10. Vittorio #2
I step back toward her and smile because that's the weapon I have. "Sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow we set the plan."
She nods, fighting the twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Promise you won't be stupid," she demands again, half in jest, half as a test.
"I promise," I say. But this time the promise is loaded. The world will not shame her on my watch. I will be the shield, even if it means showing my soft side to those who would call it weakness.
She closes her eyes. Ollie is clutched to her chest. The shawl smells like me and settles around us like a second skin.
I slip the envelope into my pocket before we both drift. My fingers keep the crease as if I might read it again and find nothing. Night presses down, and the room breathes with us.
Downstairs, the intercom buzzes softly—a single chime I haven't heard since the leak began. It sounds almost polite.
I move to the door, muscles taut. The intercom doesn't usually ring this late.
"Yes?" I call, voice even.
No answer. Just the faint click of the mechanism.
I take the stairs two at a time, the envelope warm against my thigh. When I open the outer door the hallway is empty. A tiny smear of paper lies by the mat—another envelope, this one with a small, deliberate postscript scrawled across the front: For when you think you're safe.
My skin goes cold. I look back at the apartment where she sleeps, hair fanned on the pillow, trusting me. The city keeps breathing, indifferent.
I slide the second envelope into my hand and close the door. Whatever this is, it has footprints to follow. I can move quietly, bury it, handle it. I can do what I always do.
But the paper in my fist trembles, and for the first time in a long time I admit a private uncertainty: there are things even I cannot predict.
I step back toward the bedroom with both envelopes and a plan beginning to form. When I reach the doorway, she stirs and murmurs in the small voice again, "Daddy?"
"Yes, baby girl?" I answer.
"Is it bad?"
I let my face soften. "Not yet."
She lets that settle and inhales. Ollie shifts with her breath. The curls at her temple glow faint in the lamp light.
"I love you," she says, both voices layered together in a single, brave sound.
"I love you," I answer, but the words hang between us like an oath.
I tuck the envelopes beneath a stack of papers in my desk for now—out of sight, for appearances—and climb back in bed.
The plan in my head snaps into place, precise and cold.
There are people who will peel at us because they can.
There are people who will try to make this a scandal and use it as a lever.
I pull her close, the small shape pressing against my chest. I map our life in little gestures: the bookshelf, the morning kisses, the strict rule about photos. I make the rules into armor and wrap them around her.
Outside, a single vehicle slides past. Inside, our breathing syncs.
Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand—an unknown number. I ignore it. A moment later a text thread pops up from an address I recognize and have been avoiding all week. Elena's name flashes on the screen, and with it, a single line: We need to talk tomorrow, and I already have people asking.
My thumb hovers over the screen. The room shrinks to the sound of her breathing and the weight of the envelopes.
I don't answer.
I drop the phone face down, and the unanswered message sits like a coin spinning on a table. I imagine the morning and how public it will be—how little patience certain people will have for softness.
I stroke the line of her cheek and promise myself here, in the dark, that no one will make her hide.
Then, because I cannot stand empty gestures, I slip from the bed, pockets heavier with threats, and prepare for the next move. The rest of the house is quiet. Outside, the city doesn't care.
I pull the curtains tighter and step into the hallway with the envelopes folded like keys in my hand, and the last thing I see before I turn the lock is a smear of light leaking under the building door—a shadow moving toward the street.
The knock we thought was behind us starts again, this time three soft hits, deliberate and patient.
END
Loved this story? Turn the page for an exclusive preview of The Mafia Daddy’s Pretty Little Bodyguard.
Harper Leone is a fiercely independent bodyguard who trusts no one.
Alessio Marino is a powerful mafia king who sees far more than she wants him to.
When a guarded young protector catches the eye of a dangerous older man, sparks fly, loyalties are tested, and neither of them is prepared for what comes next.
Here’s an exclusive sneak peek
Harper
"Move her out to three. Keep eyes on the stairs." I palm the radio with a steady thumb and don't let my voice betray the heat of the floor or the sweat under my collar.
I'm Harper Leone, twenty-four, bodyguard.
The club is a pressure cooker—bass thumping, perfume and cigarette smoke, a hundred people pressed together—and I'm the perimeter.
I sweep my view, count exits, and issue orders like the job is a machine and I'm the only one who can keep the gears from grinding to pieces.
Maya Ortiz, my best friend, echoes my call from the mezzanine. "Copy. Stairs blocked. VIP's secure." Her laugh is quick and low; she always makes me smirk even when I'm working.
A man in a too-bright tie misjudges his balance and slams into my shoulder.
He smells of cheap whiskey and regret. I steady him with the edge of my forearm and steer him toward the exit.
"Sir, you're done for the night," I say.
No drama. He tries a joke. I let the security of my posture do the talking.
I grew up learning the rules the hard way—move fast, don't ask for help, never let people see you wobble. By nineteen I'd been a bouncer; at twenty-four I'm protecting people who can afford to hire protection. It hasn't made me soft.
He appears when I glance up from the cordoned VIP like someone stepping out of a shadow.
Alessio Marino, thirty-eight, the man who runs a private empire from a guarded palazzo—owner of clubs, shipping fronts, the sort of man whose name slides into headlines and hushes conversations.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.
His storm-gray eyes don't flicker; they take inventory.
He watches from a private table, one hand curled around a glass. For a moment the music and the crowd sharpen into the space between us. He doesn't look like a client waiting for a bodyguard. He looks like a hunter studying the line of the field.
"Harper?" Maya's voice on my ear. "You good?"
"Always." I flick a glance at Alessio and clip my jaw closed.
Professional. Neutral. He notices me—of course he notices.
His eyes slide to the sheriff-star pin clipped halfway down on my belt and then to the pony keychain that bounces from my bag when I move.
Small things. Childish things. He does not smile the way men with too much power often do.
He smiles with the part of his face that thinks.
He stands and moves toward the edge of the VIP rope with economy, a path cleared as if by gravity. My body answers before my brain—shoulder blades tighten, spine straightens, hands find my belt. I'm not supposed to want a hand at the small of my back. I'm supposed to shove it away.
Instead his palm lands there—light, authoritative—steadying me as the crowd presses. His thumb hooks under my waistband, a touch that reads as protection, not claim. The music throbs. My pulse bounces between my ribs.
"Tea?" he asks, soft, as if tea is an ordinary thing to offer. The staff behind me nods, a server already moving. "Warm. With honey."
"That's not necessary," I say. Words out of habit. That half of me that learned to be enough on her own asserts itself.
"It is now." His voice is low and calm. "You look like you need it."
Maya's chuckle is close. "You get bossed by men for a living, Harper. Let the rich man pay."
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