Bride For Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #2)

Chapter 1

Izzy

Four margaritas deep, and my bikini is doing God's work.

Then the devil shows up to collect.

He's standing at the edge of my infinity pool like he owns it—tall, broad, dressed in all black despite the Mexican heat, like he's personally offended by the concept of vacation.

Silver threads through dark hair swept back from a face that belongs on a wanted poster or a billboard, depending on your survival instincts.

Mine have always been shit.

I lower my sunglasses. Let my eyes drag down his body slow enough to be insulting.

Shoulders that could pin me to a wall and make me thank him for it.

Forearms roped with muscle and ink; sleeves rolled to the elbow, like he's about to fix something or break someone.

Jaw carved from granite and bad decisions.

And those eyes—slate-grey, winter-cold—taking me apart piece by piece, like he's deciding which parts to keep.

"You lost, sweetheart?" I ask. "Or just looking for trouble?"

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a smile. Not even the decency to look at my tits, which are doing fantastic work in this bikini.

He just stands there. Dissects me, exhibiting the kind of stillness that comes from being very comfortable with violence.

"Miss Davenport. We need to speak. Privately."

That voice.

Low. Russian. The kind of voice that could talk you out of your clothes and into trouble without raising a single decibel.

Wait. I know that voice.

My heart slams to a stop. I look again—past the silver that used to be darker, past the clean-shaven jaw that used to hide behind a beard. Past two years of pretending I didn't trace his face in my sleep.

Sergei.

The Wolf.

I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, some stupid instinct making me straighten my spine, push my shoulders back. Three triangles of fabric barely containing what's underneath. I know exactly what I look like standing here, dripping wet in the afternoon sun.

His eyes don't drop.

Not once.

Not even a flicker below my chin.

It's infuriating. It's also the hottest thing that's happened to me in months.

The man who killed someone in my hallway with his bare hands and then vanished like smoke through a keyhole, leaving me with nothing but a corpse-shaped hole in my fantasies and absolutely no closure.

My father hired him when a stalker got too close. Sergei ended the problem in under thirty seconds and then stood over the body, like he was waiting for a Yelp review. Efficient. Would recommend. Five stars.

That was the night I realized two things: I was safe. And I was in deep, dangerous trouble.

"You look different," I manage.

"So do you." His gaze still hasn't moved from my face. "Your father sent me."

Three words.

The wrong three.

"Dad sent you?" I force a laugh. "What, another stalker? Should I check under the bed for bodies?"

"There's been an accident." He doesn't move closer. Doesn't soften. "Your father's yacht. An explosion."

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

The margarita glass slips. Crashes. Tequila bleeds across white tile and my bare feet, and I think absurdly, This is going to stain.

"What?"

My voice doesn't sound like mine. Small. Breakable.

"I'm sorry." No inflection. Just fact. "The Coast Guard recovered remains this morning."

Recovered remains.

Like he's debris.

Like Richard Davenport III—the man who snuck me cookies before dinner, who taught me to read tide charts, who called me Izzy when Mother insisted on Isabelle—is just something that washed ashore.

Inside the villa, someone laughs. High. Champagne-drunk.

"How?" The question scrapes out. "How did this happen?"

"Gas leak. That's the official finding."

"Bullshit." The curse surprises us both. "My father was meticulous. Every system checked twice. Every detail catalogued. A gas leak would've required him to ignore like a hundred safety protocols."

"I know."

Something in his voice makes me look up.

"He hired me a week ago. Gave me your location. Your itinerary. Said there were people close to him he couldn't trust." Those grey eyes hold mine. Flat. Unreadable. "I was supposed to meet you when he got back."

The words settle like stones.

People he couldn't trust. People close.

"He knew." My voice comes out hollow. "He knew something was coming."

"He suspected enough to call me."

I need to sit down. My legs aren't working properly. I sink onto the edge of the lounger, wet bikini against hot fabric, and stare at the pool, where I was floating five minutes ago, thinking about cocktails and tan lines.

Five minutes ago, my father was alive.

Now, he's remains.

"Your plane leaves in two hours." Sergei checks his watch. Not looking at me. "I'll handle the arrangements."

"I can't—" My throat closes. "I can't just—"

"You can." He turns toward the villa, already moving. "Get dressed. Pack light. I'll be outside."

No comfort. No soft words. No hand on my shoulder.

Just efficiency.

I should be offended. Should want someone to hold me, tell me it's going to be okay.

Instead, I'm grateful.

Because if he'd been gentle, I would've shattered. And something tells me I'm going to need every piece of myself intact for what comes next.

The jet is seven hours of purgatory wrapped in leather seats.

I changed before we left. Black dress. I stumbled through the villa with shaking hands, while my friends watched with faces like funeral masks. Nobody knew what to say. Neither did I.

Sergei handled everything. The car. The airport. The private charter that appeared, like he'd summoned it from thin air. He moved through logistics like a machine, and I followed because following was easier than thinking.

Now he sits across from me, close enough to feel heat radiating off him despite the recycled air. His eyes stay on his phone, on the window, on everything, except me.

Professional distance.

I should be grateful.

Instead, I'm aware of his presence. It’s like a low-frequency hum, constant and impossible to ignore.

"You knew him." The words come out before I can stop them. "My father. You talked to him."

Sergei's jaw tightens. "A week ago."

"What did he say? Exactly."

"That something was wrong. That he didn't trust someone close to him. That he wanted you protected." A pause. "He didn't give me names."

"But you have guesses."

Those grey eyes finally meet mine. "I have guesses."

"Tell me."

"Not yet. Not until I know more." He returns to his phone. Conversation over.

I stare out the window at clouds that look like gravestones.

My father got excited about two things in life: his yacht and spreadsheets. He'd had The Catherine serviced two weeks ago. Called me about it, actually animated, for once. Some new navigation system he wanted to show me.

Now he's dead, and they're calling it a gas leak.

Which is bullshit.

And Sergei knows it, too. He's just not telling me what he knows.

Yet.

My fingers find familiar metal in my purse.

"He gave me this before I left." I pull out the lighter. Gold. Engraved. To my darling Richard, may you always find your way home. —A. "Said he'd been carrying it for luck. Thought I needed it more."

It's scorched black on one side. Scratched to hell.

My grandmother gave it to my grandfather on their wedding day. Dad carried it everywhere, even after he quit smoking, flipping it open and shut with that soft click snap that used to drive me insane.

The lighter blurs through tears I refuse to let fall.

"He knew." My voice cracks. "When he gave me this. He knew he might not come back."

Sergei's silent for a long moment.

"He wanted you to have a piece of him," he says finally. "Whatever happened."

Not comfort. Just truth.

I close my fingers around the metal.

It survived.

He didn't.

Mother's townhouse looks like a museum dedicated to emotional unavailability.

Five stories of white stone, Upper East Side perfection. I've hated this place since I was six and realized other people's mothers actually smiled.

Sergei stops at the door.

"I'll be outside. You need me, I'm here."

"You're not coming in?"

"This is family business." His eyes scan the street, the windows, the shadows. Always watching. "I'll handle the perimeter."

Handle the perimeter. Like we're at war.

Maybe we are.

Charles opens the door before I can knock. The butler's been with the family longer than I've been alive, and right now, he looks like someone carved grief directly into his face.

"Miss Isabelle." His voice fractures. "I'm so terribly sorry."

I can't speak. If I open my mouth, I'll start screaming.

Mother's in the drawing room. Perched on the ivory settee, like a perfectly preserved specimen—ash-blonde hair lacquered into submission, makeup flawless, wearing black Chanel, like she's got a photo shoot scheduled with Vogue: Widows Edition.

"Isabelle." She doesn't stand. "You look a mess."

I glance down. Wrinkled black dress, bare feet, mascara probably smeared halfway to my ears. "Dad's dead."

"Don't be dramatic." She pours tea from the silver service with the kind of steady hand that comes from decades of practice not giving a shit. "Hysterics won't bring him back."

My fingernails bite crescents into my palms. "What. Happened."

"Gas leak. The investigation is ongoing, but these things happen." Delicate sip. Pinky raised. "The service is Friday. Laurent's, naturally."

"Naturally."

Only the best funeral home for Manhattan's elite corpses.

"Your uncle Matthew has been tremendously helpful with the estate matters." She sets down her cup with a soft clink that sounds like a gunshot. "Such a comfort to have family we can trust."

Trust. She says it like the word doesn't have teeth.

"Dad had the boat serviced two weeks ago." My voice sounds far away. "Every system checked."

"Accidents happen, darling, even to people with money."

But her eyes flicker.

Just for a second.

And I see it—the thing that makes ice crawl up my spine and wrap cold fingers around my lungs.

She's not surprised.

She knows something.

Holy fuck, she knows something.

"The will reading is after the funeral," she calls. "Don't be late."

I make it to the sidewalk before my throat closes.

Sergei's there. Waiting. Those grey eyes reading everything on my face.

"Something's wrong," I manage.

"I know." His jaw is granite. "I saw it, too."

He doesn't ask what. Doesn't push. Just opens the car door and waits for me to get in.

On the drive to my penthouse, I press Dad's lighter against my palm until the metal bites.

My father was murdered.

My mother knows something.

And the man in the front seat—the one who handles logistics like a machine and doesn't offer comfort because he knows I'd break—might be the only person I can trust.

I flip the lighter open.

Click snap

The flame catches against the Manhattan dark.

I'm going to find out who did this.

I'm going to burn them to the ground.

Even if it kills me, too.