Beauty and the Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

Chapter 1 Belle

BELLE

Then my father kicks open my bedroom door.

Not opens. Not knocks. Kicks.

Like he's SWAT and I'm harboring fugitives instead of binge-watching podcasts in yesterday's pajamas.

"Belle! Move! Now!"

He's already spinning toward the stairs, and I catch a flash of something I've never seen on my father's face before.

Terror.

"Dad, what the hell…"

"GET DRESSED!"

His voice cracks like a whip, and Meatball bolts under the bed.

My father doesn't yell. Ever.

The man once talked down an angry contractor twice his size using nothing but steady eye contact and a firm handshake.

This man screaming up my staircase? This isn't him.

I grab the first clothes I can find; a sundress that's too tight and probably too cheap for wherever we're going, and race after him.

He's already in the car, engine running, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Forty-three minutes of silent driving later, we pull up to a building that shouldn't exist in this century.

It's all limestone and brass, the kind of architecture that whispers old money instead of shouting new wealth.

The doorman's suit costs more than my rent.

When he nods at my father…"Mr. Donovan, they're expecting you"...my stomach drops into my shoes.

They're expecting you.

Like this was planned. Like Dad knew exactly where he was bringing me.

The elevator has gold inlay work. Not gold-plated. Actual gold.

"Dad," I whisper as we rise. "Who are we meeting?"

He stares at the floor like it holds the secrets of the universe. "People who can help us."

But his voice shakes on 'help,' and I know we're ascending toward anything but.

I knew I should've changed clothes the second Dad started screaming like it was the apocalypse.

Him in a suit should've been my first red flag.

The office we're led to doesn't just display wealth—it weaponizes it.

Every surface screams power: first-edition books that museums would kill for, a fireplace large enough to hide bodies in, crystal decanters filled with liquor that probably costs more per bottle than I make in a month.

Two men built like walking apocalypses flank the door.

Their suits are expensive enough to be respectable, but can't hide the fact that they're carrying enough firepower to level a city block.

I've never seen a gun in real life. Now I'm pretty sure I'm looking at several.

"Dad, what the hell is going on?" I hiss, trying not to sweat through my Target sundress.

Dad just shakes his head, his eyes darting around like he's a spooked horse. "Belle, please. Just… let me do the talking. Keep your head down."

Keep my head down? That's not the man who raised me.

My dad once stared down a supplier twice his size because the guy tried shorting a shipment by a pallet. He winked at me after, like it was a game.

Now he won't even meet my eyes?

I feel a whip of terror lash down my limbs. Something is seriously wrong.

I want to ask what, but now isn't the time. I'd rather not put Dad on the spot with those goons around.

Meanwhile, Dad's sweating through his precious good suit, and the lady in a cleaning uniform downstairs already gave me the kind of once-over usually reserved for gum stuck to Louboutins.

I get bored of sitting, my sundress sticking to the backs of my thighs on all that leather.

I stand and walk around.

The whole time, the two goons watch like they're deciding which rug to roll our bodies in when they're done.

The office is obscene.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with hardbacks, a fireplace so big you could roast an ox in it, and a desk the size of my childhood bed.

There's a crystal decanter of scotch gleaming on a sideboard like it's auditioning for Mad Men.

It's the kind of room that doesn't just scream money. It whispers power.

The "I've got the president on the line" kind of power.

What business does my father even have in a place like this?

I drift toward the window, needing air.

There's a courtyard a floor below us, visible through the angled windows.

And that's when I see him.

Through the window, men fight in the courtyard below.

Not fight, destroy each other. Blood on grass. Ink-covered muscle meeting bone.

The sound of impact carries through glass that looks thick enough to stop bullets.

Then I see him.

He moves through the other fighters like they're standing still.

Doesn't just beat them, dismisses them. A lazy block here, a casual strike there.

Every movement says he's bored.

The others are fighting.

He's shopping for coffins.

He's not just bigger. He's the goddamn king.

Every other fighter orbits him like he's their sun. Dark hair, broad shoulders, rippling muscles, and the kind of brutal grace that makes me wish he'd throw me over his shoulder.

My mouth goes dry.

I've seen hot guys before. Dated them. This is different.

This is watching a predator in his natural habitat.

The kind of dangerous that smart girls run from. The kind that makes my pulse race and my skin flush and my brain scream warnings my body doesn't want to hear.

Smooth muscle rolls under inked skin as he puts someone down hard enough to make me wince.

Then he laughs, I can see it in the throw of his head, and my thighs press together without permission.

"Belle."

I jump at my dad's voice, realizing I've been straight-up gawking like a teenage girl at a BTS concert.

"Who is that?" I ask, nodding toward the window.

Dad walks up to where I stand, and his face goes three shades paler, which I didn't think was possible considering he already looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"That's Luca Moretti." His voice shakes. "The Beast of New York."

"Luca Moretti," I taste his name on my lips as we go back to sit.

"Listen, Belle," my father whispers under his breath. "I worked with a guy who knew him once. He's not a man to be rubbed the wrong way. So, when he comes, you be good."

"Dad, why are we meeting with Luca Moretti?" I hiss, sinking down beside him. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

He doesn't meet my gaze. "Belle, listen. A few years back, I did some business with a man in Moretti's circle. I got to know things—what Moretti values, how to approach him."

"That doesn't answer my question," I press, anxiety clawing up my throat.

"The company's in trouble, Belle. Worse than I told you. We're not just behind on payments. We're..." He swallows hard. "We're underwater. And I borrowed money from the wrong people."

My stomach drops. "What? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't want to bother you."

"We could have scaled down."

"I know, my sunshine. But our workers had bills to pay, families to keep a roof over."

Bless my father's bleeding heart. There was nothing more I could say.

My first ever memory of my father was of him helping a man who needed fast cash for his wife's medical treatment.

I have no idea what we're doing here still, and Dad looks scared as shit already, so I stay quiet.

Minutes pass by. The two hulks still stand around, and I wonder what they're doing here, exactly.

It's not like we're here to steal paperclips.

And that's when it happens.

The doors open like a theater curtain.

Luca Moretti walks in, and all the oxygen leaves with him.

The Beast of New York. In the flesh.

Six-foot-something of controlled violence in a black shirt that clings to him like sin.

Dark hair still damp with sweat. Gray eyes that sweep the room and categorize everything in it, including me, in about two seconds.

My pulse goes nuclear.

This isn't just trouble. This is the kind of man mothers warn daughters about.

The kind who leaves women broken or dead or wishing they were.

The kind who makes me forget I'm supposed to be terrified.

My brow starts to sweat when our eyes lock.

I've never been so scared and so turned on at the same time.

A feeling that's foreign, considering I'm the world's most unexpected virgin at age twenty-six.

Don't make fun of me. I'm just waiting on Mr. Right.

But this man isn't Mr. Right.

He feels like every bad decision and every action movie just shit out John Wick's sexy older brother.

He moves like a panther—smooth, lethal, like he owns every single molecule of oxygen in here.

He prowls right over to us, grabs a chair, spins it around, and straddles it backward.

Who does that? Who sits like some sexy delinquent in a 90s teen drama when he owns this whole damn place?

Up close, he's worse.

A scar through his eyebrow. Another at the corner of his mouth that makes his almost-smile look like a threat.

Eyes that aren't just gray, they're smoke over steel, and they see everything.

The flutter at my throat.

The way I press my thighs together.

The breath I can't quite catch.

He catalogs it all like he's making a shopping list. Or a battle plan.

He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile.

Just stares at me with that lethal calm like he's memorizing the shape of my face, the color of my eyes.

And all I can think is: Yep, this is how virgins get in trouble.

Beside me, Dad shuffles. "Mr. Moretti," I hear him mumble. "I brought my daughter as a symbol of good faith, like you asked."

Dad's muttering fades into static—because apparently, my sex drive just decided to stage a comeback tour.

Because apparently, bad boys are attractive and bad decisions suddenly seem fun.

The Beast looks around and says two words.

"OUT, everyone."

I go to stand up. My sundress is now sticking to my ass.

I'm mortified to discover that he's staring right at it.

I feel the heat crawl up my neck, down my spine. Thank the gods I worked out this morning.

His eyes slither up my body as I walk past him, then land right on mine.

He cocks his head at me and says, "Except you," in a tone that has me breathing heavy and waiting to be told how to move.

"But I haven't told her yet, Mr. Moretti," my father protests, and Luca shuts him up with a glare alone.

I sit back down because now I'm embarrassed he'll see that I'm about to really start sweating.

Suddenly, we're alone. Even the two goons of his are gone.

My heart slams against my ribs. My palms go sweaty.

And there's a flutter in my stomach that has no business being there given the circumstances.

Stop it, Belle. This is not the time to get horny for the scary man who probably has your dad's name on some hit list.

Moretti studies me for a beat too long, and I fight the urge to squirm.

Instead, I meet his gaze and lift my chin slightly. Show no fear, Dad always said.

Although I'm pretty sure he didn't mean when facing down a beast who could probably have me thrown off this very fancy building without breaking a sweat.

Then, he grabs my chair by the arms and drags it—with me in it—closer to him.

I gasp, hands automatically gripping the armrests like I'm on a rollercoaster about to drop, just like my stomach's doing right about now.

He leans down, hands still on either side of me, and cages me in.

My pulse skyrockets.

If I had to lose my virginity, he'd be the dream come true.

"Your father borrowed three million dollars from me."

The words land like punches. Precise. Brutal.

"He can't pay it back." Luca's voice stays conversational, which somehow makes it worse. "The interest alone would bankrupt him twice."

I can't breathe. Three million. Million.

"So he offered me something else." His eyes never leave mine. "You."

The world tilts.

"That's—" My voice dies. "He wouldn't."

"He did." Simple. Final. "Twenty minutes ago."

For a second, the words sound like they've been strung up all wrong.

They rattle around my skull like loose change, while my stomach hollows out.

Did he just call me… payment? The anxiety I feel now bottoms out into an endless pit, and my brain short-circuits.

"I... I don't understand," I stammer, in beat with my heart.

Moretti breaks into a grin so bad, I feel like I've landed in a Chuck Bass fever dream.

He pulls the chair closer, so damn close my knees hit between his pants, and I find myself trembling like a coward.

He isn't just trouble, my brain screams at me. He's the kind of man Dad warned you about.

"Here's how this works, Belle."

My name in his mouth sounds like ownership.

He leans forward, close enough that I feel his breath on my lips. Close enough that I smell mint and murder.

"Your father had options. Watch his business burn. Watch his workers lose everything. Maybe watch the authorities find some interesting discrepancies in his books." His hand finds my chair arm, fingers drumming once. "Or give me you."

"You can't just–"

"I can." His thumb brushes my wrist where my pulse hammers. "I did. You're mine now. Your debts, your future, your next breath, all mine."

He stands in one fluid motion that makes me notice things I shouldn't.

The span of his shoulders. The casual power in every movement.

"Pack light," he says, already walking away. "You won't need much where you're going."

"And where's that?"

He pauses at the door, looks back. His smile is all predator.

"Home."