Chapter 6
The SUV pulls through the cast-iron gates, guards standing sentry before rolling to a stop on the circular drive, marking the end of this nightmare journey.
Not bothering to wait for either of the guys, I shove open my door, and my boots hit the pristine white pavers with a thump.
I storm up the front steps of the house, a place that is supposed to be home but instead feels more like a museum I occasionally visit.
I wrench open the heavy oak door and step into the cavernous, marble-floored foyer.
“Dad!” My shout echoes off the high ceilings, and the empty, distorted sound bounces back at me.
He appears at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in a tailored suit with a loosened tie and disheveled hair.
His face is etched with a weariness that goes beyond a busy work week, looking much older than when he dropped me off at college only a few months ago.
“Kenzi,” he exhales, his voice soft as he descends the stairs. “Thank God.”
Instead of stepping forward to meet him, I plant my feet in the center of the foyer and cross my arms tightly over my chest. “Don’t ‘Kenzi’ me, Dad.
I sat on a private plane for nearly eight hours with two human brick walls who wouldn’t tell me anything more than the sky is blue. Please, tell me what’s going on.”
He reaches the bottom step with slumped shoulders and looks past me to Damon and Hawk, who have entered behind me. He gives them a slight, grateful nod before turning his full attention back to me. “It’s the cartel, Kenzi. They’re making threats.”
Cartel?
It’s a word from movies and news reports.
I’m not naive. I know they’re real, but not this real.
Cartel crimes are something that happens to other people, faceless people on television screens and headlines you scroll past quickly because they feel too distant to touch your life.
They don’t belong in the marble hallways of ambassador residences and security detail briefings.
“Threats,” I ask, my voice shaking with nerves that I’m barely holding in check. “What kind of threats?”
“Violence against me,” he shares, his voice heavy. A cold wave of dread crashes through me so fast it nearly steals the air from my lungs.
No. Not him.
I can’t lose him, too.
It’s been five years since Mom died, and suddenly the ache of it feels more like an open wound than one that has been healing for half a decade.
It’s just the two of us. Even if we fight and work keeps him busy more often than not, he’s all I have left.
The thought of something happening to him twists my stomach painfully.
My arms wrap tighter around me, my fingertips digging into the flesh of my upper arms. It’s a futile attempt to make myself feel safe as a thousand horrible images force their way into my thoughts: blood, kidnappings, explosions, and men with guns coming for him.
“So you just… what? You just yank me out of my life, from my classes, my friends, and everything I’m working toward, because you are in danger?
“Not just me. You are in danger as well.”
“And, you didn’t even call me?!”
“I did call you, Kenzi. But as usual, you didn’t answer.
” His face softens as he closes the distance between us.
“What would you have had me do? Give you a choice? ‘Hello, darling, a drug cartel wants to kidnap and murder you to get to me. Would you mind terribly packing a bag?’ I’m sorry, darling, but it doesn’t work that way.
My first responsibility is always to keep you safe. ”
“Safe?” I scoff, a short, bitter sound. My chest feels too tight, panic and anger tangling together so intricately, I can barely tell them apart.
“You sent me away after Mom died, are too busy to answer my calls, and now, because men are threatening me, you suddenly decide to be Father of the Year?”
“Mackenzi!” he shouts back, his composure finally cracking.
“I’m doing the best I can!” The volume of his anguish in the silent house hits as hard as a physical blow.
We stand there, unyieldingly staring at each other as two more men emerge from the shadows of the living room, drawn by the sound of our argument.
One is tall, covered in tattoos like Damon, built like a wall, and has a cocky smile.
The other is equally as tall, a little older, and far more clean-cut.
Both are dressed in the same dark, tactical clothing as Damon and Hawk.
My father takes a deep breath, visibly composing himself before gesturing at the two men. “Mackenzi, you’ve already met Damon and Hawk. This is Jagger and Gunnar. They are the rest of our new security team.”
Jagger gives me a lazy, two-fingered salute and a wink that practically explains the arrogance on his face. Gunnar just nods, with the corners of his lips ticking up barely enough to call it a grin. A team. A mini army of men dispatched to manage my life.
Hawk steps forward, his calm, professional demeanor a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage of my reunion with my father.
“Miss Bradenburg, if I could have a moment of your time.” He waits until he has my full, unwilling attention.
“We need to go over the details of your protection. It’s important you understand the parameters?—”
“Now you want to go over the details?” I don’t want to understand. I want to scream and throw things and break every one of the pristine, expensive vases sitting on the console table. Instead, I find myself following the four of them and my father into the living room.
“The four of us will be living on site,” Hawk begins, his voice level and unemotional. “Gunnar and Jagger have already established a command center in the study and have enhanced security at all points of entry and exit to the property?—”
“Living on site?” I interrupt, my gaze flicking between them. “All four of you? Here?”
“Yes, ma’am. You do not leave the property under any circumstances,” he continues as though my interruption was merely a mild inconvenience. “No exceptions. No trips to the store, no visits with friends, nothing. Your world is now this house.”
Your world is now this house.
The words feel like a death sentence. I think of my dorm room, of the lecture hall, and the crappy coffee in the student union.
I think of Gabe and his last text, full of anger and frustration.
Rumors are probably spreading around campus about my departure, and he probably thinks I’ve just upped and left without saying a word to him.
“You will follow our directions for your own safety at all times,” Hawk continues, oblivious—or indifferent—to my reaction.
“We will handle your meals, your schedule, and your communications. If we tell you to run, you run. If we tell you to get into the panic room, you go. No questions asked. Is that understood?”
I stare at him, before my gaze passes over all of them.
Damon is standing by the door, his face an unreadable mask staring back at me.
Jagger is leaning against the doorframe, looking like he’s enjoying the show.
Gunnar stands at attention near my father, ready for a war.
Hawk continues to lay out the rules of my new prison while my father watches me with desperate, pleading hope, as if he expects me to thank him for this.
“Fine,” I snip, the word a shard of ice. “Whatever.”
I turn and march up the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing on every step. When I reach my room, I slam the door shut behind me. Closing it on a life I worry I may never return to.