Page 14 of Mafia King's Bride

As I turn, I catch a glimpse of a man standing a few feet away, watching me. He’s dressed in a full suit, which seems wildly out of place on a Saturday. Our eyes meet, and he quickly looks away.

What the hell?

I frown, glancing around. What’s a guy like him doing here? It doesn’t make sense.

But then again, none of this makes sense. My life hasn’t made sense in weeks.

I shake my head, trying to brush it off. “None of my business,” I mumble to myself as I turn around, continuing down the aisle.

But something about the man lingers in my mind. Maybe it’s the way he looked at me—like he knew something I didn’t, like there was some invisible string tethering him to me. Or maybe I’m just paranoid, which wouldn’t be surprising given the circumstances. After all, I’m living in a nightmare I didn’t choose.

I try to shake it off, losing myself in the racks of clothes. Ten minutes go by as I sift through Alice and Olivia pieces, trying to decide whether buying something new is even worth it. A dress catches my eye, and I’m almost certain it will fit, so I decide to grab it. I’ll need black heels to go with it, something simple.

But as I round the corner, there he is again. Same man, same uneasy feeling, but this time, he’s not alone. Another guy stands next to him, trying way too hard to look interested in the new Theory collection.

An alarm bell starts ringing in my head. It’s subtle, but years of watching my father’s associates—and the people who’ve shadowed him—have taught me how to spot an oddity. And these two? They stick out like sore thumbs.

I leave the dress on the counter and march straight toward them.

“What is it?” I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.

The first man blinks, feigning ignorance. “What?”

“You’ve been following me,” I say, my voice firm. “The security cameras will prove it. So, you can tell me what you want from me, or I can call the cops. Your choice.”

The second man clears his throat, dropping the pretense. His dress shirt is too crisp, too pressed for someone casually browsing a women’s section. His posture screams alertness. I was right. They’re not here to shop.

The first man straightens his tie, a telltale sign of someone trying to regain control. “Ma’am, Mr. Orlov sent us to keep you safe.”

I blink, caught off guard.

Dmitri sent them?

“He sent you two,” I say, gesturing at them, “tokeep me safe? Bodyguards?”

They nod, serious as ever.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe it. But they’re standing here, in front of me, and I can’t deny the physical evidence. “Why?”

The word slips out, but I already know the answer. Of course. This has to do with that conversation Dmitri and I had about my work habits. Clearly, he listened and sent these guys—who couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried—to follow me around like I’m some kind of helpless damsel in distress.

“Since when?” I ask, irritation seeping into my tone.

“Two days ago,” the first man responds.

Two days? Two whole freaking days, and I didn’t notice?

My hands clench into fists as I try not to let my temper flare. How the hell did I not see them?

“You’ve been following me to work?” I ask.

They nod.

“And I didn’t spot you?”

They shake their heads.

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