Unplanned Arrangement (Harbor Protectors #2)

Prologue Dominic

T hree Months Ago

She bumps into me and keeps walking, pushing past and ignoring me. Huh, that makes her the first woman to do that in my club. Well, maybe the first this year. But hey, the year’s only a few months old.

It’s not ego, I’m...curious. What kind of woman walks into the most exclusive club in the city, crashes into the owner, also known as the city’s most eligible bachelor, the tabloids’ favorite playboy, and acts like she just brushed against a table or a pole?

Well, more like an almost two-hundred-pound, six-foot-two pole.

There was surprising strength in that lean body, and even though she was tall, her gaze passed right over my shoulder, as if I wasn’t even there.

I don’t usually come down to mingle with the clients.

That’s more Leo’s thing, my night-hawk. He’s the guy who runs my clubs and restaurants and keeps the nighttime chaos in check.

But sometimes I like to get a feel for things, maybe drop off a ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne to a long-time client.

Show my face. Remind them who runs the place.

I don’t have friends here, just partners, associates, and local celebs looking for a selfie with me.

And then there are the women, of course.

Women who hunt me down like it’s a sport.

I have one rule I stick to. One public relationship at a time, four weeks tops.

Stretch it out, and people start thinking I’m in love.

Cut it short, and I look like a heartless asshole.

So no, I’m not about to chase after the brunette who acted like I was invisible. But I’ll be watching from my quiet little perch behind the mirrored glass. She walks in like she owns the place, all attitude and secrets. And I want to know why.

I head up to my office, tuning out the voices calling my name. I’ll come back later. Then again, most of them will come find me.

People don’t walk away from me easily. Up here, behind the mirrored glass, I see everything: what’s fake, what’s real, what’s for sale.

But her... She isn’t selling anything. She is on a hunt.

And something about her makes me pause. Maybe it’s the way she moves, or the way she looks, like the room doesn’t deserve a single glance.

It isn’t interest. Not exactly. More like…

curiosity with teeth. A pull I haven’t felt in years. Impossible to ignore.

I exhale, grounding myself in what’s familiar.

Control. Routine. Order. Everything runs like clockwork—bartenders moving fast, people dancing, flirting, laughing.

Drowning in excess, but in a controlled setting.

My club is clean. No drugs, no brawls, no chaos.

Exactly how I wanted it when I took over from my father, back when the nightlife was more jungle than business.

I brought order. And I taught a few people some hard lessons along the way.

From up here, I spot her instantly. She didn’t ask for attention, which is probably why she got mine.

She’s not a regular. Simple, elegant dress.

Dark hair, long and pulled back with that practiced kind of effortlessness.

She’s beautiful, the type that doesn’t try, but still turns heads.

She looks like she’s trying to blend in.

But that perfect control? That’s what gives her away.

I’ve never seen her before. And I know everyone here.

She doesn’t look drunk. Or lost. Or like she came to hook up.

She moves with purpose, every step, every glance deliberate, avoiding the waiters, the cameras, the crowd.

And then I see it, the thing that confirms my suspicion: the purse.

Tucked tight at her side, like it doesn’t quite belong.

Small. Sleek. One of those clutch bags women carry when they’ve planned their exit before they even walk in.

She’s hiding something. Not metal, our scanners would’ve caught that.

But there’s weight. And not just in the bag.

In her eyes, too. She doesn’t avoid eye contact.

But she doesn’t seek it, either. Like someone trained to disappear, to slip through a room without leaving a ripple.

Invisible, without ever looking out of place.

A paparazzo? Maybe . Some of them manage to sneak in, bold enough to blend, chasing a shot worth selling.

But they’re sloppy. Twitchy. Always a heartbeat from getting caught.

She’s not. She moves with precision. Like she’s done this before.

Like she has a mission. She’s not here to dance.

That much is clear. And I’m not letting her leave until I know exactly what she’s really doing here.

I grab my phone and call Leo. “I think we’ve got a ‘ razzo ’ in the club. It’s a woman this time. Left side of the middle bar, a brunette in a black dress. Don’t let her leave. I’m on my way. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. Don’t engage. Wait for me.”

Leo confirms and hangs up. A moment later, I spot him near her. My gaze sharpens as she moves toward the VIP section, where one of my highest-spending clients is drowning in champagne and women. I move fast, weaving through the crowd. A few people call my name, but I don’t stop.

She’s standing there now, just a few feet away. Her bag angled too perfectly. Too intentional. She’s clearly filming. Hidden cam, probably tucked inside her bag. Or more likely, her phone, everyone has one. Can’t exactly ban those at the door. But the way she’s using it… that’s no amateur move.

I wait. Timing matters. Let her think she’s invisible. She has no idea she’s already caught.

“Monti, my man! You actually came down to drink with me?”

Anton Rinaldi’s voice crashes through the din like a cymbal—loud, mocking, and impossible to ignore. It drips with fake surprise, sharp enough to turn heads. He wants eyes on him, wants everyone to know he’s talking to the man at the top. Monti, the owner, now on his level.

Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s the one she’s after .

Anton’s what you’d call locally grown privilege, polished, pampered, and handed the world on a monogrammed platter.

The golden boy of a wealthy local family, with enough pull to slot him straight into public office.

Now he’s playing power games as the mayor’s chief of staff, all smug smiles and tailored suits.

I put up with him because he throws money like confetti every time he’s here, and more importantly, he follows my rules.

He’s a narcissist, plain and simple. Always chasing attention.

The kind of man who needs to be admired to feel real.

“What the hell are you doing here, Lena?” he snaps, rougher as he catches a glimpse of her face while she walks past him toward me.

She drops her arm, the hidden camera still tucked inside the bag, but not fast enough. Anton grabs her wrist and shoves her hard against the wall beside the bar. Fuck that. I don’t tolerate that kind of behavior toward women in my club. Not ever.

“Anton, let her go. Now. You don’t want to test me tonight.”

The music’s pounding, or maybe he’s just pretending he can’t hear me. She meets his gaze without flinching. No guilt, no fear.

He looms over her, still gripping her wrist like he owns the moment. She doesn’t back down. He’s bigger, sure. But she’s not scared of him. Not one bit. Then he makes a grab for her bag. I step in and shove him back, hard enough to make a point.

“That’s enough,” I growl. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Come on, Monti,” Anton says, sidestepping me just enough to catch her in his line of sight. “I’ve got a few words for this one.”

He leans in.

“Still poking around where you don’t belong?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to be here, Anton.”

“And still running that big mouth of yours, I see. I’d be more careful if I were you. You might stumble into something way over your head.”

I can’t believe this scum is threatening her. In front of me.

“That’s enough. Both of you.”

“I didn’t know she belonged to you, Monti.”

“She doesn’t. But she’s in my club. That makes it my business.”

“She doesn’t seem like your type. Are you seriously pulling the protector-act now?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business. And if you ever pull that kind of shit in my club again and harass a woman, I won’t just be watching, you’ll be dealing with me, directly.”

Anton backs off, limping now, noticeably. Every few steps, he glances over his shoulder, shooting daggers her way, like he’s still trying to win the last word with nothing but malice and bravado.

“You’d be better off at an AA group than of a club, Lena,” he spits.

She doesn’t flinch. Lifts her chin, eyes locked on him. Then, slowly, she raises her middle finger high. No hesitation. Pure defiance.

Anton’s still brimming with rage, every muscle tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

But he doesn’t move. Not with me standing between them.

I hold Anton’s stare until he finally slinks back to his velvet-rope corner, tail tucked.

His entourage watches, eyes wide, no one brave enough to follow.

I need to get her out of here before this gets even messier.

“Monti,” Anton growls, "You’d better make sure that footage disappears . Or this will end badly for you.”

“Careful, Anton. You know it’s a bad idea to threaten me. This night could end a lot quicker than you’d like.”

He scoffs. “This isn’t the only club in town.”

“True. But this is the only one you’ll be banned from unless you sit your ass down in the next thirty seconds.”