Noel (Sigma International Security #1)

Prologue Noel

Sigma International Security, Volkov Towers, Manhattan Office

Christmas.

The word alone makes my teeth hurt.

Tinsel. Fake smiles. Too much sugar in the air. People pretending everything’s merry and bright when half of them are two drinks away from snapping at their in-laws.

Yeah, hard pass.

Give me twelve-hour shifts, an unmarked SUV, and a Glock on my hip over mistletoe and small talk any day.

I don’t do carols.

I don’t do cozy.

I don’t do snowed-in scenarios where people fall head over heels in like seven seconds.

And I sure as hell don’t do love.

Love makes people soft.

Gets them killed.

I’ve seen it too many times—soldiers dropping their guard for a letter from home, agents hesitating because someone they care about is watching.

That’s not me. Never will be.

I live for the job.

The mission. The objective. The endgame.

So when Connor Callahan—my boss’s cousin-in-law or some other tangled family web I’ve never fully unraveled—calls me into Remy Falco’s office instead of the briefing room, I know something’s off.

Remy doesn’t do drop-ins.

He gives orders. Commands respect. Doesn’t even pretend to do small talk.

So, seeing Connor in his seat, leaning back like he owns the place, tie loosened, Christmas music playing somewhere in the background?

Yeah. Red flag.

Probably the work of one of the boss’s wives. Around here, most of the top brass are hitched to women who could run empires in their sleep—and probably do.

Remy married Andrea Ramirez, daughter of Andres Ramirez, and they’ve got twin newborns, a cute little preschooler, and one helluva extended family.

Connor’s married to Clementine Aziz—daughter of that Aziz. Josef Aziz, the founder and CEO of Sigma International Security. The man who trained me, tested me, and then trusted me with some of the most sensitive assignments we’ve ever run.

From what I’ve gathered—yeah, I do my homework—I know Clementine and Connor have been married a while. She’s younger. Like way younger.

He’s an ex-mobster and lethal as hell. But they’re solid. A whole fleet of redheaded kids from the photos I’ve seen on their social media and staring at me from frames inside his father-in-law’s office. I recall one of Clementine and Connor mid-laugh. Soft edges, real smiles.

I don’t get many of those. But around here? Let’s just say the big bosses have struck gold when it comes to women.

Clementine runs Drew’s House, the nonprofit that takes in at-risk youth and gives them a second shot.

It’s the kind of thing I don’t let myself believe in. But I respect the hell out of it.

And now I know why I’m here.

Connor lifts his gaze and says my name with that calm, level tone that walks the line between command and apology.

“Noel. I’ve got a personal favor to ask.”

And just like that, my week’s officially fucked.

“Personal favor?” I repeat, already bracing myself. “Since when does the son-in-law of Josef Aziz make social calls during business hours?”

He smirks because he knows exactly how I feel about favors.

“Since one of my wife’s closest friends started getting threats,” he says, sliding a thin case file across the desk.

I don’t touch it yet.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

He steeples his fingers.

“Her name is Holly Winters. Thirty-one years old. Single. Event planner. She’s handling the Drew’s House Holiday Gala—our biggest charity event of the year. The guest list’s a who’s who of Manhattan elite, and the press has been all over it.”

“And?”

“And someone’s been sending Holly messages. Leaving notes. Following her home. She’s scared, but she doesn’t want to cancel the event—hell, I don’t want her to cancel the event because that will make my wife nuts.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I can’t help but ask.

“I want you on her until we figure out who’s behind it.”

“You want me on her?” I echo, because of course.

Connor’s lips twitch.

“She’s good people. Smart. Works hard. My wife says she’s got a heart the size of the damn Rockefeller tree. You’ll get along.”

“Doubtful,” I mutter.

He chuckles, because he knows I mean it.

“This isn’t a babysitting gig, Kane,” he continues, his voice turning serious.

“Yeah? Cause it sounds like it,” I mumble.

“Look, whoever’s doing this knows her schedule, knows where she’ll be. It’s personal. We’ve already swept her apartment once. Nothing obvious. But the messages are escalating. He’s broken into her car. Her office.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but Sigma doesn’t exactly handle stuff like this. I mean, when I signed on it was a different pitch than babysitting some party planner,” I grumble.

Connor raises an eyebrow, and he ignores me. Which, I suppose, is better than him punching me in the face like he did to Ego last time that idiot complained about an assignment for Drew’s House.

Connor used to work at Sigma, but he spends most of his time now running security for his wife’s non-profit and its many locations.

He also handles rescue missions for at risk teens, but no one is supposed to know about that.

“You’ll shadow her,” he says, his tone flat, “secure the venues, and keep her alive. Discreetly.”

“Discreetly,” I repeat, flipping open the file. I know when I’m beat, besides this assignment is right up my alley.

Let’s just say I don’t really like bullies who threaten women.

Inside the file I see a few photos, a background check, and copies of the threats.

My jaw clenches when I read them. This fucking prick.

Then I glance back at the photos.

Holly Winters is low key hot.

I’m surprised. An annoyed. Especially when a certain part of me takes notice.

Early thirties. Curvy as fuck. Bright eyes the color of tinsel.

The photo is candid, something someone shot on the fly. She’s smiling in it like she believes in happily-ever-afters.

Great.

“I assume the gala is being held at the Stargazer?” I ask, not bothering to look up as I flip through the briefing file.

It’s a rhetorical question.

Everyone knows the Volkov holiday gala is always at the Stargazer.

That hotel is practically a shrine to money, excess, and tastefully veiled corruption—crystal chandeliers, hand-carved paneling, imported Italian marble that costs more per square foot than most people make in a month.

It’s also a Volkov holding. Meaning, anyone who steps foot in that building is already being watched six different ways.

“Of course it is,” Connor mutters from across the room, setting his coffee down and scrubbing a hand over his face. “You think my father-in-law would ever let me plan an event anywhere else? That man thinks the Plaza is a dive bar.”

I snort.

That tracks.

The Stargazer is old-world elegance with the kind of privacy only the ultra-wealthy can afford. Celebs, politicians, billionaires with reputations to protect—it's where they go to be seen without being seen.

The Volkov holiday gala is the social event of the season for that crowd. Black tie, silent auction, six-figure wine pairings, and photo ops so carefully staged they make the Met Gala look like amateur hour.

“You want full coverage for the event, too?” I ask, finally glancing up.

Connor nods. “We already have it. Full perimeter. Inside and out. We’ll have the hotel’s security team as backup, but I want Sigma eyes on every entry point and hallway.”

“Us and the Stargazer’s own crew?” I raise a brow. “Isn’t that overkill?”

“We do cross-training with their staff every quarter,” he reminds me. “They’re competent. But this year the guest list is more volatile than usual.”

“Volatile how?”

Connor tosses me a sealed envelope.

“Lots of celebrities in attendance. In particular, El Tigre and his buddy, Nathan Thorn. We know that rockers’ fans are rabid about him. Intel says there might be a few uninvited parties interested in making a scene. Protestors. Press moles. Possibly worse. But that’s not why I called you in.”

“Where exactly is the gala being held?” I ask.

“Top floor ballroom. Three days from now. Saturday night, actually. The governor’s on the guest list, along with half of Wall Street. My wife, my family, will be there too, so you better make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Wonderful,” I deadpan, snapping the folder shut. “A stalker and a Christmas party. My two favorite things.”

Connor grins. “Try not to ruin Christmas for her or anyone else, Kane.”

“Bah. Freaking. Humbug.”

He laughs. “You’ll do fine. Just maybe smile once or twice. She’s been through a lot.”

I grunt, stand, and head for the door before he can say anything else sentimental.

A Christmas job.

A personal favor.

A client who probably thinks pepper spray counts as self-defense and sugar cookies count as breakfast.

Can life get any worse?

Yeah. Probably.

It always does.

“So when do I need to start?”

“Tonight. She usually leaves work late, so if you hurry, you should catch her.”

Well, that’s just super.