Page 22 of Cinderella and the Daddy

"Remember, you're happy to be here. You're in love with me. And you don't know anything about business."

She turns to look at me. "What if they ask how we met?"

"Tell them I stole you." A ghost of a smile touches my lips. "It's the truth."

The dinner is held at Alexei Volkov's estate, a sprawling monument to excess and blood money. I keep Cindy close as we navigate the crowd, my hand possessive on the small of her back.

She moves with surprising grace for someone who claimed she'd never worn heels before. Every man in the room notices her.

Let them look. Let them see what belongs to me.

We're seated at the main table, a position of honor that isn't lost on anyone present. Alexei raises his glass in greeting, his cold eyes assessing Cindy like she's a piece of art he's considering purchasing.

"Luka brings us a gift," he says in accented English, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "Such beauty."

I feel Cindy tense beside me, but her smile never wavers. She's playing her role perfectly.

That's when I see her. Anna Tremaine, draped over the arm of Adrian Kozlov like expensive jewelry. The rival capo's hands roam freely over her curves while she giggles and preens for attention.

Anna's eyes find Cindy across the table. Her perfectly painted lips curl into a sneer.

"Oh my God, Cindy?" Anna's voice carries that familiar condescending tone. "I barely recognized you! I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress. Or makeup. Clearly, someone did it for you. Did you get the grease out from under your nails? I bet you smell like oil."

The insult hangs in the air like smoke. Several conversations pause as people wait to see how this will play out.

Cindy's fingers tighten slightly on my arm, the only sign of her tension. Then she leans into me, her hand sliding up to cup my jaw as she presses her lips to mine.

The kiss is soft at first, almost innocent. Then her tongue traces my lower lip, and heat explodes through my system. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with something that looks dangerously close to desire.

"Thank you, baby," she purrs, loud enough for Anna to hear. "For helping me discover who I really am."

I don't mind being used. Not when it feels this good.

Anna's face flushes red. Adrian whispers something in her ear that makes her force another fake laugh, but the damage is done. Cindy has staked her claim in front of everyone.

The evening progresses with the usual posturing and veiled threats disguised as business talk. Cindy plays her part well—laughing at appropriate moments and staying silent when the conversation turns dangerous. Her hand rests possessively on my forearm. Occasionally, when Anna is watching, she makes a big show of sliding her hand under the table.

She only touches my thigh, but to those watching, they assume she’s rubbing something else.

I go along with it.

Then one of the family elders leans forward, his eyes on Cindy like she's merchandise on display.

"She's exquisite," he says. "I'll offer three million for her. Cash."

The table goes quiet. Even the servers seem to freeze mid-step.

Cindy's hand goes rigid on her wine glass. I watch her knuckles whiten and the muscle in her jaw twitch as she forces herself to swallow instead of throwing the wine in his face. When she sets the glass down, her hand is perfectly steady.

I laugh, but there's no humor in the sound. It's the kind of laugh that usually precedes bloodshed.

"I don't sell what's mine."

"Everything has a price," he presses, clearly not reading the warning signs. "Four million."

"Not her." My voice drops to a deadly quiet tone that makes smart men back down. "Never her."

Cindy's hand squeezes my thigh; whether in gratitude or warning, I'm not sure.