Chapter 8 – ROMAN
CHAPTER 8
ROMAN
I rub my temples, trying to stave off the headache I can feel building behind my eyes. The last few days have been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and now we're jumping straight into another job. No downtime, no chance to process the shitstorm we just weathered.
But that's the life we've chosen, isn't it?
Always moving, always fighting, never stopping long enough to let the demons catch up.
I look around the room at my team. My pack. They're sprawled across the living room of our new temporary safehouse, a nondescript apartment in a quiet Sicilian neighborhood. We've only been here for a couple of days, but already it feels lived-in, marked by our presence. Liam's boots by the door, Troy's protein shake bottles littering the coffee table, the faint scent of Savva's expensive cologne lingering in the air.
Cole's presence is marked only by the chair in the corner, positioned for optimal view of both exits. He's here, but not here. Always on the periphery, always watching from the shadows.
I clear my throat, drawing their attention. "Alright, listen up. We've got a new client."
Troy groans dramatically, flopping back on the couch. "Already? Can't we take a vacation or something? I hear Ibiza is nice this time of year."
I fix him with a look that silences any further complaints. "This is our ticket out of Sicily. Unless you'd prefer to stick around and see if the Biondis decide to tie up loose ends?"
That sobers him up quickly. The others shift uncomfortably, the memory of Caruso's death still fresh in their minds. We may have been cleared of any wrongdoing, but that doesn't mean we're in the clear. Not by a long shot.
"Who's the client?" Liam asks, his voice gruff. He's been quieter than usual since the incident, more introspective. I've caught him staring off into space more than once, a faraway look in his eyes that worries me more than I care to admit.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for their reactions. "His name is Braxley Worthington III."
There's a moment of stunned silence, then Troy bursts out laughing. "You're shitting me, right? Braxley? What kind of name is that?"
"The kind that comes with more money than sense," Savva drawls from his perch on the windowsill. He's already scrolling through his phone, flicking through social media profiles. "Heir to the Worthington fortune. Social media influencer, wannabe entrepreneur, professional trust fund brat."
I nod, pulling up the file on my tablet. "That's him. Twenty-three years old, alpha designation. Recently survived an assassination attempt during his engagement party."
Cole speaks up for the first time, his voice low and gravelly. "Assassination attempt? By who?"
"Unknown," I admit. "That's part of why we've been hired. To protect him and investigate the threat."
Liam snorts. "Probably just some poor bastard who got sick of seeing his pouty face all over Insta."
I shoot him a warning look. "We don't make assumptions. We assess the threat objectively and act accordingly. Got it?"
He nods, properly chastised, but I can see the skepticism in his eyes. Hell, I share it. But a job's a job, and right now, we need this more than I care to admit.
"So what's the deal?" Troy asks, sitting up straighter. Despite his initial complaints, I can see the spark of interest in his eyes. He's always been the most adaptable of us, able to find the silver lining in any situation. It's one of the things that makes him invaluable to the team. "We babysitting this guy twenty-four-seven, or what?"
I nod. "Round-the-clock protection. We'll be moving into his penthouse suite in LA."
"What about his fiancée?" Liam asks. "We're protecting her, too, right?"
I nod, pulling up another file. "Isabella Emerson. Goes by Bella. Twenty-one, omega. Comes from a middle-class beta family. Apparently, it's a bit of a Cinderella story—small-town girl catches the eye of the wealthy playboy."
Troy snorts. "Bet that's going over well with the high society types."
"About as well as you'd expect," I confirm. "But that's not our concern. Our job is to keep them both safe and figure out who's behind the attack."
I pause, looking each of them in the eye. "This isn't going to be like our usual jobs. We're not dealing with hardened criminals or war zones. This is high society, social media, paparazzi. We'll need to blend in, play nice, keep a low profile."
Liam groans. "You're killing me here, Roman. You know I'm allergic to that shite."
"You think you are?" Cole mutters.
"You'll manage," I say firmly. "We all will. Because the alternative is staying here and waiting for the Biondis or the Carusos to decide we know too much. Clear?"
They nod, the gravity of the situation sinking in. We've been walking a tightrope since Caruso's death, and this job is our chance to get back on solid ground.
We can't afford to fuck this up.
"Now," I continue, "let's go over what we know about the assassination attempt."
I pull up the security footage on the big screen TV. The image is grainy, but we can make out the basics. A crowded terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. Braxley on one knee with a ring box in his hand, proposing to the omega before him.
I'm momentarily distracted from the scene by her beauty, even in the grainy, low-resolution footage. By the way her chestnut hair flows in soft waves down her shoulders, by her guarded stance.
Then chaos as a shot rings out.
"Single shooter," Cole murmurs, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Professional. That's a difficult shot to make with all those people around."
I nod, agreeing with his assessment. "The bullet grazed Worthington's eyebrow. Could have been a warning shot, or the shooter could have been thrown off by the crowd."
"Or they're a shit shot," Troy adds helpfully.
I ignore him, focusing on the footage. "The shooter escaped in the chaos. No clear images, no DNA left behind. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing."
Savva leans forward, his hazel-green eyes narrowed. "What's the motive? Money? Revenge? Political statement?"
"Unclear," I admit. "The Worthingtons have their share of enemies, but nothing that stands out as an obvious suspect. Could be business rivals, could be a personal vendetta. Whatever the case, it's nowhere near as chaotic a situation as what we're used to."
Troy grins. "Man, and here I thought this was gonna be a boring babysitting gig. Sounds like we've got ourselves a real mystery on our hands."
I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. It's infectious, and God knows we could use some of that right now. "Don't get too excited. Our primary job is still protection. The investigation is secondary."
"Yeah, yeah," Troy waves me off. "But you can't tell me you're not at least a little intrigued. I mean, come on. Rich playboy, small-town omega, assassination attempts... it's like something out of a movie."
"Life isn't a movie, Troy," Cole says quietly, his eyes still fixed on the security footage. "People die in real life."
"Here comes the rain on our parade," Troy mutters.
But Cole is right. We've seen enough death, caused enough of it ourselves, to know that real violence isn't glamorous or exciting. It's brutal, messy, and final.
I shake my head, trying to refocus on the task at hand. "Alright, let's dig deeper into our clients. Savva, what else can you find on Worthington's social media?"
Savva's fingers fly over his phone screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Well, our boy Braxley certainly loves himself. His Instagram is a shrine to his own face. Lots of shirtless gym selfies, 'candid' shots of him lounging by pools in exotic locations, the occasional product placement for some overpriced skincare line."
Troy leans over Savva's shoulder, snorting at whatever he sees. "Jesus, does this guy own a shirt? And what's with all the hashtags? #AlphaLifestyle, #BlessedAndBoujee, #WorthingtonWednesday? Is that last one even a thing?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Focus on anything that might be relevant to the case. Any posts about enemies, business rivals, disgruntled ex-girlfriends?"
Savva scrolls further, his expression growing more amused by the second. "Nothing obvious. Though there is a rather dramatic post from about six months ago about a 'fake friend' who 'betrayed' him. Lots of vague statements about karma and 'real ones know who they are.' Very high school drama queen energy."
"Great," Liam mutters. "So we're bodyguards and babysitters after all."
I'm about to reprimand him when Savva makes a small noise of interest. "Well, hello there."
"What?" I ask, moving closer to see his screen.
"I found the fiancée's Instagram. Bella Emerson." Savva turns his phone so we can all see. "She's... not what I expected."
The screen shows a young omega with long, dark hair and striking green eyes. She's not done up like the typical Instagram model. No heavy filters or provocative poses. Braxley is grinning like an idiot, but Bella just looks bored as she stands beside him, a soft smile on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes.
Something stirs in my chest, a feeling I can't quite name. She's beautiful, yes, but it's more than that. There's a warmth to her, a genuineness that seems at odds with the world she's about to marry into.
"Damn," Troy breathes with a low whistle. "How the hell did a guy like Braxley land a girl like that?"
I find myself wondering the same thing. Bella Emerson looks nothing like the vapid socialites that usually hang off the arms of men like Braxley Worthington. There's an intelligence in her eyes, a quiet strength in the set of her shoulders.
"She doesn't post much," Savva observes, scrolling through her feed. "Mostly books she's reading, a few nature shots. Either she doesn't like to post, or Braxley—or his family—doesn't let her."
I nod, filing away the information. "Could be useful. Savva, see what you can find about her family and background. If someone's targeting Worthington, they might try to get to him through her."
As Savva continues his digital digging, I find my eyes drawn back to Bella's photo. There's something about her that doesn't quite fit with what we know of Braxley Worthington and his world.
She looks... trapped, almost.
Like a bird in a gilded cage.
I shake off the thought. It's not our job to psychoanalyze our clients or judge their relationships.
We're here to keep them safe, nothing more.
But as I look around at my team, I can see I'm not the only one affected by Bella Emerson. Troy's still peering over Savva's shoulder, a hint of a frown on his usually carefree face. Liam's gaze is distant, thoughtful. Even Cole, who rarely shows interest in anything beyond the immediate tactical situation, is watching the screen with an intensity that surprises me.
"Her father is a history professor," Savva reports. "But that's about all I can find about her parents. His LinkedIn is out of date. Hair looks Photoshopped on."
"Or he painted his scalp," Troy points out.
Savva shakes his head. "Photoshop."
"Any signs of trouble?" I ask.
"No," Savva replies. "At least, nothing obvious. A few comments from locals in North Carolina about how they'll miss her when she moves to LA, but it's all very positive. She seems well-liked."
"Unlike her future husband," Troy mutters, earning a sharp look from me.
"Remember, we're not here to judge," I remind him, even as a part of me agrees. "Our job is to protect them both, regardless of our personal opinions."
Troy holds up his hands in surrender. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Professional detachment and all that. But come on, Roman. You can't tell me you're not wondering how these two ended up together. And we've never protected an omega before. This is new territory."
I am wondering, despite my best efforts not to. But it's not my job to figure that out.
I repeat this to myself like a mantra.
Professional detachment.
Focus on the mission.
Don't get involved.
But even as we go back to researching our new clients and their connections, a part of my mind remains fixed on those green eyes, that soft smile.
This omega is a complication I never saw coming.
An omega who, in just a few days, we'll be sworn to protect with our lives.
God help us.