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And now she wanted to run?

No.

Not without consequences.

My belt was still looped through my trousers. Thick, dark leather. I could already imagine what she’d look like draped over the bed, face buried in the sheets, her bare ass red and trembling, every inch of her aching from the lesson she’d asked for the second she typed that message.

She needed to learn what it meant to belong to me.

She wanted to act like she wasn’t mine? Then maybe I needed to remind her with something she’d feel every time she sat for the next few days. Maybe I needed to make her say thank you for every single strike until her throat was raw and the blankets beneath her were soaked with her tears.

My phone rang before I could reach for my belt. A call, loud and intrusive. I glanced at the screen and swore under my breath.

Charles Kingsley.

I answered on the third ring, stepping into my office and shutting the door behind me.

“Nikolai.”

“Mayor.” My voice was smooth, but the dangerous edge was still there.

I didn’t have patience for this right now. His voice was tight, measured, but I could hear the strain under the polish. Something had shaken him.

“I’m hearing things.”

“People talk, Kingsley.”

“I’m hearing my daughter’s name,” he snapped, sharper this time. “From people I shouldn’t be hearing it from.”

That got my full attention.

“She’s been here,” I said flatly. “Fed. Safe. Under my watch. Anything she did before I took her in is your problem, not mine.”

He exhaled, hard. I could hear the tension unraveling through the line.

“One of my senior donors—Dalton—lost a small fortune betting on the Moretti fight. He swears the odds shifted right before the match, and he’s not the only one. Word is someone manipulated the perception. Someone with access. Someone tied to you.”

Of course. Gregory Dalton: slimy, smug bastard with more secrets than tax returns. The kind of man who drank too much at country clubs and tried to buy the city behind closed doors. And he just happened to be wrapped around the campaign of Jack Stillwell.

Stillwell. The one man that Kingsley actually feared.

“You think your daughter’s little hustle just handed Stillwell ammunition, don’t you?” I said.

“I don’t think it,” he snapped. “I know it. He’s already sniffing around. Already calling me soft. Saying I let criminals run myhome. My own daughter, fixing underground fights for Russian money. Do you know what that does to a re-election campaign?”

I gritted my teeth.

“Don’t play games with me, Nikolai,” Kingsley growled. “You said you’d handle her.”

“I am handling her.”

“She’s my daughter, not your soldier. If this gets out, it’s not just her that burns, it’s both of us.”

There was a long pause. And then, quieter:

“I love her, but she’s reckless. Self-destructive. You said she needed someone who could keep her in line. So do it.”

I stared down at the desk, blood humming, anger building slow and steady beneath my ribs. I nodded once, already ending the call in my head.