Page 54 of Cinderella and the Daddy

“Charles is not who he says he is,” I say.

I look at Cindy, gauging her reaction. “Okay. Who is he?”

“Sasha Fedorov.”

She frowns. “What?”

I watch her absorb this information and see the moment when her world shifts beneath her feet. The man she's called father for fifteen years, the one who took her in when she had nowhere else to go, isn't even real.

"Thirty years ago, Sasha Fedorov worked for my father's organization in Moscow," I begin, settling into the chair across from her. "He was trusted. Family, almost. And he stole two million dollars before disappearing into the night."

I take another sip of vodka, letting the burn ground me in the present while I dig up ghosts from the past.

"My father sent me to find him. That was four years ago." I meet her eyes, watching for any flicker of understanding. "Charles has been paying the family back up until a few months ago; the payments stopped.”

She nods. “The shop… we’ve been struggling.”

"I suspect he is working with the Romanov Bratva. They have connections, resources, and reasons to want my family's money to stay lost."

"So when you took me?—"

"I thought you were his daughter. I thought leverage would make him pay." The admission tastes bitter. "I was wrong about the relationship, but not about the result.”

She laughs. “Joke’s on you. I’m worthless.”

“You arenotworthless. He’s a fool.”

“I have no value to Charles. I told you how he ended up stuck with me. If he won’t pay, what next? Does your family need the money that bad? You seem to be doing alright for yourself.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s respect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Men.”

I down the last of my drink and get to my feet. “I’ll be back.”

“I’m not going to ask you now, but when you get back, I need to know about Leo’s mother.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I want to know.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter.

I walk to the door, and just before I step out, I hear her move behind me.

"Be careful," she says.

The words are simple, but they carry weight. Not just concern for my safety, but something deeper. Something that sounds suspiciously like care.

"I'll be fine," I tell her.

"See that you are. Leo needs you. I need you."

She's just told me that my survival matters to her.

Two hours later, I'm standing on Pier 47 watching fog roll in off the Atlantic like a funeral shroud.

The location makes my teeth itch. Too many angles. Too many shadows where shooters could hide. The abandoned warehouses create a maze of kill boxes, and the water blocks our retreat to the east. My men feel it too—Viktor keeps touching his weapon, and Mark's eyes never stop moving.