Page 2 of Cinderella and the Daddy
I sigh and slide out a second time. “What?”
Anna's nose wrinkles like she's detected something rotten. “Jesus, Cindy. Look at yourself.” She waves those weekly manicured talons at my work clothes. “Those jeans are more motor oil than cotton at this point. When did you last see actual denim under all that grease?
I glance down at my work clothes. She's not wrong. The Levi's have seen better years. "They're work clothes, Anna. You know, for actual work?"
"When was the last time you wore a dress? Or makeup? Or acted like a woman instead of..." She smirks at me. "... this."
Yeah, she’s bright, this one.
"I’ll take that as a compliment." I give her a middle finger in my mind.
Anna's lips purse into an expression of arrogance. She didn’t used to be this bad, did she? Now that I think of it, she has been dressing up every day lately and putting on airs. Must be the new guy she’s dating.
Her voice is irritating. "You're twenty-seven, not seventeen. Most women your age have figured out how to be feminine. But here you are, crawling around on the floor like some kind of..." She searches for the right insult. "Garage rat."
I wipe my hands on a shop rag, not bothering to hide my smirk. "Sorry, I'm not dressed for the country club, princess. Some of us have to earn our keep."
"Come on, Anna. Don't be so hard on our little grease monkey." Drew leers at me. "Some guys are into that look. I’ve seen the pink thong she wears under those jeans. You have to look beyond the grease. Use your imagination—I do."
I shoot him a look that could strip paint. "Don't."
"What? I'm just saying." That predatory smile spreads across his face.
My jaw clenches. "Fuck off, Drew."
"Such language." He tsks, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You know, if you put half as much effort into your appearance as you do into these rust buckets, you might actually get laid once in a while."
Anna giggles behind her hand. "Oh my God, Drew."
Metal sings against concrete, the shop creeper starting its slide, when I hear it. That rumble doesn't ask permission. It announces. A 429 Boss engine has its own signature, like a fingerprint made of controlled explosions. This one I've memorized. It lives in the space between my ribs, where fear and fascination share the same zip code. Luka Markovic doesn't visit. He arrives.
I’ve heard it before.
So have Drew and Anna.
Their smirks are gone. They both look concerned.
The engine cuts, and silence settles over the garage. Through the bay doors, I watch him unfold from the driver's seat. All six feet and some change of sex appeal and controlled violence.
Luka Markovic.
Even his name sounds dangerous when you say it right.
I've seen him maybe three times in the past year in that car. The gorgeous 1969 Ford Mustang Boss. Black on black. Fucking beautiful. John Wick’s car. Only a true badass can pull off a car like that.
And Luka does it easily.
He’s got that confident swagger that says he has no fucks to give. I have never spoken to him, but I know who he is.
Bratva. Russian mob. The kind of guy who makes problems disappear permanently.
My body makes decisions without consulting my brain, spine straightening, breath holding, that ancient mammalian response to apex predators. But my eyes rebel. They catalog the way his shoulders fill out the Italian suit and how his hands hang loose at his sides like violence is just another tool in his kit. Men like this don't hide what they are. They wear it like cologne, dangerous and expensive. Drew, being the special kind of stupid that only comes with too much privilege and not enough brains, steps directly into Luka's path.
"Hey." Drew puffs out his chest like a bantam rooster facing a wolf. "Shop's closed for lunch."
Luka stops. The motion is so controlled it creates its own silence. When he looks at Drew, I swear the fluorescents dim. But then, for just a heartbeat, those hazel eyes flick to me. The cold inthem fractures, revealing something else. Interest? Calculation? The moment passes so fast I might have imagined it, but my skin prickles like I've been marked. Ozzy is screaming in my ear, but I barely hear him. Every cell in my body is focused on the man in black. His car is black. He’s wearing all black. His hair is black.
Darkness clings to this man.
