Page 106 of Cinderella and the Daddy

He opens his mouth—last words, final threats, pleas maybe—but I'm done listening. The second bullet punches through his chest, center mass, professional and clean. His eyes hold mine for onemore heartbeat, surprise replacing arrogance, before the light fades.

Yuri Kozlov, pakhan of nothing, reduced to meat cooling on concrete.

His men start to raise their weapons, but they're outgunned and surrounded. The smart ones drop their rifles and raise their hands. The stupid ones learn why that was the right choice when Viktor's team opens fire.

When the echoes of gunshots fade, six bodies litter the pier beside their boss. The seventh man—barely twenty, probably new to this life—is on his knees with his hands behind his head, crying.

"Let him go," I tell Viktor. "Someone needs to spread the word that the Kozlov organization is finished."

The kid scrambles to his feet and runs toward one of the SUVs, engine already running, thanks to the driver, who's apparently smarter than his passengers were.

I turn to Charles, who's standing frozen beside the warehouse entrance, staring at the carnage with wide eyes. Blood spatters on his jacket from when Yuri went down. There's a shallow gash across his cheek from flying shrapnel.

"It's over," I tell him.

He nods slowly, like he's having trouble processing what just happened. "The debt?"

"Paid in full."

Charles stands frozen, Yuri's blood splattered across his cheap jacket like abstract art. His eyes dart between the cooling bodies and my gun, still in my hand, still with bullets in the magazine.

The smart play is obvious. No witnesses. No loose ends. No foster fathers who might grow a conscience later and decide to talk. My finger twitches toward the trigger.

"Luka?" His voice cracks. "What happens now?"

I could do it between heartbeats. Quick. Clean. Tell Cindy he got caught in crossfire. She'd mourn, but she'd understand. This life demands terrible choices.

Except.

Except I can still see her face when she asked me to meet with him. The hope she tries to hide. The little girl inside her still wanting a father's love, even after all his failures.

"You know what I should do," I tell him.

"Yes." At least he's honest about it.

"Give me one reason not to."

"I can't." His shoulders sag. "I used her. Failed her. I deserve whatever you decide."

And there it is. The admission Cindy needs to hear but never will. The acknowledgment of guilt that might begin to heal old wounds if I let him live long enough to say it.

My promise to her weighs heavier than the gun in my hand.

"There's a ticket to Moscow waiting for you at JFK." The words taste like ash. Every instinct screams this is a mistake. "Flight leaves in six hours."

Relief floods his face, followed quickly by something else. Hope, maybe. Or desperation.

"Luka," he starts, taking a step toward me. "Thank you. I know you didn't have to?—"

"I didn't do it for you," I cut him off. "I did it for Cindy. Don't mistake mercy for forgiveness."

He nods, understanding the distinction. Smart man, when he wants to be.

"The baby," he says quietly. "My grandchild. Will I... could I maybe see?—"

"That's not my decision to make." The words come out harshly. Charles needs to understand exactly where he stands. "Cindy decides who gets to be part of our child's life. But if it were up to me?" I step closer, letting him see the truth in my eyes. "You'd never know this kid exists."

The blow lands exactly as intended. Charles flinches like I've hit him, all the hope draining from his face.