Page 13 of Striker

One guard, who's holding a clipboard in his hand and a look on his face like he's got a grudge against the world, comes forward and raps on my window. He shines a penetrating flashlight in my face, while the other one circles my Lexus, looking through windows, looking beneath the car, and tapping the trunk so I'll open it, and then he looks inside.

I roll down the window.

"Name?" He says.

"Danielle Green. I'm in the bride's party."

He scans the clipboard, grunts, and motions for me to roll up the window. I do, eager for the thin separation of glass between me and his unpleasantness.

After a moment, he says something in a foreign language —Italian; it sounds like— to the other guard. Then the two of them exchange a nod, open the gate, and I'm in.

"Good job, Dani. Now, take us in."

Inside the gate, I can take in the full scope of this place. It'd be both a realtor's dream and a nightmare to have this among their listings. It's huge — with a large main house villa, and two other impressive neighboring villas, and other much smaller buildings throughout the property. Obviously, the commission on it would be enough to take an entire year off and spend it traveling the world in first class, but it's so big, so intimidating, so opulent, that it would almost be impossible to sell. It could sit listed for years waiting for the right client. I mean, really, who wants a vast seaside compound? A cult, maybe? Or a really, really rich militia with a thing for Mediterranean-style architecture, French doors, and Spanish tiled roofs?

I park in front of the main building, my heart pounding.

I am surrounded by the wealth and power of the Vertucci family, and it's in this moment the immensity of what Morgan and I have to do hits me.

This is insane.

Insane, and I'm going to get myself killed.

Not just myself, either, but Owen, too, because whatever happens, he'll throw himself into the line of fire to keep me safe. My brother will probably die soon after, on some baffling suicide mission to avenge me.

"Hey, you're looking lost in your head. I know it's normal for brides to get cold feet before their wedding, but bridesmaids aren't supposed to get that, right?" Owen says, resting his hand on my shoulder and giving me a gentle squeeze.

I look into his steely blue eyes and see that same unwavering support and strength that I've loved since the moment I first saw it. It's only gotten stronger, more resolute, since he served in the Marines, but even as the teenage boy I crushed on, it was there; bright, shining, daring. Ready to challenge the world.

It's going to be okay.

I turn off the car and open the door, and another man in a suit, this one also carrying a clipboard, descends from the large, Saltillo style entryway to greet us. Seconds later, a boy, about sixteen or seventeen, yet also wearing a perfectly tailored suit, comes down and stands at a respectful distance behind the man with the clipboard, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Ms. Green, yes? And your... date, I presume?"

Date.

How I've longed to hear that word applied to the man beside me. It gives me blissful butterflies in my stomach.

"Owen O'Connell. Yes, I'm Danielle's date for the weekend," Owen answers without an ounce of hesitation. It's intoxicating how easily those words flow from his lips.

Unable to resist, I add, "Yes, Owen's my date."

It takes a lot of effort to prevent myself from saying it again, and I remind myself that I have to act like a normal person, and that this guy with the clipboard will probably kick me out if I keep saying the word 'date' over and over and over like a malfunctioning robot.

"You're early. Excellent. That makes my job a little easier. Enzo, come here," he gestures to the young man behind him, who comes forward. "Enzo will help you with your bags and show you to your quarters in the east villa."

Enzo moves toward the trunk of my car, then stops suddenly as Owen holds up his hand.

"Easy there, boy, let me give you a hand with these," he says, taking special care to grab his suitcase and the garment bag containing his tux. "I didn't spend all this money on a tux to have someone other than me put wrinkles in it. Danielle, are you fine with Enzo carrying your bags, or would you prefer I do it?"

What is with him?

Why is he so careful about his bags?

Maybe it's a military thing. They are weird about their packing, and they get tested on how they make their beds by evil drill sergeants. Maybe that's it.

"It's fine," I say. "Thank you, Enzo."

---