Page 4 of Ruined By Protection
I head back to the suits at the far end of the bar, feeling Matteo's eyes on me as I walk away. His gaze doesn't make my skin crawl like most men do. It feels different—intense but not invasive.
"Another round for the gentlemen," I announce, plastering on my professional smile. They barely acknowledge me as they debate quarterly projections and market fluctuations.
As I prepare their drinks I find my glance flicking back at Matteo. He sits with casual confidence, one hand wrapped around his whiskey glass, the other resting on the polished bar. His expensive suit fits him perfectly but unlike these corporate types, he wears it like it's an extension of himself rather than a costume.
Import-export. Sure. With those watchful eyes and that careful way of studying everyone in the room, he's either military, law enforcement, or something I shouldn't know about. But there's no wedding ring and he hasn't tried to get handsy or make sleazy comments, which puts him ahead of ninety percent of the men who sit at my bar.
I deliver the fresh round of drinks to the suits, then return to find Matteo's glass nearly empty.
"Another?" I ask, already reaching for the Macallan.
He nods, sliding his glass toward me. "What time do you finish tonight?"
The question makes me pause mid-pour. I've heard this one before—usually followed by unwanted propositions and having to explain that no, I don't want to ‘grab a drink’ after serving them all night.
"I don't date customers," I say firmly. "Bar policy."
His lips curve into a slight smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I didn't ask if you date customers."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Right."
I study him, trying to read his intentions.
"I'm off at one," I finally say.
I've barely set Matteo's refilled glass down when movement at the far end of the bar catches my eye. A man in a rumpled suit waves his empty glass in the air like he's hailing a taxi.
"Just a minute," I tell Matteo, already moving away.
The man's face is flushed from too much alcohol, his tie loosened and crooked. I recognize him—he's been here for hours with a group of coworkers who left an hour ago. He stayed behind, getting progressively drunker and louder.
"What can I get you?" I ask, maintaining my professional smile.
"Another scotch, sweetheart." His words slur together. "And maybe your number."
"Just the scotch," I say firmly. "And I think this should be your last one."
His expression darkens. "Don't tell me when I've had enough."
I pour him a half measure, sliding it across the bar. "Water's on the house."
"I didn't ask for water." He pushes it back, sloshing liquid onto the polished wood. "And I didn't ask for half a drink either."
"Sir, I'm required to serve responsibly."
He leans forward, invading my space. The stench of alcohol and stale cologne makes my stomach turn. "Listen, honey, I've spent a lot of money here tonight. The least you could do is be nice."
"I am being nice," I say, keeping my voice even. "I'm making sure you get home safely."
His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. "Don't patronize me, bitch."
My heart pounds against my ribs. I've dealt with aggressive drunks before but something about this guy sets off alarm bells. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin.
"Let go," I say, voice low but firm. "Now."
"Or what?" He sneers.
"Or I'll break every finger on that hand." Matteo's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. I didn't even notice him approach. He stands beside the drunk man, looking relaxed except for his eyes—cold and focused, like a predator assessing prey.
