Page 5 of Punish Me, Daddy

Remember: blue door, knock twice, wait for knock back

Say ‘forged in fire’ (dumb, but fine)

I stared at the list for a second, then added one more thing at the bottom:

Don’t get caught.

Because if Charlie Kingsley found out his daughter was sneaking into a warehouse in Southie to watch a bunch of criminals beat the shit out of each other?

It’d be a PR nightmare.

But honestly? It might be the mostrealthing I’ve done in months.

By the time the sun started to dip below the Boston skyline, I was practically vibrating. Not with nerves. Not really. Just feeling…electric. The kind of feeling you get right before doing something stupid and brilliant and maybe irreversible.

Like setting fire to something and watching it burn.

I’d played the part all day—went to brunch with my father, nodded along at City Hall while he gave a speech about economic development, and pretended I hadn’t already stashed combat boots and a sultry black dress under my bed like a teenager hiding weed.

Charlie Kingsley, my dad, had no idea. He never did.

That was half the problem.

By 10:45, I was dressed and ready—not in the way I usually was, with curated curls and glossed lips and the kind of heels that look good on red carpets. No.

Tonight I dressed for war.

The black slip dress hugged my body like it was made for sin. My leather jacket hung off my shoulders. I’d ripped the tights myself, long jagged holes down the thighs. My Docs hit the floor heavy with every step. Dark shadow ringed my eyes. The burgundy lipstick? Perfectly matte and made for biting. My switchblade slipped into the inner lining of my boot. Just in case.

I looked in the mirror, cocked my head, and smiled. If Charlie saw me like this, he’d lose his goddamn mind.

I wasn’t his little girl tonight. I was someone else.

I slipped out through the third-floor window. There was a spot along the north wing where the cameras had a blind spot—I found it two years ago, right around the same time I figured out the passcode to the household security feed.

(Spoiler: it was my dad’s birthday. He wasn’t creative.)

I dropped down from the trellis, landing in the garden with a soft thud, brushing dirt from my knees like it was glitter. My rideshare was already pulling up at the end of the driveway.

By 11:20, I was standing on a sidewalk in Southie, staring at a warehouse that looked like a place where people went to disappear.

The blue door was scuffed and rusted, the number on the sign barely visible. There was a single flickering light above it, like something out of a noir film. No music. No voices. Just the sound of the city going on living normally all around me.

I knocked twice.

Waited.

Knock. Knock.

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