Protect Me

CHAPTER ONE

Vance

Ihaven’t been a legal bodyguard in years. When I got sick of making twelve dollars an hour at the strip club I worked at, I went along with the girls to private parties. Instead of twelve dollars an hour, each girl gave me twenty percent of what she made each night.

And my girls made a lot.

But after a while, even that didn’t seem like enough. I wanted more. Needed more. And that’s how I ended up here, as the personal guard for a member of a prominent mafia family here in NYC.

Mr. Lore, my boss says as he sits in his leather chair. He puts a cigar to his lips and hands me one of my own.

I take the lighter and light it. The earthy taste hits my tongue, and hazy smoke swirls around me.

My daughter is getting married in two weeks. Promised to the Vendetti’s oldest son. But there’s a problem. A few members of their family are not too keen on this union, so that’s why I needed the best of the best.

I wasn’t aware your daughter was in a relationship. I usually hear about those things.

He laughs. She isn’t.

I cock my head.

My daughter knows her role. She’s marrying for the betterment of our family business.

I hold back a scoff. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like them, but at least I can marry who I want. Well, if I had the time to get married.

How often does she need my services? I ask.

Twenty-four seven.

My jaw drops. I’ve never done a gig that needs that much of my time and energy. I’m not keen on the idea.

Boss, I’m thankful for the opportunities you’ve given me over this last year but⁠—

It comes with a two-mill payout, he interrupts.

Two million dollars to babysit his brat for two weeks? Suddenly, the gig doesn’t seem so bad. The time and effort don’t feel so dreadful.

It feels worth it.

I sit back in my chair. When does my watch start?

I thought that’d change your mind. He smirks. Tonight, eight p.m. I’ll call you with the details, Mr. Lore.

Tonight? I have less than six hours before I’m locked into a twenty-four-hour gig. Fuck me.

I shove my phone into my pocket and drive toward the restaurant. I look in the rearview mirror and stare at my suitcase.

I’m not feeling great about this job. It doesn’t feel right. But a two-mill payout is worth ignoring my feelings. I’m good at my job—that’s why they hired me—which means they have genuine concerns about their daughter’s wellbeing.

And that concerns me.

I shut off my busy thoughts and pull into the parking lot. A valet meets me at the entrance. I get out of the car, give the man my key, and adjust the sleeves of my suit before going inside.

When I walk in, a hostess guides me to a room off the main dining area, which looks lackluster in comparison. Golden chandeliers reflect the light above my head, for fuck’s sake.

There’s a lot I’d like to do with two million dollars, and not one of those things involves golden fucking light fixtures. Waste of money. If they grew up poor like I did, they’d realize how tacky and pretentious these extravagancies are.

The room is empty except for a long family table with fancy wooden chairs running along both sides. It’s their own personal dining room, only for those within their family.

My boss stands up and greets me with a handshake. He’s dressed much better than I am. His suit is tailored precisely to his body. Maybe mine will be, too, once I finish this job.

Mr. Lore, I’m glad you came, he says. His hand floats between each of his family members. This is my brother, Tino, and my wife, he tells me before turning to the young brunette beside him. And this is my daughter, Isabella.

She stands and puts her hand in mine. I’ve seen pictures of her, but they don’t do her justice. She’s fucking beautiful. Big, round, rich brown eyes climb up my body, and her full lips pull into a professional smile.

Nice to meet you, I say, drawing my attention from her and putting it back on my boss.

I nod to his brother and wife, who don’t look terribly excited to be here. They have no reason to trust me, though, not like Angelino does. I’ve taken a bullet for him, and he hopes I can extend that dedication to his daughter. I hope I don’t have to.

Angelino’s wife is beautiful and is at least a decade his junior. Isabella looks just like her, except with fewer lines around her eyes and mouth.

I ordered you the steak. It’s our finest cut this evening, he says as he pulls a chair out and offers it to me.

I sit down, and a waiter sets the plate in front of me. A creamy pan sauce garnishes it. My mouth waters at the sight, almost as much as it did at the sight of their daughter.

They wait for me to cut into my food before they begin eating. By cutting into this meat and devouring their expensive meal, I officially accept their order of protection. I pick up the knife and fork and slice into the buttery meat, sending blood-tinged grease across my plate. When I put the tender meat into my mouth, they all begin to eat except for Isabella. Her face draws into a frown and I take in every inch of her expression. This doesn’t feel like the exciting union he bragged about. There’s a heaviness in the room I can’t quite put my finger on, but I’ll figure it out.

That’s my job, and I’m fucking good at it.

CHAPTER TWO

Isabella

Ihave a responsibility as the only daughter: get married to the son of another influential family to stack our influence throughout the city. I know what is expected of me, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I met my future husband once, and he was a dick. Cocky, self-absorbed, and everything I expected from someone in his family. I met him and disliked him, and then when I found out I had to marry him, I really didn’t like him. Hated him, even.

But it is what it is. My name comes with a familial obligation that I must fulfill.

A knock on the door shakes me from my wallowing. The person behind the door is likely the man my father hired to babysit me.

I don’t want a babysitter. I don’t need one—I can handle myself, just as I always have—but my future husband’s family is fucking evil. Shit, my future husband is evil. But this arrangement is for my family’s best interest, not mine, and my family comes first.

I scoff, grab the doorknob, and turn it. The man from dinner stands before me, a large suitcase in his right hand.

Ms. Isabella, he says as he walks past me.

You can call me Bella. Vance, is it? I close and lock the door behind him. Forty-three, unmarried, upstate native?

He sets down his bag. You do your research.

I don’t want to sleep under the same roof as someone I don’t know, I say, my voice flat.

Wise. Where am I sleeping? he asks.

I gesture down the long hallway. There’s a guest bedroom beside my room. First door on the right.

Vance grips his bag again and takes apprehensive steps down the hall. The outline of his pistol lies against his hip. It’s black, like the fitted shirt hugging his muscles.

His eyes dart as he walks past every open doorway, as if memorizing my floor plan. My dad said he was the best. He sure looks the part.

I smooth my skirt before grabbing my coat off the rack. My pockets feel too light, and I realize my keys are in the kitchen. My heels clack against the marble floors as I traverse the maze of hallways. When I reach the kitchen, I grip the keyring that holds my BMW fob, my house key, my parents’ key, and a few keys that go to things I can’t recall. I slip them into my pocket.

The moment I grip the doorknob, the sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind me. I raise my eyebrow and turn around.

Where do you think you’re going? Vance asks.

Excuse me?

I’m supposed to watch you, remember? That means at home, little miss.

I laugh. I’m not a child, Mr. Lore. You’re my guard, not my boss. If you want to stay home, go nuts, but I’m going out. Unless you want to piss off my father, I suggest you come along, though.

I rip open the door, let it slam, and take a few steps down the hall. The door whips open behind me, and I smirk. I look back and see Vance putting on his jacket as he follows me, the fabric concealing the pistol on his hip.

Wait up, Bella, he calls.

Our family owns this club, so I’m not terribly worried about much more than getting a strong drink and letting myself enjoy the music. The DJ behind the desk is one of my favorites. Her hair is twisted in braids at the top of her head, smashed by her big headphones. She throws me a small wave as I walk in.

I make a beeline for the bar, and Vance remains behind me. He breaks stride and heads to the left, sitting at a table along the wall. I continue to the bar, get my usual vodka cranberry, and meander to the dance floor.

The music pumps in my chest, pushing its life force through my veins. My hips sway to the beat. When I dance, the music lifts me up and the world around me disappears. The lights dull, the people blur, and my worries melt away.

Hands grip my waist, and I turn to see the strong-jawed man who owns them. I smile and let him pull me into his broad chest. It’s so fucking attractive.

As I grind against his knee, I look over at Vance, who’s risen from his seat. His dark eyes are locked on me—on us—and I can feel the tension in his posture from here. It’s like a thread between us, pulled tight and ready to snap. His hand moves to his hip, and I know it’s resting on his pistol.

The man in front of me regains my full attention as his touch rises upward. He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head to let his lips land on my neck instead of my mouth.

I can’t fuck anyone, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have a little bit of fun. Just a little. Just enough to smother the fire that’s been burning between my legs for years now.

I’ve promised to keep it lit for my future husband, but sometimes the heat becomes too much, and the only way to get it under control again is to hump the lap of some dude in the back of my car.

There’s no way Vance will let me bring anyone back to my car, and I definitely won’t get the opportunity to grind on any laps.

A touch on my shoulder makes me leap back.

Hey, what the fuck? my dance partner snarls at Vance, who’s trying to get between us.

You two are done dancing. Let’s go, Vance tells me, his hardened expression leaving little room for argument.

The man scoffs. "She can say when we’re done. Who the hell are you, anyway? Her dad?"

By proxy, Vance says before grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door.

The man grabs my other arm and pulls me backward, and I find myself in a pretty hot game of tug-of-war.

Vance does not share that same sentiment. He stops mid-step and spins around, keeping his hand on