Page 45 of Cinderella and the Daddy
LUKA
The call comes at 2:47 a.m., dragging me from the first decent sleep I've had in weeks.
Cindy’s warm body is pressed against my chest.
I don’t know when it happened, but it just came to be—she sleeps in my bed now.
I roll away and reach for my phone. Viktor’s name is on the screen. “What is it?” I whisper.
Boss, you need to get down here. Now."
The urgency in Viktor's voice has me moving before he finishes speaking. I roll away from Cindy's warmth, her hair splayed across my pillow like silk. She doesn't stir—exhaustion has been hitting her hard lately.
"Where's here?" Jeans, shirt, holster—muscle memory takes over while my mind races through possibilities.
"The chop shop on Fifth." Viktor's pause makes my blood chill. "And boss? Bring extra men."
The drive takes twelve minutes. I know because I count each one, my hands steady on the wheel while my mind catalogs potential scenarios. Viktor doesn't panic. If he's calling for backup, something's very wrong.
I smell it before I see it—that distinctive metallic tang that makes even hardened men gag. Fresh death has a particular stench, sweet and sharp and wrong. My footsteps echo on concrete as I enter the warehouse, my eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescents.
"Jesus," someone mutters behind me.
The chop shop looks like a tornado went through it. Tools are scattered across the concrete floor like broken bones. Cars that had been in the process of being torn down are destroyed with what looks like a sledgehammer.
But it's the body in the center of the chaos that stops me cold.
Tommy Kowalski lies spread-eagle on the oil-stained concrete. His throat opened in a second smile that grins red in the warehouse's harsh fluorescent lights. I trained him myself three years ago. I taught him how to strip a car in under twenty minutes.
He was a good kid, only a couple of years younger than me, but they’re all kids to me.
Someone made sure he'll never talk again.
"When?" I ask Viktor, my voice eerily calm even as rage builds like pressure in my chest.
"Cleaning crew found him around midnight. Been dead maybe four hours, judging by the blood."
I crouch next to Tommy's body, studying the wound. Clean cut, professional work. This wasn't some street thug with a knife—whoever did this knew exactly where to slice for maximum effect. The kind of precision that comes from training, or experience, or both.
"Security footage?"
"Wiped clean. They knew where the cameras were."
Of course they did. This wasn't random violence. It was a calculated message. I stand, scanning the destruction around us, and that's when I see it.
Above Tommy's body, the concrete wall has become a canvas. Someone dipped their fingers in his blood—his fucking blood—and mixed it with engine grease to create a thick, dark paste. The letters are three feet tall; each stroke showing patience and purpose:
C I N D Y
My vision tunnels. The warehouse, my men, even Tommy's corpse—everything disappears except those five letters. Someone stood over this kid's cooling body and took their time. Planned each letter. Made sure the blood-to-grease ratio was perfect for visibility.
This isn't rage. Rage is messy and impulsive. This is calculated. This is someone telling me they can reach her whenever they want. That they know exactly which pressure point will make me bleed.
Viktor says something beside me, but I can't hear him over the roaring in my ears. Because they're right. Whoever didthis understands what Cindy has become to me better than I understood it myself.
They know she's not just leverage anymore. She's the knife they'll twist to make me scream.
My control, the iron discipline I have learned over the years, is held by a thread so thin it's barely there. Around me, I can feel my men watching, waiting to see if their boss is about to lose his fucking mind. Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to tear this place apart with my bare hands. I want to hunt down whoever did this and show them exactly what happens when they threaten what's mine.
