Page 1 of Protect Me

CHAPTER ONE

Vance

I haven’t been a legal bodyguard in years. When I got sick of making twelve dollars an hour at the strip club I worked at, I went along with the girls to private parties. Instead of twelve dollars an hour, each girl gave me twenty percent of what she made each night.

And my girls made a lot.

But after a while, even that didn’t seem like enough. I wanted more. Needed more. And that’s how I ended up here, as the personal guard for a member of a prominent mafia family here in NYC.

“Mr. Lore,” my boss says as he sits in his leather chair. He puts a cigar to his lips and hands me one of my own.

I take the lighter and light it. The earthy taste hits my tongue, and hazy smoke swirls around me.

“My daughter is getting married in two weeks. Promised to the Vendetti’s oldest son. But there’s a problem. A few members of their family are not too keen on this union, so that’s why I needed the best of the best.”

“I wasn’t aware your daughter was in a relationship.” I usually hear about those things.

He laughs. “She isn’t.”

I cock my head.

“My daughter knows her role. She’s marrying for the betterment of our family business.”

I hold back a scoff. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like them, but at least I can marry who I want. Well, if I had the time to get married.

“How often does she need my services?” I ask.

“Twenty-four seven.”

My jaw drops. I’ve never done a gig that needs that much of my time and energy. I’m not keen on the idea.

“Boss, I’m thankful for the opportunities you’ve given me over this last year but?—”

“It comes with a two-mill payout,” he interrupts.

Two million dollars to babysit his brat for two weeks? Suddenly, the gig doesn’t seem so bad. The time and effort don’t feel so dreadful.

It feels worth it.

I sit back in my chair. “When does my watch start?”

“I thought that’d change your mind.” He smirks. “Tonight, eight p.m. I’ll call you with the details, Mr. Lore.”

Tonight? I have less than six hours before I’m locked into a twenty-four-hour gig. Fuck me.

* * *

I shove my phone into my pocket and drive toward the restaurant. I look in the rearview mirror and stare at my suitcase.

I’m not feeling great about this job. It doesn’t feel right. But a two-mill payout is worth ignoring my feelings. I’m good at my job—that’s why they hired me—which means they have genuine concerns about their daughter’s wellbeing.

And that concerns me.

I shut off my busy thoughts and pull into the parking lot. A valet meets me at the entrance. I get out of the car, give the man my key, and adjust the sleeves of my suit before going inside.

When I walk in, a hostess guides me to a room off the main dining area, which looks lackluster in comparison. Golden chandeliers reflect the light above my head, for fuck’s sake.

There’s a lot I’d like to do with two million dollars, and not one of those things involves golden fucking light fixtures. Waste of money. If they grew up poor like I did, they’d realize how tacky and pretentious these extravagancies are.

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