Chapter 2
NICK
Adrenaline floods my veins the second I cross the threshold.
She stands frozen in the center of the sprawling foyer.
My earpiece crackles with static. Rafe and Jude fan out instantly. They clear the flanking rooms with silent, lethal precision.
I don’t move. I can’t.
The briefing file Dominic provided hasn’t done her justice. Two-dimensional surveillance photos are completely useless. They can’t capture the absolute, devastating reality of Lucia Costa.
The file had mentioned the Gala’s guest list. I read every name twice.
Most are what I expect—cartel adjacents, city officials, men who owe Dominic money or favors or both.
One name sits different. Calix Ferraro. The Leonardi cartel’s consolidation man.
The Butcher of the West, if you believe the federal intelligence summaries, which I do because I have seen the evidence reports and they are thorough and they are ugly.
Ferraro does not attend charity galas for the canapes.
He attends them to inspect acquisitions.
Whatever Dominic is planning tonight, Ferraro’s presence means the price tag has already been agreed upon.
The only question is what is being sold.
She wears a dark emerald silk slip dress. It clings to every single curve of her body like a second layer of skin.
The fabric dips low, exposing the smooth, golden slope of her cleavage. It hugs the dramatic flare of her hips. It skims over a heavy, perfectly rounded ass that makes my mouth go instantly dry.
She isn’t delicate. She isn’t fragile. She is lush.
Thick thighs, a tiny waist, and skin that looks softer than sin.
She is a massive distraction. A walking, talking liability to the mission.
My blood rushes south. Hard and fast.
“Kitchen,” I bark. My voice scrapes out rougher than crushed gravel.
Her dark eyes snap to mine. Defiance wars with absolute, paralyzing panic in her gaze. She doesn’t budge an inch.
I close the distance between us. My heavy combat boots make zero sound on the polished marble floor.
I box her in. I crowd her space until she has no choice but to take a stuttering step backward.
“Move, Principessa.”
She bristles instantly at the nickname. Her spine snaps straight. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I point a gloved finger toward the arched doorway leading to the massive chef’s kitchen. “Walk.”
She lifts her chin. She spins on her heel and marches toward the kitchen like she is leading me to a firing squad.
I follow right behind her. I don’t bother hiding where my eyes are looking.
I track the aggressive sway of her hips. The silk slides over her ass with every step she takes. The friction is agonizing. I want to rip the emerald fabric right down the middle.
The kitchen is massive. Cold granite, stainless steel, and stark white cabinets.
She stops behind the center island. She crosses her arms tightly under her breasts, pushing up her cleavage in a way that tests my last shred of sanity.
I lean against the opposite side of the counter. I cross my arms slowly over the heavy Kevlar plating of my tactical vest.
“Phone,” I demand.
She clutches the device tightly to her chest. “It’s private property.”
“Nothing is private anymore. Not when you’re under my detail.”
“My brother hired you to watch the exterior doors. Not to play hall monitor.”
I laugh softly. It isn’t a nice sound. It is dark and utterly devoid of humor.
“Dominic hired us to keep you breathing. Your brother doesn’t know the first thing about what my men and I actually do.”
She tilts her chin up. Her eyes flash with pure, unfiltered annoyance.
“And what is it you do?” she shoots back. “Stand around looking ridiculously broody while wearing way too much Kevlar inside a perfectly safe house?”
She doesn’t flinch. She stares right back at me. The fire in her eyes completely eclipses her fear.
She is cornered by three lethal operators. She is trapped in her own house. And she is busy throwing daggers with a razor-sharp tongue.
Smart. Sassy. Completely unbothered by my size.
That is the exact moment it happens.
The older guys in the Broken Halos MC call it the Thunderbolt. I always thought it was absolute bullshit. A fairy tale for romantic idiots.
But looking at her right now?
The sheer, unadulterated grit of her. The sharp edge of her wit wrapped in that impossibly lush, curved body.
It hits me like a runaway freight train. The instantaneous, gut-wrenching realization punches the air straight out of my lungs.
She isn’t just a target. She isn’t just a mission objective.
She is mine.
Every sharp word. Every curve. Every breath she takes. Mine.
I take a slow, deliberate breath to steady the sudden roaring in my ears.
“Speaking of communications.” I pull my own encrypted device from my chest rig.
I tap the screen once to wake it up. I slide it flat across the smooth granite. It stops exactly one inch from her fingers.
“Care to explain this one?”
Her gaze drops to the illuminated screen against her will.
A deep, violent flush creeps up the elegant column of her neck. The crimson stain spreads rapidly across her cheeks.
It is the newly created security group chat. Her message sits there in bright, undeniable green pixels.
I just had one of the best orgasms I’ve had in years masturbating to the images of my three new bodyguards. I honestly don’t know if I want to run away or get on my knees for all three of them.
She stares at the words like they are written in a foreign language.
“I…” She swallows hard. Her throat clicks in the quiet room. “That was meant for my best friend.”
“Clearly.” I don’t break eye contact. I watch the frantic pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. “But it came directly to us.”
She squares her shoulders. She forces herself to look away from the screen and directly into my eyes.
“It was an absolute mistake.”
“A mistake?” I tilt my head to the side. I let my gaze drop to her lips for a fraction of a second. “Which part? The masturbation, or the sudden urge to get on your knees?”
Her jaw drops.
She snaps her mouth shut a second later. Her eyes narrow into furious slits.
“You are massively stepping out of line, bodyguard.”
“I draw the lines around here.” I plant both hands flat on the counter. I lean directly into her airspace.
“You’re shaking,” I point out. My voice drops to a lethal, vibrating calm.
“I am angry. There is a very distinct difference.”
“You’re terrified.” I push off the counter. I take a slow step around the island, eliminating the barrier completely. “And you’re incredibly turned on. Your nipples are hard against that silk, Principessa.”
She gasps. She crosses her arms tighter, hugging herself defensively. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I take another step. “Like I’m picturing exactly what you look like on your knees?”
“Stop it.” Her voice trembles.
I don’t stop. I walk right up to her.
She backs up. Her bare heels hit the cold marble tile. She keeps retreating until her spine hits the humming stainless steel refrigerator.
I box her in. I plant one heavy, gloved hand on the metal door right beside her head.
I am six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier. I cage her in completely.
She doesn’t cower. She tips her head back to maintain eye contact.
I inhale, the sharp, sweet scent of her arousal punching straight through her expensive perfume.
Rose mixed with the raw, heavy musk of a woman who is already soaked and dripping for me.
The scent is intoxicating. It makes my cock throb with a vicious, demanding ache against the heavy denim of my jeans.
“I don’t take orders well,” she breathes. Her chest heaves against my tactical rig.
“You’ll learn,” I murmur.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I make you beg for permission.”
She lets out a harsh, breathless laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Test me.” I dare her right back.
The silence stretches between us. The sexual tension is thick enough to choke on. It cracks like static electricity in the tiny space between our bodies.
I lower my head.
My lips hover a fraction of an inch from hers. I can taste the mint on her breath. I feel the blistering heat radiating off her skin.
Her lips part. A soft, desperate little sigh escapes her throat.
She wants this. She wants me to bridge the gap.
My free hand drops to her waist. I grip the thick, soft curve of her hip. I pull her flush against my body.
She lets out a soft whimper at the contact. Her fingers dig into the heavy nylon of my vest.
I tilt my head. I drag my gaze down to her parted lips. I am going to devour her. I am going to taste her right here against the cold metal.
“Nick.”
Heavy boots thud loudly against the marble floor.
Rafe’s deep, gravelly voice echoes from the hallway, completely shattering the silence.
“We need to talk. Now.”