Punish Me, Daddy: Chapter 1

Sloane Kingsley

The night started with too much champagne and not enough scandal.

Pretty boring, actually.

I was draped across a velvet sofa at Lila Barrett’s Beacon Hill townhouse, half-listening while someone complained about their internship at Vogue and someone else scrolled through her ex-boyfriend’s private story like it was some holy text that belonged in a church somewhere. The room was warm with soft lighting, overpriced perfume, and the heady scent of restlessness.

Lila’s place was old-money perfect—you know the kind of place—fireplace roaring, art no one understood on the walls, and a stocked bar cart none of us were technically old enough to touch, but did anyway, because we were young and bored and there was no one around to enforce the rules.

I was wearing a silk slip dress in a shade of red that felt a little too dangerous for a Thursday, and no bra, obviously. My boots were up on the coffee table, next to a crystal ashtray someone had filled with half-melted gummy bears. It looked like a crime scene, except with rainbows rather than blood.

“I heard Grace Sommers had a pregnancy scare,” Maya said, like it was national news.

“No way. Who with?” Lila leaned in, practically salivating.

Maya smirked. “Derek Paxton.”

Cue the gasps. I bit back a laugh. Derek Paxton was the class valedictorian, too intelligent and nerdy for his own good, but still somehow sort of hot in a smarty pants kind of way, but he also played lacrosse too, so maybe that added to it? I don’t know.

Honestly, Maya shouldn’t even be talking. I’d seen the glances she gave Derek in class from time to time. If anything, she had a crush on him too and was just jealous of Grace.

“She always did have a thing for lacrosse boys with God complexes,” I murmured, sipping my drink. “It’s giving me suburban cautionary tale vibes.”

The girls cackled. After that, the gossip kicked into high gear. It turned to city council drama, then to who got kicked out of Harvard, and finally to rumors about the Murphy twins’ whiskey-fueled engagement party. Pretty standard stuff, if you ask me.

Then Georgia—the kind of girl who always knew something she shouldn’t—dropped a gossip grenade in the middle of the room.

“Okay, but did you guys hear about the fight?”

A hush fell. I arched a brow. “What fight?”

“It’s underground,” she said, eyes wide. “Like, actual underground. Apparently, it’s going down tomorrow night in Southie. Invite-only, cash at the door, no phones.”

“Like Fight Club?” Maya asked, giddy. “Shut up. That’s so illegal.”

“Right?” Georgia nodded, her perfect spiral curls bouncing. “And get this—it’s not just random guys. Word is it’s two big names. Like, mafia royalty or something.”

That got my attention.

I shifted my legs off the table, feigning casual interest. “Mafia royalty? Please. What is this, Netflix?”

“I’m serious.” Georgia leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper like the walls were listening to us run the rumor mill. “One’s this Russian guy—huge, tattooed, scary as hell. They call him The Hammer.”

Of course they did.

“And the other?” Lila pressed.

“No clue. But someone said it might be connected to the Russians. Or maybe the Irish. Maybe the Italians. Either way, it’s supposed to be brutal.”

I rolled my eyes, letting out a soft huff. “Sounds like testosterone and brain damage. Hard pass.”

I feigned boredom. But my pulse? Yeah, that betrayed me.

There was something about the idea of it—the blood, the sweat, the raw, unfiltered danger of it—that sparked something in my chest like a match to gasoline. It felt dirty. Illegal. Wrong.

Real.

Like watching Fight Club in person.

Like getting to taste something no one was supposed to talk about.

Georgia tilted her head at me. “You wouldn’t go?”

I shrugged, careful not to act too interested. “I’m not trying to end up in the trunk of someone’s car. Plus, my dad would lose his shit.”

Which, let’s be honest, was half the appeal.

Mayor Kingsley’s daughter showing up ringside at a criminal fistfight? Headlines for days.

But I played it cool.

“Still,” I added, swirling my drink, “I’m sure it’ll be very cathartic for all the men with unresolved mommy issues. Or maybe daddy issues. Or better yet… maybe both.”

They laughed again, the moment drifting off into talk of outfits and whether we should crash the yacht club after midnight. The image stuck in my head, though.

Two men in a concrete ring, fighting like wild animals while the city slept.

One of them tattooed, dangerous. Russian. The Hammer, he was called, right?

I didn’t know what that meant, but I sort of wanted to.

I leaned back, phone in hand, and opened a text thread with a contact I hadn’t used in months, one of those people you meet at the wrong kind of party and keep around for exactly the wrong kind of reason. Or maybe the right one… Who knows?

The typing bubbles started almost immediately. Game on. The reply came faster than I expected.

A pause.

(That was a lie.)

I mean… fair.

I bit the inside of my cheek, grinning as the thrill wound low in my stomach. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was the possibility of something new and exciting, like the way the city started to feel different when you stepped off the well-lit sidewalk and followed the cracks in the pavement.

It was ridiculous. It was theatrical. It was probably dangerous.

But I was totally in.

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag like it wasn’t already burning a hole through the bottom.

Georgia was still going on about someone’s divorce scandal and Maya was halfway through pouring us all another round of overpriced rosé, but my head was somewhere else completely.

I wasn’t thinking about the party or the gossip or the boy who’d just sent me a blurry selfie two minutes too late.

I was already thinking about tomorrow night.

About blood. About something that sent my pulse going pitter-patter. About something that mattered.

I didn’t say a word on the ride home. Just watched the city flicker by, streetlights smearing gold across the windows, buildings pressing in like they knew I was up to something.

The second I got back to the house, I did what I always do when I’m plotting trouble; I kicked off my heels, padded barefoot into my closet, and stared at the clothes like they were intricate chess pieces about to be moved around on a game board in the middle of one of the most important matches of all time.

Because if I was doing this—really doing this—I had to look the part. No designer names. No red-carpet elegance. No ‘mayor’s daughter’ perfect polish.

I needed something darker. Grittier. Something that said I don’t belong here, but I dare you to try to stop me.

I grabbed my black slip dress, the one that clung in all the wrong ways and still made me feel dangerous. Then I added my leather jacket, the vintage one that smelled faintly of smoke and beer. I hadn’t worn it since I climbed out of a hotel window in Paris and stole a Vespa just to see if I could. Spoiler alert: I totally could.

Fond memories…

A pair of ripped fishnets went onto the pile. And my Docs. Laced to the top, scuffed just right.

Grunge makeup? That would come tomorrow night. Thick black liner. Smudged shadow. Burgundy lipstick sharp enough to cut glass. I could already picture it.

When I finally looked in the mirror, dress slung over one arm, jacket over the other, I grinned at my reflection.

I didn’t look like trouble; I looked like I wanted it.

I slipped everything into a duffel bag and shoved it under my bed. Then I sat down, pulled out my phone, and opened a new note.

Fight Night Prep:

I stared at the list for a second, then added one more thing at the bottom:

Because if Charlie Kingsley found out his daughter was sneaking into a warehouse in Southie to watch a bunch of criminals beat the shit out of each other?

It’d be a PR nightmare.

But honestly? It might be the most real thing I’ve done in months.

By the time the sun started to dip below the Boston skyline, I was practically vibrating. Not with nerves. Not really. Just feeling… electric. The kind of feeling you get right before doing something stupid and brilliant and maybe irreversible.

Like setting fire to something and watching it burn.

I’d played the part all day—went to brunch with my father, nodded along at City Hall while he gave a speech about economic development, and pretended I hadn’t already stashed combat boots and a sultry black dress under my bed like a teenager hiding weed.

Charlie Kingsley, my dad, had no idea. He never did.

That was half the problem.

By 10:45, I was dressed and ready—not in the way I usually was, with curated curls and glossed lips and the kind of heels that look good on red carpets. No.

Tonight I dressed for war.

The black slip dress hugged my body like it was made for sin. My leather jacket hung off my shoulders. I’d ripped the tights myself, long jagged holes down the thighs. My Docs hit the floor heavy with every step. Dark shadow ringed my eyes. The burgundy lipstick? Perfectly matte and made for biting. My switchblade slipped into the inner lining of my boot. Just in case.

I looked in the mirror, cocked my head, and smiled. If Charlie saw me like this, he’d lose his goddamn mind.

I wasn’t his little girl tonight. I was someone else.

I slipped out through the third-floor window. There was a spot along the north wing where the cameras had a blind spot—I found it two years ago, right around the same time I figured out the passcode to the household security feed.

(Spoiler: it was my dad’s birthday. He wasn’t creative.)

I dropped down from the trellis, landing in the garden with a soft thud, brushing dirt from my knees like it was glitter. My rideshare was already pulling up at the end of the driveway.

By 11:20, I was standing on a sidewalk in Southie, staring at a warehouse that looked like a place where people went to disappear.

The blue door was scuffed and rusted, the number on the sign barely visible. There was a single flickering light above it, like something out of a noir film. No music. No voices. Just the sound of the city going on living normally all around me.

I knocked twice.

Waited.

Knock. Knock.

My spine prickled. I learned in.

Whispered, “Forged in fire.”

The door creaked open.

A wave of heat rolled out first, the unmistakable fog of sweat and adrenaline and too many bodies packed into one place with too much to prove. The air was thick and heavy, the kind you had to push through to breathe. It was a heady experience, and I wasn’t even inside yet.

I stepped through the door.

And just like that, I wasn’t in my Boston anymore.

Not the Boston of wine fundraisers and prep school galas and cameras always watching. Not the one with my father’s smile on every damn billboard.

No, this was something else. This was blood and concrete and real fucking living.

The warehouse was massive with shadowy corners and cracked walls and scaffolding that looked ready to collapse. A red glow bled across the ceiling from some overhead lights, as if hell itself was sweating through the rafters.

In the center of it all, ringed with ropes and sweat and maybe bloodstains, was the fight pit.

People crowded around it like it was holy ground. Betting money, drinking from flasks, screaming names I didn’t recognize. Some of them were dressed like me—black, leather, tough—but most looked like they belonged here in ways I didn’t. At least not yet.

I kept moving.

One step.

Then another.

I pushed through a group of men who barely looked at me, then I slipped past a girl with brass knuckles clipped to her belt.

I found a space along the edge of the ring, maybe four rows back. Just enough room to see everything. Just enough cover not to be seen.

The air thrummed around me like static.

I stood there, perfectly still, heart pounding like it knew something I didn’t.

Then the lights shifted, the crowd roared, and the world tilted on its edge when he stepped out.

The Hammer.

At first, all I could see was the size of him—tall and broad and carved like a statue someone had chiseled out of violence and bad decisions. His shoulders were massive under the black sleeveless hoodie he wore, fists taped, veins roped down his forearms like he was born to break people.

Then the hood dropped.

And holy fucking hell.

Jet-black hair, buzzed on the sides, but thick and tousled on top like he’d run his hands through it and didn’t give a damn what it did. A jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. Stubble that looked like it would burn if he kissed you hard enough.

And his eyes—God help me—his eyes.

I’d never seen blue like that. I didn’t even know that kind of blue existed. Cold and electric all at once, like a glacier on fire. Like he saw everything. Like he saw me.

Tattoos covered both arms, crawling up his neck, black ink sprawling like folklore across skin that looked like it had taken hits and given worse. He didn’t walk—he prowled. Like a predator. Calm. Sure. Utterly unshakable.

People screamed his name—Nikolai—and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even look at them. He just climbed into the ring like he belonged there more than he ever belonged anywhere else.

I stared.

I didn’t mean to. I just… did.

I couldn’t look away. My heart was pounding like he’d punched me already and I hadn’t even spoken to him. He didn’t know I existed, but I felt like I already belonged to him in some sick, twisted, terrifying way.

I hated it.

I folded my arms across my chest, and forced myself to look somewhere else—anywhere else.

Because nope.

I didn’t do that. I didn’t get starry-eyed over men with perfect jaws and murder in their eyes. I didn’t get weak over muscles and tattoos and haunted looks.

I didn’t need a man.

Not even one who looked like a dark Russian god.

I didn’t need him.

I didn’t.

But I looked back anyway.

And my whole body lit up like a match.