Page 70 of Protecting My Nanny

“Yes,” I nod, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

“Good,” Dino says. “This stays between you and me. Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a flicker of hope. For all his rough edges, Dino seems like someone I can trust.

“So you’ve seen Shane?” I ask cautiously, my heart picking up speed at the thought of him.

Dino nods, leaning back in his chair with a slight smirk. “Yeah, guy’s a mess. Mopes around the club all day by himself, watching the faces of every woman who walks by.” He glances at me, his eyes locking onto mine. “Guess he hasn’t seen the one he’s looking for yet. Bit of a downer, really, but he spends a lot of money and tips nice, so the bosses keep him around.” He lets out a low chuckle. “Rents the SKY VIP lounge every day so he can look over the club for you. Even on days when he’s the only one up there. Boss fucking loves that shit.”

A wave of guilt hits me hard, twisting in my gut. Shane’s out there, looking for me, putting himself at risk, all because of the mess I dragged him into.

“Thanks,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dino says, rising from his chair. “Now, let’s go over that plan.”

Chapter 31

Shane

I park the blue Ranger a few blocks from the Velvet Mirage and walk the rest. It's my third rental this week—Mike's unmarked tails know the others by now, and I know all of his cars, too. Our friendship, if you can still call it that, has turned into a game of cat and mouse. He's warned me to stay away from the club and even threatened to arrest me a few times, but his threats are as empty as his promises to find Nicole. Business at the Velvet is booming, and I'm a tax-paying citizen. If Mike really wanted to, he could've hauled me in on some trumped-up charge by now, but he hasn't. Part of me thinks he's protecting himself—he's trusted me with the details of a planned high-profile assassination attempt on a local mob boss. If that got out, he'd be done. Another part of me thinks he's counting on me. IfNicole reaches out to anyone, it'll be me, and I'm his best chance of figuring out what Raffaele has planned.

As I approach the Velvet, the bass-heavy music pulsing through the club's walls thuds in my chest. The place is unmistakably mafia-run. You can tell by the men stationed around the entrance—rough-cut guys with straight faces, sacred and hardened. They wear dark clothing, their eyes scanning every passerby with casual menace. They linger in the shadows, close enough to be noticed but far enough to make you wonder what's going on behind the scenes. Inside, it's more of the same. Some of these guys are clearly muscle, tattoos creeping out from under their collars. They don't smile, barely talk, just stand there, watching.

I've grown out my beard and mustache over the past few weeks, trying to blend in and not be noticed. I keep my head down as I make my way through the entrance, the beat of the music practically rattling my teeth. The club's neon lights cast red and blue shadows across the room, adding to the illicit feel of the place. The air smells like expensive cologne, sweat, and alcohol—a mix that hits me when I walk in. No one pays me any attention; to them, I'm just another guy in a nice suit spending too much money. That's all anyone here cares about.

The VIP lounge at the Velvet has become my home away from home these past few weeks. Despite all the effort and all the money I've poured into occupying the space daily, Nicole was nowhere to be seen. I look down over the dance floor. The tinted windows of the sky lounge allow me to observe everything without being noticed. It's early—only 6 p.m.—so the crowd is still thin, but I know it'll pick up soon enough.

I glance at my phone at a picture Jaime sent me that morning. I'd booked him, Marie, and Allison a flight to Toronto, hoping to keep them safe. In the photo, Jaime's at an aquarium, walking through a tunnel-shaped glass hallway submerged in water, where sharks swim just inches away. The irony makes me laugh, but only for a moment. I feel like I'm in the tank now, swimming with predators.

A text comes in from Mike. He's called three times today, but I haven't answered. "Where are you?" the message reads. Before I can put the phone down, another one pings through. "Please tell me you're not at the club," it says.

I turn off the screen, shove the phone into my pocket, and take a long swig of Don Pérignon, courtesy of the skybox. The bubbles fizzle on my tongue, but they do nothing to ease the tension in my chest. A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts.

I open it to see a massive security guard, his face expressionless. "Shane?" he growls.

My stomach tightens. "Yeah," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

He hands me a phone. "It's for you."

My heart skips a beat.Could it be her?

But when I press the phone to my ear, Mike's raspy voice greets me instead. "What the hell are you doing there, Shane?"

I sigh heavily. "Enjoying my night out, which I have every right to do."

"Listen to me, Shane," Mike says, his tone sharper than usual. "We think shit's about to go down. I need you to stay in that box no matter what. Do not move."

"Wait, is Nicole here?" I ask, my voice barely steady.

"No, and if she shows up, Shane, stay away. We've got plainclothes officers on the way. We don't need you getting in the mix if bullets start flying. Do you understand me?" Mike's voice is firm, almost pleading.

"Yeah," I submit, but the lie sits heavy on my tongue. I've been waiting for something like this for weeks. My heart pounds in my chest, and despite the adrenaline coursing through me, I force myself to stay calm. "I'll stay out of the way." I have no intention of doing so. The moment I see a chance to grab Nicole and get her out of this mess, I'll take it.

"Shane, buddy, promise me." Mike's voice is softer now, almost desperate.

I click off the phone and hand it back to the stone-faced security guard. He gives a curt nod and walks away, his footsteps swallowed by the pulsing bass of the club. I return to the window of the skybox, scanning the faces below, searching for her—or Raffaele. I've only seen his face once in a photo, but I don't think I'll ever forget it. Cold, calculating. A man who enjoys control.

The dance floor is packed now, flashing lights bouncing off a sea of bodies moving to the heavy rhythm of the music. Waiters glide through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks. Nothing changes over the next hour; people dance as if their world isn't about to fall apart. I start to wonder if this is all a false flag, something to throw us off.

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