4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
One Job
Luca
She’s wearing a dress the color of my eyes.
Bran pointed it out when her friends were openly harassing us with their stares.
Simone glitters beneath the chandeliers as though she bathed in emerald light and sequins. The dress follows every curve and dip of her body like paint brushed directly across her skin.
A slit cuts high along her right thigh, exposing one long, smooth leg before ending at a pair of heels that makes her nearly two inches taller than her date.
I shouldn’t be looking.
But my gaze clings to her as though my self-control no longer belongs to me.
I tell myself I’m assessing the room.
Tracking movement.
Watching for threats.
I don’t dare call it hunger.
Adrien Belcourt.
I’ve been watching them since I arrived, and I still can’t understand what she could possibly see in him.
Clearly, she sees something.
They’ve been all over each other for the past several minutes, forcing me to witness their supposed romance from across the ballroom.
His hand rests against her waist, his smallest finger hovering dangerously close to her hip. His mouth moves animatedly as though he’s telling the most fascinating story ever spoken, and Simone grins at him—teeth and all.
She throws her head back and plants one hand against his chest like the man might be the next great comedian.
I’m not jealous.
I’m not allowed to be.
But watching her laugh as though he earned that sound makes something sharp twist low in my stomach.
I force myself to look away and focus on her brother, who is watching the display with a half-smile.
“She wasn’t lying when she said they hit it off,” Bran says.
He isn’t the only one studying them. Several curious eyes follow the couple as they move through the ballroom. Simone and Adrien have turned themselves into tonight’s featured attraction.
“I’m actually starting to think it could work.”
“What could work?”
“The two of them.”
Bran turns toward me as though the answer should be obvious.
“At first, I assumed she was pretending so Dad would leave her alone. But they actually seem into each other. Her laugh looks real.”
The wine in my mouth suddenly tastes bitter.
“You think it’ll last?”
“Well, considering Sim’s impressive history with men, probably not.”
I hear the unspoken word before he says it.
“But?”
“But she looks like she genuinely likes him.” Bran glances back at them. “Simone doesn’t like anyone.”
She liked me.
“She thinks most men are useless,” he adds with a chuckle. “It’s pointless trying to convince her otherwise.”
“She has a point.”
I discreetly scan the ballroom.
I’m technically off duty tonight, but after enough years working security, vigilance becomes instinctive. I don’t know how to enter a room without noting the exits, identifying concealed spaces, and deciding who doesn’t belong.
So far, everything appears perfect.
Almost too perfect.
But that’s common at Rochefort events.
The ballroom sparkles beneath crystal chandeliers. Wealthy guests drift across the marble floor, gathered either to impress Francis or flaunt their fortunes to one another.
Few of them truly care about the charity.
Nights like this are competitions disguised as generosity.
Who has the most money?
The most influence?
The most elegant wife?
The most impressive heir?
These gatherings are easier to tolerate when I’m working. As a bodyguard, I stay at the edge of the room, blend into the background, and concentrate on protecting the Rocheforts.
Attending as a guest makes the performance harder to stomach.
Servers move with mechanical precision, carrying gold-plated trays of champagne. Guests float across the polished floor in designer gowns and tailored suits, laughing behind carefully constructed masks.
I would sooner believe this was a fashion show than a fundraiser.
Movement near the east corridor catches my attention.
Two men enter the ballroom wearing nearly identical black suits.
At first glance, they could be brothers. Similar height. Similar hair. Similar builds.
They move in step, conversing quietly as they cross toward the bar.
But their attention isn’t on each other.
One surveys the exits.
The other studies the room.
They walk as though they belong here, but they don’t look at the auction displays, the guests, or the stage.
Ghosts in tailored Armani.
Something about them raises the hair along my arms.
I instinctively press two fingers against my collar.
“Two males entering through the east corridor,” I murmur. “Black suits. No visible credentials. One is checking the exits. Possible surveillance—”
I stop.
There’s no earpiece beneath my collar.
No microphone.
No security team listening on the other end.
Right.
I’m not working tonight.
Bran snorts. “Always the workaholic.”
I lower my hand but continue tracking the men.
“Do you recognize them?”
“Who?”
“The two men in black near the bar.”
Bran glances at his phone, probably messaging Cassie. “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen Dad’s guest list. Why?”
“They aren’t here for the auction.”
That gets his attention.
He pockets his phone and studies them.
“They don’t look strange.”
“They’re not looking at anything they’re supposed to be looking at.”
One man turns slightly.
His jacket shifts.
For one brief second, I see a dark shape beneath the fabric near his waist.
My body goes rigid.
I start to move.
Then I glance toward Bran for less than a second.
The unmistakable crack of gunfire tears through the ballroom.
A bang.
A crash.
A scream.
Chaos erupts.
Guests scatter in every direction, shoving one another and overturning tables. An art display crashes to the floor as a second shot cuts through the room.
The pianist abandons the bench, leaving several discordant notes ringing beneath the screams.
I’m already moving.
My eyes search for the two men.
They’ve disappeared from the bar.
Then I spot one near the catering doors.
A second is positioned on the balcony.
And there’s another shooter advancing from the rear corridor.
Three of them.
Strategically placed.
Coordinated.
The man above raises a compact automatic weapon and aims toward the ballroom floor.
Fuck me for not bringing a gun.
Fuck my night off.
My first responsibility is Francis.
I turn toward the stage, but a hand clamps hard around my shoulder.
Bran’s eyes lock with mine.
“Simone.” His grip tightens. “Get her out. Now.”
Shit.
I don’t hesitate.
I push through the panicked crowd, searching the last place I saw her.
She isn’t there.
People crash into me from every direction, but I keep moving. Keep scanning. Keep trying to smother the thought that she might already have been hit.
Then I see the flash of emerald.
Simone stands near an overturned table, frozen and alone.
Her eyes are squeezed shut. Both hands are pressed over her ears as though she can block out the screaming, the bullets, and the breaking glass.
Adrien is nowhere in sight.
Right now, I couldn’t care less where he is.
“Simone!”
I charge toward her.
Her eyes remain shut, her palms pressed harder against her ears.
A silver serving tray crashes beside her.
She flinches but still doesn’t move.
I reach her and drive both of us behind a marble bench.
“Stay down.”
I cover her with my body.
Her eyes snap open, and her breath catches when she sees me.
For one fleeting moment, relief sweeps across her face.
Then she looks beyond my shoulder, and panic floods back in.
“What the hell is happening?” Her words tumble over one another. “Where’s Adrien? He was right here and—”
“Simone.”
“He was standing beside me. I don’t know where he went.”
“I need to get you out.”
I grab her wrist and pull her upright before she can argue.
“Stay close.”
I keep her against my left side and use my body to shield her while scanning for the shooters.
The front entrance is impossible.
Guests are packed together, clawing and shoving to escape. Trying to force her through that crowd could get both of us trampled.
A bullet strikes a column several feet ahead, sending a burst of stone fragments into the air.
Simone doesn’t scream.
But she shakes so hard I feel it through every point where our bodies touch.
“Service corridor,” I say. “Follow me. Do not stop.”
I guide her into a narrow passageway where the screams become muffled, replaced by pounding footsteps and the distant crack of gunfire.
I kick open a security door and pull her into the alley behind the venue.
At least I did one thing right tonight.
I parked close enough to reach the car quickly in an emergency.
We run toward it.
Simone stumbles beside me when one of her heels snaps.
“Fuck.” She clenches her fists and tries to regain her balance. “These stupid shoes.”
“We don’t have time.”
I lift her before I think better of it, sliding one arm behind her knees and the other around her back.
She yelps.
“What are you doing?”
“Wrap your arms around me.”
“I can walk.”
“You’ve already proven otherwise.”
“I’m not some damsel in distress.”
“It’s comforting to know the gunfire hasn’t damaged your ability to argue.”
She doesn’t respond.
Instead, she grips my jacket and holds on.
I reach the car, open the passenger door, and place her inside as carefully as though she’s made of glass.
Seconds later, I’m behind the wheel and pulling away.
Police sirens begin screaming in the distance.
Simone twists in her seat and looks back at the venue as the first patrol cars arrive. Then she turns toward the windshield, biting down hard on her lip.
Her eyes turn glassy.
Her breathing is too fast.
She may be on the edge of a panic attack.
“Simone—”
“Adrien.”
Oh, fuck me.
My answer comes out harsher than I intend.
“What about him?”
Her head snaps toward me. “What about him? We left him behind. I could have looked for him.”
“Of course. Maybe you would have found him after taking a bullet through the chest.”
Her expression hardens.
“Oh, that’s right,” I add. “You’d have been dead before you reached him.”
“He was right beside me.”
“He wasn’t there when I found you.”
“We got separated when everyone started pushing. That doesn’t mean he abandoned me.”
“He disappeared at the first sign of danger. Impressive boyfriend.”