Page 2 of Protect Me

The room is empty except for a long family table with fancy wooden chairs running along both sides. It’s their own personal dining room, only for those within their family.

My boss stands up and greets me with a handshake. He’s dressed much better than I am. His suit is tailored precisely to his body. Maybe mine will be, too, once I finish this job.

“Mr. Lore, I’m glad you came,” he says. His hand floats between each of his family members. “This is my brother, Tino, and my wife,” he tells me before turning to the young brunette beside him. “And this is my daughter, Isabella.”

She stands and puts her hand in mine. I’ve seen pictures of her, but they don’t do her justice. She’s fucking beautiful. Big, round, rich brown eyes climb up my body, and her full lips pull into a professional smile.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, drawing my attention from her and putting it back on my boss.

I nod to his brother and wife, who don’t look terribly excited to be here. They have no reason to trust me, though, not like Angelino does. I’ve taken a bullet for him, and he hopes I can extend that dedication to his daughter. I hope I don’t have to.

Angelino’s wife is beautiful and is at least a decade his junior. Isabella looks just like her, except with fewer lines around her eyes and mouth.

“I ordered you the steak. It’s our finest cut this evening,” he says as he pulls a chair out and offers it to me.

I sit down, and a waiter sets the plate in front of me. A creamy pan sauce garnishes it. My mouth waters at the sight, almost as much as it did at the sight of their daughter.

They wait for me to cut into my food before they begin eating. By cutting into this meat and devouring their expensive meal, I officially accept their order of protection. I pick up the knife and fork and slice into the buttery meat, sending blood-tinged grease across my plate. When I put the tender meat into my mouth, they all begin to eat except for Isabella. Her face draws into a frown and I take in every inch of her expression. This doesn’t feel like the exciting union he bragged about. There’s a heaviness in the room I can’t quite put my finger on, but I’ll figure it out.

That’s my job, and I’m fucking good at it.

CHAPTER TWO

Isabella

I have a responsibility as the only daughter: get married to the son of another influential family to stack our influence throughout the city. I know what is expected of me, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I met my future husband once, and he was a dick. Cocky, self-absorbed, and everything I expected from someone in his family. I met him and disliked him, and then when I found out I had to marry him, I really didn’t like him. Hated him, even.

But it is what it is. My name comes with a familial obligation that I must fulfill.

A knock on the door shakes me from my wallowing. The person behind the door is likely the man my father hired to babysit me.

I don’t want a babysitter. I don’t need one—I can handle myself, just as I always have—but my future husband’s family is fucking evil. Shit, my future husband is evil. But this arrangement is for my family’s best interest, not mine, and my family comes first.

I scoff, grab the doorknob, and turn it. The man from dinner stands before me, a large suitcase in his right hand.

“Ms. Isabella,” he says as he walks past me.

“You can call me Bella. Vance, is it?” I close and lock the door behind him. “Forty-three, unmarried, upstate native?”

He sets down his bag. “You do your research.”

“I don’t want to sleep under the same roof as someone I don’t know,” I say, my voice flat.

“Wise. Where am I sleeping?” he asks.

I gesture down the long hallway. “There’s a guest bedroom beside my room. First door on the right.”

Vance grips his bag again and takes apprehensive steps down the hall. The outline of his pistol lies against his hip. It’s black, like the fitted shirt hugging his muscles.

His eyes dart as he walks past every open doorway, as if memorizing my floor plan. My dad said he was the best. He sure looks the part.

I smooth my skirt before grabbing my coat off the rack. My pockets feel too light, and I realize my keys are in the kitchen. My heels clack against the marble floors as I traverse the maze of hallways. When I reach the kitchen, I grip the keyring that holds my BMW fob, my house key, my parents’ key, and a few keys that go to things I can’t recall. I slip them into my pocket.

The moment I grip the doorknob, the sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind me. I raise my eyebrow and turn around.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Vance asks.

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