Cinderella and the Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

CINDY

The wrench slips, skinning my knuckles against the engine block. Blood wells up, mixing with the motor oil already coating my hands. I don't curse, not anymore. Pain is just another tool in the garage, like the socket set or the hydraulic lift.

Most women my age are getting their nails done right now. I'm elbow-deep in a transmission that's been leaking fluid for three days.

This is my church. My sanctuary. The only place where broken things make sense.

Growing up in Charles's garage taught me that engines don't lie.

They break down for specific reasons like worn gaskets, blown head bolts, or metal fatigue.

Fix the problem, and they purr. People are messier.

But under the hood of a car, everything makes sense.

It's the only reason I haven't walked away from this dysfunctional circus I call family. Right now, that “family” is standing in the garage’s tiny office and freaking out about something.

Drew, my foster brother, is watching me work through the window that looks into the shop. That predatory gleam in his eyes has been there since I turned eighteen.

He likes to fuck with me.

“Dad, chill. We’re fine.” Drew's voice carries through the glass, but his eyes stay locked on me. Predator to prey, same as always. Asshole.

My foster father, Charles, looks pale. “If they show up, we’re all fucked.”

“Drew’s right, Dad,” Anna, Drew’s twin sister, says. “Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t care. Whatever shady shit they’re mixed up in is not my problem. I’m not naive enough to think the mechanic business is on the up and up. I’m not privy to the details, but I see things.

I hear things.

Which is why I wear my earbuds all the time. I don’t want them to know, but I do want them to talk freely.

I pop in my left earbud, the other tucked in the pocket of my jeans, and turn on my favorite playlist. The guitar solo fills my ear, drowning out most of Charles's muffled panic from the office.

Whatever mess he's gotten into this time, I don't want to know about it.

I stretch out on the creeper and slide under the old Toyota Corolla.

"Cinderella!" Drew's voice cuts through Def Leppard. "You got that piece of shit running yet?"

Cinderella.

They think they are so witty, calling me Cinderella.

Idiots.

Yeah, I’m the grunt that does all the work. I get my hands dirty while my evil foster siblings stand around doing nothing.

Drew thinks he’s so smart because my name is Cindy. Cindy—Cinderella.

Ba dum tss!

I slide out from under the car just enough to glare at him. "It'll be done when it's done."

He's standing there in his pressed khakis and polo shirt, looking like he's never touched anything greasier than a golf club, which he hasn't. Charles's golden boy gets to play manager while I do the actual work.

"Customer has been waiting two hours," he says.

"Then maybe you should've told them it was more than an oil change before I got started." I slide back under, cranking my music louder. The drums pound against my eardrums while my foot taps against the garage floor.

Mom used to crank Def Leppard while we worked on her '78 Camaro, her baby, her pride.

She taught me that cars were honest. They didn't lie, didn't leave, didn't waste away in hospital beds while chemo stole everything that made them beautiful.

Back when my world made sense. The concrete vibrates at a specific frequency I've learned to recognize.

Anna's Louboutins she bought with money that should have gone to shop supplies.

She nudges my leg with her black stiletto. Because stilettos are appropriate footwear for a garage.

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 in them 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.

To be honest, it’s kinda hot.

I blame the adrenaline for the heat pooling low in my belly. Or maybe it's the way his presence fills the garage, making the space feel smaller, more dangerous. My body is a traitor, responding to threats like they're promises.

"I have business with Charles," Luka says with just a hint of a Russian accent.

Okay, super hot.

"Yeah, well, he's busy." Drew crosses his arms, apparently having missed the memo about not poking apex predators with sticks. "You can make an appointment like everyone else. In the meantime, you deal with me."

Words pile up behind my teeth. Warnings, insults, twenty years of things I should have said.

But survival is a language I learned young.

Keep quiet. Stay small. Don't draw the attention of monsters.

Except this monster already knows I'm here.

I can feel his awareness like heat from a forge, even as he stares down Drew.

Luka's head tilts, a predator's calculation.

No telegraph, no wind-up. Just physics applied to flesh.

His fist connects with Drew's nose in a wet symphony of cartilage and privilege.

The sound is intimate, specific. I've heard bones break before, but never with such casual precision.

This isn't rage. It's pest control. I flinch like I’m the one who just got popped.

Drew staggers backward, blood streaming from his nose, but he's too stupid to stay down. "You fucking—"

The second hit drops him to his knees. Luka doesn't even wrinkle his suit.

“Stop.” The word escapes like a backfire, unexpected and too loud.

I'm on my feet, hands raised like I'm approaching a wild animal.

Which isn't wrong. “You've made your point.” My voice doesn't shake—a small miracle.

“Drew's learned his lesson. Haven't you, Drew?” But I'm not looking at my foster brother.

I'm watching the way Luka's shoulders tense and release, like he's deciding whether I'm worth listening to.

Anna is pressed against the wall like she's trying to melt into it, but she doesn’t look afraid.

Charles steps out, looks at Drew, then Luka.

I can see the fear in my foster dad’s face instantly.

Charles and I have a weird relationship. I don’t love him. At least, I don’t think so. But he’s the only father figure I’ve ever known.

Unfortunately, he’s been a really shitty father.

Drew manages to stand up and tries to throw a punch at Luka.

I almost laugh. A butterfly would be more effective.

Drew's punch misses by a mile. Luka's fist connects with his ribs. The sound is sickening, like a baseball bat hitting wet meat.

Drew doubles over, gasping, but Luka isn't done. Another punch to the stomach. Then one to the side of his head that makes Drew's knees buckle.

"Hey, stop!" I step forward, my hands still raised. "You made your point. He's done."

But Luka doesn't stop. Each hit is calculated. Like he's working through a checklist. Break ribs. Bruise kidneys. Rearrange face.

Drew staggers against the workbench, blood streaming from his mouth now, too. "Cindy, shut the fuck up and stay out of—"

The words cut off when Luka's fist connects with his jaw.

"Never talk to your family like that," Luka says, his voice deadly quiet. He grabs Drew by the front of his polo shirt. "You understand?"

Drew makes a gurgling sound that might be an agreement.

I'm frozen, watching this stranger defend me more effectively than anyone ever has. It should terrify me. But I’m not afraid of the man.

Not really.

Fascinated is more accurate.

Anna is making little whimpering sounds that don’t sound convincing. She probably sees this guy as a piece of meat she wants to get ahold of.

Charles is slowly backing away.

I should run while the monster is distracted. I’m the only one with a clear path out of the garage.

But I don’t move. I stand there like an idiot.

Luka releases Drew's shirt and lets him crumple to the oil-stained concrete. Then those hazel eyes lock onto mine.

My stomach drops. The anger is still there, but something else flickers across his face. Something that looks almost like... satisfaction?

"You," he says, pointing a finger at me. "Come with me."

The words hit me like a slap to the face. "What? No. Fuck off."

I take a step backward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

His long strides close the distance in three steps. “Now.”

"I said no," I repeat, louder this time. My voice echoes off the garage walls.

I look to Charles, expecting him to step in. To say something. Anything. He's supposed to be my dad, right? Even if he's a shitty one, he's still supposed to protect me from psychotic mobsters.

Charles's face is a study in cowardice, jaw slack, eyes finding everything except me.

For years, I've rebuilt transmissions in his shop—years of 'family dinners' where I served but never belonged.

Now, in this moment, I see the transaction in his eyes.

Whatever debt he owes, I'm the payment. “Charles?” His name tastes like motor oil and betrayal.

“Look at me.” But we both know he won't. Can't. The sale is already final.

Drew, still bleeding and clutching his ribs, lets out a wet laugh. "Finally. Someone's taking out the trash."

Before I can process what's happening, Luka's hand clamps around my upper arm.

His grip is firm enough to brand but careful enough not to bruise.

The restraint is almost worse; it says he could hurt me, but chooses not to.

For now. My pulse hammers against his fingers, and I know he feels it.

His thumb shifts, the barest stroke against my inner arm, and I hate the electricity that shoots straight to my core.

Damn. He smells good. Woodsy and spicy and so fucking dark.

"Walk. Now."

His voice is deadly quiet, but there's no mistaking it for anything other than a command. He looks at me with the kind of cold certainty that says resistance is futile.