Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
VIVIAN
The bedroom smells like cedar and him.
I drop my suitcase on the floor and sink onto the edge of the bed. The breath I've been holding since San Francisco finally releases.
Six weeks. Six weeks since I watched Dominic Castellano put two bullets into a federal judge's head from fifteen feet away. Six weeks since my entire life imploded because I stayed late to prep for a deposition and happened to look out my window at exactly the wrong moment.
Or the right moment, depending on perspective.
Judge Harrison was corrupt, taking bribes from the Castellanos for years, throwing cases, suppressing evidence.
His death wasn't a tragedy so much as an inevitability.
But I'm the only one who saw who pulled the trigger, and that makes me the most valuable and vulnerable person in federal custody.
I pull off my glasses and rub my eyes until I see stars. The headache that's been building since this morning has settled behind my temples like a squatter refusing to leave.
Deck Cross.
Even his name sounds like a weapon.
I'd expected someone older. Softer around the edges.
A retired military type gone to seed in the mountains, collecting a government pension and playing soldier on his hobby farm.
What I got instead was six-four of barely contained intensity, with shoulders wide enough to block a doorway and eyes the color of old money—green, but not soft green.
Hard green. Assessing green. The kind of eyes that made me feel cataloged and filed under "potential threat. "
And those hands. When he shook Marshal Taylor's hand, I noticed the calluses, the scars across his knuckles, the way his fingers wrapped around Taylor's palm like he could crush it without effort. Hands that have done violence. Hands that know exactly how much pressure it takes to break bone.
A smart woman would be afraid of him.
I'm not afraid. What shot through me when our eyes met was hot and reckless, danger in a completely different way than the Castellanos.
Not that it matters. I didn't survive two murder attempts to develop an inconvenient attraction to my grumpy mountain man bodyguard. That's the plot of the trashy romance novels I stress-read on planes, not my actual life.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
"Dinner's ready." His voice through the wood is rough like gravel.
"I'll be right out."
I wait until his footsteps retreat before standing. The mirror above the dresser shows me what I already know, I look like hell. Dark circles under my eyes, tension lines around my mouth, my usually immaculate bun coming loose in wispy pieces.
This is what happens when you don't sleep for six weeks. When every shadow could be a gunman and every stranger could be the one who finally succeeds.
I straighten my blazer, push my glasses back up, and lift my chin. Vivian Russo does not fall apart. Vivian Russo has put cartel leaders on death row and made defense attorneys cry in open court. She can handle one grumpy veteran and a few weeks in the wilderness.
Even if that veteran looks like he was carved out of the mountain itself.
The main room is warm, the wood stove radiating heat that seeps into my bones after hours in the cold SUV. Deck has set two places at a rough-hewn wooden table. The smell coming from the kitchen is unexpectedly delicious.
"You cook?" I don't mean for it to sound like an accusation.
He glances at me as he sets a cast iron skillet on the table. "I live alone in the wilderness. Cooking was a skill you had to learn or starve."
Fair point.
The meal is simple but good with rice, vegetables, some kind of seasoned meat I don't recognize. I'm hungry enough that I don't ask questions, just eat with more enthusiasm than I've shown for food in weeks.
"When did you last have a real meal?" Clinical. Detached. Like he's assessing a patient.
"Define real."
"Not vending machine garbage or cold takeout."
I think about it. The safe houses were stocked with provisions, but I was too paranoid to eat anything I hadn't watched being prepared. Too many poison delivery methods learned from years of prosecuting creative murderers.
"Two weeks. Maybe three."
His jaw tightens. "You can't operate at peak efficiency on an empty stomach. Starting tomorrow, you eat three meals a day. Non-negotiable."
"Are you always this bossy, or is it a special performance for me?"
"I'm responsible for keeping you alive. That includes making sure you don't pass out from malnutrition when you need to run."
The casual mention of running makes my appetite falter. I set down my fork and study him across the table.
He's changed since I arrived into a simple black Henley now, straining across his shoulders and chest. Dark hair cropped short, military regulation, but silver threading through the temples and into the full beard covering his jaw. Distinguished in a way that's deeply unfair.
"Tell me about the security setup here." I keep my voice professional. Prosecutor mode. "I want to understand my environment."
"Perimeter sensors at two hundred and four hundred meter ranges. Motion-activated cameras at all approach points. Reinforced doors and windows, designed to withstand rifle rounds. Panic room in the basement with independent communications and enough supplies for two weeks."
"And if someone gets past all that?"
His jaw tightens. "They won't."
"The man who broke into the last safe house got past federal security. Bypassed an alarm system, picked three locks, made it to my bedroom door before I heard him."
"Federal security isn't designed for this terrain.
They think in terms of buildings and streets, CCTV and response times.
" He gestures at the darkness beyond the windows.
"Eleven miles of wilderness with one access road that I can disable in thirty seconds.
Anyone coming for you has to do it on foot, through terrain I know better than my own name, past sensors and cameras. And me."
"You sound confident."
"I sound realistic. This is my ground. I've been preparing for threats here for five years. The Castellanos might have money and connections, but they don't have mountain assault specialists. They have city killers. City killers die in these mountains."
There's anticipation in his voice. Like he's looking forward to testing his defenses.
"Have you ever lost someone you were protecting?"
Direct hit. His expression shutters completely, green eyes going flat.
"We're not doing this."
"Not doing what?"
"The ‘getting to know each other’ thing. You don't need my life story to survive. You need to follow protocols and stay alert."
"I'm a prosecutor. Understanding people is how I survive. How I build cases, read juries, anticipate opposing counsel." I lean forward slightly. "You're asking me to trust you with my life. I'd like to know something about the man I'm trusting."
"You're not trusting me. You're trusting my capabilities. My training. The security infrastructure I've built here. Personal connection has nothing to do with it."
"Except you already told me something personal." I watch his face carefully. "Earlier. You said people you're supposed to protect die. That it's happened before. That's not a capability assessment. That's trauma."
His hand tightens around his fork until his knuckles go white. For a long moment, I think he might get up and walk out.
Then he releases a breath, and the tension drains from his shoulders.
"Five years ago, I was commanding officer for a Delta Force unit. We received intel about a high-value target in Kandahar. The intel was wrong. We walked into an ambush." Flat. Emotionless. Recited like a report. "Six of my people died because I trusted the wrong information."
I've spent years reading people on the witness stand. The pain beneath his clinical delivery is unmistakable.
"That's why you're here. In the mountains. Away from everything."
"I built something useful out of the wreckage. Guardian Peak exists because my people deserve work that matters, security that doesn't depend on bureaucratic incompetence, and a commander who won't lead them into another trap."
"And what about you? What do you deserve?"
The question catches him off guard. He stares at me, those green eyes searching my face.
"I deserve to not get people killed." He stands abruptly, collecting his plate. "Finish eating. I'll show you the security protocols, then you should sleep. Training starts at oh-six-hundred."
"Six in the morning?"
"Problems don't wait for you to be well-rested. Neither does training."
He disappears into the kitchen. Water running. Dishes clanking.
I finish my meal in silence, processing.
Deck Cross built this fortress because he couldn't save his people. He lives out here alone because he can't forgive himself for their deaths. And now I've landed in his carefully constructed isolation, forcing him to be responsible for another life when that's clearly the last thing he wants.
No wonder he looks at me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
After dinner, he walks me through security protocols with methodical precision. Sensor placement. Camera angles. Communication procedures. Where to go if the perimeter is breached. How to access the panic room. Which weapons are staged where, and how to use them.
"You know how to shoot?" He asks it like he already knows the answer.
"I qualified with my service weapon. All federal prosecutors in organized crime divisions are required to."
"Qualified isn't proficient. Tomorrow we fix that."
"You keep saying you're going to train me. Shouldn't your priority be patrolling or monitoring or whatever bodyguards do?"
"Patrolling and monitoring are passive. Reactive. If someone breaches this property, I need you to be able to defend yourself while I handle the threat. That means you need to be more than a liability."
"A liability." My hackles rise. "Is that what I am to you?"
"Right now? Yes." Blunt. Unapologetic. "You're a city prosecutor in four-inch heels who's never spent a night outdoors. You're smart and you're tough, but you're not prepared for what happens if things go sideways up here. Making you prepared is how I keep you alive."
I want to argue. Want to point out that I've survived things that would break most people, that I've stared down mob bosses in courtrooms and never flinched. But he's not wrong. This isn't my world. Pretending otherwise could get us both killed.
"Fine. Train me. But don't expect me to blindly follow orders. I ask questions. I challenge assumptions. That's how I function."
His eyes flicker with what I choose to take as respect. "Question all you want. Just do it while moving. Standing still gets you killed."
He shows me to the bathroom, points out the towels, retreats to his own room with a gruff "oh-six-hundred, don't be late."
Alone in the small bathroom, I finally let myself fall apart.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection.
The woman looking back is a stranger. Pale, drawn, eyes too wide, mouth too tight.
This isn't who I was six weeks ago. Six weeks ago, I was a rising star in the federal prosecutor's office.
Corner office, reputation for never losing, five-year plan ending with a judgeship.
Now I have a suitcase, a death sentence, and a grumpy mountain man who thinks I'm a liability.
My mother doesn't even know I'm gone. Her dementia has progressed to the point where she sometimes thinks I'm still a child. Last time I visited, she asked why I wasn't in school. Held my hand and told me to study hard, and I smiled and pretended my heart wasn't breaking.
I can't call her. Can't tell her I'm okay. Can't hear her voice, even if she doesn't recognize mine.
The tears come without warning. I press my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs, aware of how thin these walls probably are. Deck Cross does not need to witness this.
Five minutes. I give myself five minutes to grieve everything I've lost—my career, my independence, my carefully constructed life. Then I splash cold water on my face, dry my eyes, and lock it all away.
Vivian Russo does not fall apart.
Vivian Russo survives.
I change into yoga pants and a long-sleeved thermal, then climb into the surprisingly comfortable bed. The sheets smell like cedar and that masculine scent permeating the whole cabin. This must be where Deck normally sleeps.
He gave me his room. His bed. Moved himself to a guest room somewhere, gave me the larger space with the better mattress.
That doesn't fit with his gruff exterior.
I lie in the darkness, listening. Wind in the trees. Something hooting in the distance. The cabin settling. And beneath it all, faint footsteps as Deck moves through the main room, probably one last security check before he sleeps.
If he sleeps. I doubt he does much of that.
I think about what he said. Losing his team.
Building this place as a fortress against the world that betrayed him.
I understand the impulse more than I want to admit.
After my father died. After I watched my mother slowly lose her mind to grief, then dementia.
That was when I built my own fortress. Made myself untouchable through work and achievement and professional success.
It wasn't until Lorenzo that I let anyone past the walls.
Lorenzo Castellano. My ex-boyfriend from law school. The one I almost married before I caught him funneling money to people I was supposed to be prosecuting. The one whose cousin is the man I watched commit murder.
Nobody knows about my history with Dominic's family. Nobody knows that when I looked out that window and saw him pull the trigger, I recognized him from a Christmas party six years ago. Shook his hand. Let him kiss my cheek.
It's not relevant to the case. My testimony is about what I saw, not who I know. But the guilt and shame of how close I came to marrying into that family sits in my chest like a stone.
If I'd married Lorenzo, I'd be one of them now. Protected by omertà instead of hunted by it.
Sometimes, when the fear gets really bad, I wonder if that would have been easier.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. Tomorrow, I start training with a man who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved. A man whose pain calls to something broken in me. A man I absolutely cannot afford to be attracted to.
Tomorrow, I become a survivor instead of a victim.
The last thing I think before sleep claims me is that Deck Cross has no idea what he's gotten himself into. Because Vivian Russo doesn't stay a liability for long. Vivian Russo learns, adapts, and overcomes.
And maybe, just maybe, she teaches a certain grumpy mountain man that walls aren't the only way to survive.