Page 24 of Ruined By Protection
I take another sip of scotch before answering. "What?"
"Good to hear your voice too, asshole," Noah says, his tone casual but with that underlying edge he always carries. "You busy tomorrow?"
"Why?" I'm already dreading whatever he's about to say.
"Need you to come with me to JFK to pick up Evelyn's cousin."
I sit up straighter, irritation flaring. "You're joking, right? Since when am I your personal chauffeur?"
"Since never. But I need backup."
"For an airport family pickup?" I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice. "What, is her cousin some kind of ninja assassin?"
"Funny," Noah says flatly. "Look, it's a security thing."
"Then take Daniel. Or literally any of the other guys whose actual job is security."
"Damiano specifically asked for you."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Noah, I'm not your fucking problem solver. Go to the airport, pick up the girl, bring her back. How complicated can it be?"
"You think I want to spend my day at JFK? With you?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "I've got better things to do."
"Then go fuck yourself," I say without heat. "I've got plans."
Noah laughs, the sound sharp and knowing. "No, you don't."
I drain my scotch, annoyed because he's right. "Still not going."
"Damiano insisted," Noah says, his tone shifting to serious.
I lean back against the couch cushions. When Damiano ‘insists’ on something it's not really a request. And if he's concerned about security for a simple airport pickup, there's more to this than Noah's telling me.
"What aren't you saying?" I ask.
"Nothing you need to worry about now. Just be ready at noon. Her flight lands at two."
I exhale slowly. "Fine. But you're buying me lunch."
"Whatever makes you feel better, princess," Noah says and I can practically hear his smirk through the phone.
"Fuck you," I reply automatically.
"Love you too. See you tomorrow." He hangs up before I can respond.
I toss my phone onto the couch beside me and stare out at the city skyline. The sun is starting to set, painting the glass towers gold and orange. It's beautiful in a cold, distant way—like so much of the life I've built.
With a sigh I push myself up and head back to the bar cart for a refill. If I have to spend tomorrow babysitting some civilian with Noah Rivera, I'm going to need to unwind tonight.
The scotch pours amber and smooth into the glass. I hold it up to the fading light, watching how it catches and transforms the color.
I take my drink to the windows, gazing out at the city lights beginning to flicker on across New York. Family. That's what it all comes down to with the Ferettis. Not just blood but the bonds we've built, the loyalty we've earned.
It's fucking ironic. I kill people for a living—or arrange for them to disappear, solve ‘problems’ and make threats that aren'tempty—but the Ferettis treat me like one of their own. Like family.
I take another sip, letting the fine single malt scotch burn down my throat.
The Ferettis operate on a code most people wouldn't understand. Honor. Respect. Loyalty. Family above all. It sounds noble until you realize what ‘family business’ actually means. It means blood. It means dead bodies. It means making sure the right people are scared and the wrong people disappear.
