucking club.”
Katya snapped, blue eyes narrowing to slits. “No, you donotget to pull that ‘I’m a protective father’ shit. I am a grown woman now, as you can see. I’m not that ten-year-old gullible kid you walked away from, and neither am I some teenager that has to listen to what her ol’ papa has to say. I’ve taken care of myself, and I’ve done a pretty damn good job. So, keep your arsenal to yourself, okay?”
She stormed off angrily and paused on the staircase to throw her final remark over her shoulder.
“Welcome back.”
She vanished up the stairs without another word.
I didn’t move. The echo of her footsteps faded, leaving nothing but the enveloping quietness in the house.
My hands curled into fists, nails pressing half-moons into my skin. I welcomed the bite; it kept me present.
When I accepted the reality of moving back to Los Angeles—the reality of seeing my daughter again—I hadn’t expected warmth. We were past that. But I thought maybe there’d be something left to salvage, some cracked piece of the past we could pretend still fit.
