Page 52 of Cinderella and the Daddy

By the time we finish, I can hit a man-sized target at ten yards—what Luka calls "practical distance." My shots aren't pretty, scattered across the torso rather than clustered at center mass, but they'd stop someone.

"Twenty-five yards will come with practice," he says, packing up the weapons. "Most defensive shootings happen within seven yards anyway. You did good for a first real session."

I flex my sore hands, feeling the unfamiliar strain in my forearms. "How long before I'm actually good?"

"Depends on how much you practice." He gives me a look that's almost approving. "But you've got steady hands and you don't flinch. That's more than most can say after their first hour."

"Not bad for a beginner," Luka says as we pack up the equipment.

"Thanks for teaching me."

"Thanks for wanting to learn."

15

LUKA

After tucking Leo into bed, Cindy and I make our way back to my room.

I have to tell her. She trusts me. Trust is a two-way street, and if I expect her to stand with me in this war, she needs to understand exactly what we're facing.

“Tell me,” she whispers.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I think I have to know. Something happened the other night. Something that’s shaken you. You believe I’m in danger. Why? What happened?”

The only way to tell her is to show her.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open up the gallery.

“One of my operations was attacked.”

“And that doesn’t happen very often?”

“No. Not like this.”

I show her the photograph of Tommy. It’s gruesome, and I know it will shock her.

I've been debating whether to show her, whether she can handle seeing her name written in someone else's death. In my experience, bad news doesn't get better with packaging.

She takes it with steady hands, her face composed as she studies the image. But I watch her closely, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell that might indicate how she's processing this new reality.

“Slide to the next one,” I tell her.

She does, and that’s when I see her react.

“My name is written in that man's blood. I'm a target. So, you're going to tell me everything. All of it."

She should be terrified. Screaming. Running.

But looking at her now—shoulders squared and chin raised—I realize she's not asking for information.

She's demanding it. As an equal.

"There's a contract," I say finally. "Someone wants Drew dead, and they're using you to pressure me into taking the job."

Her face goes still. "Drew. My brother."