Chapter 2 – TROY
CHAPTER 2
TROY
I adjust my bowtie for the hundredth time, fighting the urge to loosen the damn thing. The Italian summer heat is brutal, and this monkey suit isn't helping. But when in Rome—or rather, Sicily—do as the Romans do. Or in our case, as the rich alpha mafia types do.
"Stop fidgeting," Roman mutters from beside me, his golden-hazel eyes scanning the opulent ballroom. His name is hilariously on the nose tonight. "You're drawing attention."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Yes, sir," I drawl, earning a sharp look from our fearless leader. But I can't help it. This whole situation has me on edge.
We're way out of our depth here, playing bodyguard to some big shot Sicilian alpha who thinks he's the second coming of Al Capone. The crystal chandeliers, the champagne fountains, the women dripping in diamonds—it's a far cry from the dusty battlefields we're used to.
I catch a glimpse of Cole across the room, lurking in a shadowy corner like some brooding superhero. He's in a bad mood as usual, his scarred face scowling, choppy white hair shadowing the burns on the right side. Poor bastard. He hates these kinds of gigs even more than I do. He'd rather be up on the rooftop like a feral cat.
"Hey," I say, nudging Roman. "Maybe we should get Cole some sunglasses. You know, complete the whole 'mysterious bodyguard' look."
Roman doesn't laugh. He never does. Sometimes I wonder if the stick up his ass is load-bearing. "Focus, Troy. We're here to work, not play games."
I sigh, scanning the room again. Our client, Don Caruso, is holding court near the bar, surrounded by a group of fawning omegas and betas. The guy's a real piece of work—all slicked-back hair and gold rings, oozing the kind of confidence that only comes from being obscenely rich and moderately psychotic.
A flash of auburn catches my eye, and I spot Savva gliding through the crowd like he was born for this shit. And maybe he was. The guy's a chameleon, equally at home in a warzone or a ballroom. Right now, he's chatting up some silver-haired matron, probably fishing for intel he doesn't need while simultaneously critiquing her choice of wine.
"Savva's enjoying himself," I mutter to Roman.
He grunts in response. "At least one of us is."
I get it. We're all still adjusting to civilian life, if you can call this "civilian." The war might be over, but the nightmares aren't. We're a pack of broken alphas, trying to piece ourselves back together while pretending we're not falling apart.
My eyes drift to Liam, stationed near the main entrance. His massive frame and dark scowl are enough to make most of the guests give him a wide berth. The heavy black-and-gray tattoos peeking out from under his tux probably don't help. But I know beneath that tough exterior is a guy who can recite Yeats from memory and cries at dog food commercials.
And then there's me. Troy Shepherd, the All-American boy next door—if the boy next door was six-foot-five and could kill a bear with his bare hands. I'm the glue that holds this dysfunctional pack together, the one who keeps the peace when we're all itching for a fight.
We're a fucked-up family, but we're all we've got.
The sound of an omega's annoyed voice near the bar snaps me back to attention. Don Caruso is harassing one of the omegas, who would clearly rather be anywhere else.
"Roman," I say, my blood already starting to boil. But he's already moving, smooth as silk, inserting himself between Caruso and the girl.
"Don Caruso," Roman says, his voice low and respectful despite the steel in his eyes. "Perhaps you'd like to greet the mayor? He just arrived."
Caruso looks annoyed for a moment, but Roman's massive frame and unwavering stare seem to remind him why he hired us in the first place. He releases the omega with a grunt, smoothing down his expensive suit.
"Of course," he says, all oily charm again. "Lead the way, my friend."
As Roman guides Caruso away, I catch the omega's eye and give her a reassuring nod. She scurries off, looking relieved.
"Nice save," Liam rumbles as he passes by, his Irish accent thick with disapproval. "Although I wouldn't have minded a more violent distraction. Preferably right between his eyes."
"We're supposed to be protecting the asshole, remember?" I point out, although he isn't wrong.
He snorts. "A pity."
As Liam moves off to do another sweep of the perimeter, I can't help but marvel at how we ended up here. Five alphas, all with enough baggage to sink a cruise ship, trying to play nice with the upper crust of Sicilian society.
A burst of laughter draws my attention back to Savva, who's now entertaining a small crowd with what appears to be a magic trick involving a champagne flute and a silk handkerchief. Show-off.
"I swear, that boy missed his calling," Liam grumbles as he sidles up next to me. "Should've been on the stage instead of the battlefield."
I smirk. "Jealous of his social butterfly status?"
Liam snorts. "Please. I'd rather gargle glass than make small talk with these preening peacocks."
"Careful there, big guy. Your disdain for the upper class is showing."
He grins, a flash of white teeth against his short, well-groomed beard. "Good. Wouldn't want them to think I actually like them."
I'm about to reply when I catch sight of Cole, still lurking in his corner but now visibly tense. His eyes are fixed on something across the room, his hand twitching toward the concealed weapon I know he's carrying.
"Liam," I murmur, nodding in Cole's direction. "You see that?"
Liam's eyes narrow. "What's got our ghost so spooked?"
I scan the room, trying to follow Cole's line of sight. That's when I see them—three men in expensive suits, moving through the crowd with purpose. They're trying to be subtle, but there's a predatory grace to their movements that sets off all my internal alarms.
"Shit," I mutter. "We've got company."
Liam's already moving, his massive frame parting the crowd like the Red Sea. I tap my earpiece, alerting the others.
"Heads up, boys. We've got three tangos approaching Caruso's position. Roman, you've got eyes on the package?"
Roman's voice crackles in my ear. "Affirmative. Moving to intercept."
I weave through the crowd, all senses on high alert. The air feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Across the room, I see Savva smoothly extricating himself from his admirers, his charming smile never faltering even as his eyes go cold and calculating.
We converge on Caruso just as the three men reach him. Roman's already there, a human wall between our client and the potential threat. Cole materializes out of nowhere, taking up position on Caruso's other side.
"Gentlemen," Roman says, his voice low and dangerous. "This is a private party. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
The leader of the trio, a weaselly-looking guy with a scar on his chin, smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "We have business with Don Caruso. Step aside."
I feel rather than see Liam and Savva move into position behind me, boxing the intruders in. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Roman replies, not budging an inch. "Any business you have with the Don can be conducted through proper channels. Now, I won't ask again. Leave."
Weasel Face's hand twitches toward his jacket, and suddenly everything happens at once.
Cole moves like lightning, his fist connecting with Weasel Face's jaw before the guy can even blink. Liam roars, a primal sound that sends nearby guests scrambling for cover, as he tackles one of the other goons. I barely have time to register Savva smoothly disarming the third man before I'm moving, helping Roman hustle Caruso toward the exit.
The ballroom erupts into chaos. Screams and shattering glass provide a chaotic soundtrack as we push our way through the panicking crowd.
We burst out into the warm Sicilian night, the stars a stark contrast to the mayhem we've left behind. Roman's already on the phone, barking orders for our extraction team. I keep my eyes peeled for any followers, one hand on Caruso's arm to keep him moving.
"What the hell was that?" Caruso sputters, his face red with a mixture of fear and rage. "Who were those men?"
"Questions later," Roman snaps. "Right now, we need to get you to safety."
A sleek black SUV screeches to a halt in front of us, and we waste no time bundling Caruso inside. Roman takes the wheel, and I hop in the passenger seat, my heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush.
"The others?" I ask as we peel away from the curb.
Roman's jaw clenches. "They'll make their own way out. They know the protocol."
I nod, trying to ignore the knot of worry in my gut. Our pack has been through worse, but that doesn't make it any easier to leave them behind.
As we speed through the winding streets of Palermo, I can't help but think about how we ended up here. Five broken soldiers, trying to find our place in a world that doesn't quite fit us anymore. We're too damaged for civilian life, too independent for traditional military structure. So we do this instead—sell our skills to the highest bidder, pretending we're not still fighting a war inside our own heads.
I glance in the rearview mirror at Caruso, who's muttering furiously into his phone. Whatever shitstorm we just stepped in, I have a feeling it's only the beginning.
"You okay there, boss?" I ask Roman in a teasing tone, noticing the white-knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel.
He doesn't take his eyes off the road. "I'm fine. Focus on the mission, Troy."
I sigh. Same old Roman, always the soldier. "You know, it's okay to admit when things aren't fine. We're not in the field anymore."
He shoots me a sharp look. "Aren't we? Last I checked, we just had to fight our way out of a black-tie event. Doesn't get much more 'in the field' than that."
I can't argue with that logic, but I press on anyway. "You know what I mean. We're not at war anymore. We don't have to be on high alert every second of every day."
Roman's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've pushed too far. Then, so softly I almost miss it, he says, "I don't know how to be any other way."
The admission hits me like a punch to the gut. Because I get it. We all do. The war might be over, but we're still fighting—against our memories, our instincts, the broken pieces of ourselves we're trying to put back together.
"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "I know the feeling."
We lapse into silence after that, the only sound the purr of the engine and Caruso's continued muttering in the backseat. I find myself wondering about the others, hoping they made it out okay.
I'm sure they did.
We've been through a hell of a lot worse.
The safe house comes into view, a nondescript villa on the outskirts of the city. As Roman pulls up to the gate, I can't help but feel a sense of relief. We made it. At least, some of us did.
"Home sweet home," I mutter as we escort Caruso inside. The don is still fuming, demanding answers we don't have. Roman deals with him while I do a quick sweep of the premises, more out of habit than any real concern. This place is a fortress, vetted and secured long before we ever set foot in Sicily.
I'm just finishing up when I hear the sound of an approaching vehicle. My hand goes to my weapon instinctively, but I relax when I recognize the familiar rumble of our backup car.
Moments later, Liam bursts through the door, his tux in tatters and a wild grin on his face. "Now that," he announces, "was a proper party!"
Savva follows, looking annoyingly immaculate despite the chaos we just left behind. Only the slight disarray of his flowing auburn locks and the dangerous glint in his eyes betray that he's been in a fight. "Speak for yourself," he drawls. "I was just getting to the good part of my story when those buffoons interrupted."
Cole slips in last, silent as a shadow. There's a fresh cut on the cheek that isn't a mess of mottled burn scars, adding to his collection of scars, but otherwise he seems unharmed. He gives me a curt nod of acknowledgment before finding the darkest corner of the room to lurk in.
The relief that floods through me is almost embarrassing in its intensity. They're okay. We're all okay.
Roman emerges from the back room, his face grim. "Report," he barks, all business as usual.
Liam cracks his knuckles. "Three hostiles neutralized. No casualties, but the ballroom's seen better days."
"Any intel on who they were or what they wanted?" Roman asks.
Savva steps forward, twirling something between his fingers. I realize it's a cufflink, probably snatched from one of our attackers. "Nothing concrete, but the cufflinks are interesting. Custom made, with a very specific insignia. I'd bet my Rembrandt that these gentlemen are connected to the Biondi family."
Roman's jaw clenches. The Biondis are Caruso's main rivals, a fact that was conspicuously absent from our initial briefing. "Anything else?"
Cole speaks up, his voice low and gravelly. "Overheard some chatter as we were leaving. Sounds like this was just a warning shot. They're planning something bigger."
"Fantastic," I mutter. "Because this evening wasn't exciting enough already."
Roman ignores my sarcasm, his mind already racing through scenarios and contingencies. "Alright. Savva, I want you to dig deeper into that cufflink lead. Cole, start mapping out potential attack vectors. Liam, beef up our perimeter security. Troy, you're with me. We need to have a chat with our client about the information he conveniently forgot to share."
As the others move to their tasks, I fall in step beside Roman. "You think Caruso knew this was coming?"
Roman's expression is thunderous. "Oh, I'm sure of it. The question is, what else isn't he telling us?"
I nod, a grim smile tugging at my lips. "Well, boss, looks like our little vacation in Sicily just got a lot more interesting."
Roman doesn't smile back.
But then again, he never does.