Alpha Bratva
“When I heard that she was your daughter, I didn’t have any expectations.”
My father rushed forward and bowed his head. “She is untouched. Young. Healthy. She can cook, clean, serve. She will not be trouble, and she is here to satisfy.”
The man at the table tapped his ring against a glass of whiskey. “You owe the Volkov Bratva three million dollars, Ivan. Not a maid.”
“I know,” my father said quickly. “But I need more time. Take her as a sign of good faith. A sign that you are going to get your payment.”