The Bodyguard's Burden

Lorenzo Ricci sat at the center of the storm. He was a man who made silence scream. He dressed in charcoal gray, demanding attention. Cut-glass cheekbones, steel eyes that swallowed everything and gave nothing away—those were the eyes of a man born to command. Louisa wasn't here to gawk at him, though. She was here to save his life. The gun was awkward in her hip, but she glided into La Riviera Hotel's gilded entrance as if she were air. Her precision-cut black blazer hugged every curve, but only because she required it to. It allowed for freedom of movement, silky draw on her firepower. She slipped in, into stealth mode, her keen senses sweeping every eye, every corner of every room. Home—where power met danger. Lurking at its center was Lorenzo, his enemies never far behind the nape of his neck. Across from him, the Montez brothers—cold-blooded hit men whose business spanned Mexico to Eastern Europe. Men like them never bargained before blood was shed. Heavy hung the air, heavy as curling cigar smoke that drifted from the lips of Rafael Montez. "We require a guarantee," Rafael sneered, his tone dripping with feigned courtesy. To his left, his brother Miguel leaned forward, serious-faced. "Your word is not enough, Lorenzo." Louisa shifted a little, watching the game. The Montez brothers didn't trust Ricci—normal. What wasn't normal was how eager they were to insult him so openly. Lorenzo took a slow breath, setting his glass of whiskey on the table with deliberate slowness. "Gentlemen," he said, voice smooth as silk but laced with steel, "if my word isn’t enough, then perhaps you’re in the wrong room." Miguel’s jaw clenched. Rafael chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Louisa’s instincts prickled. Something wasn’t right. Her fingers ghosted over the concealed blade strapped to her thigh. Then she saw him. The silver-tray waiter. Standard service to everybody—champagne, a sorry. But to Louisa, the swish of his stance. The rigidity in his stride. The flash of metal on his wrist. A gun. Time lagged. Her brain had not yet caught up before her body had responded. With one swift action, she knocked the tray over. Glasses shattered mid-air, revealing liquid spraying in all directions. The gunman's bullet missed—only for a second. But that was all she needed. She wrapped his wrist in a vice. The gun went flying from his hand, ringing on the marble floor. The would-be murderer snarled, punching wildly and without control. But Louisa moved quicker. She spun around, kicking him in the stomach like a battering ram before bashing his arm into a bone-jarring lock. Then—a shot. For a thrilling moment, agony lanced through her side. Was she shot? The killer slumped against her, his body lifeless. A scar from a bullet groaned between his eyes. Louisa's head snapped upright. Lorenzo Ricci stood up, his own weapon still warm in his hand, his face expressionless. Miguel Montez backed away from the table, palms spread in surrender. "We didn't do it," he snarled. "This wasn't us." Ricci barely blinked. He simply breathed slowly, as if mildly annoyed at having narrowly avoided death. Then his eyes moved to Louisa. "Are you injured?" Something in the tone checked her. Concern? She pushed the thought aside. "No." Ricci nodded curtly. "Then let's proceed." Louisa blinked at him, barely able to process his coldness. A man had died, and he didn't even blink. A reminder. One she never allowed herself to forget. This man was not normal. And working for him meant that she couldn't be, either. Later That Evening Weary clung to Louisa like a second skin as she made her way home. She drove into her brownstone driveway and looked around before she exited the car. Old habits. Practical ones. Warmth and safety were inside, away from the night she'd just spent. Gabriel slept with his arms locked around him beneath his Spider-Man blanket, his little chest moving up and down in deep, silent breaths. For a moment, the brutality of the night was forgotten. Louisa knelt beside him on the floor, running a calming hand through his black silk hair.

She kissed his forehead and promised silently. No one was ever going to hurt him. She'd promised it the day he was born. But as she walked to the kitchen, tension crept into her muscles. Something was wrong. A white envelope sat on the counter. She hadn't left it there. Her heart pounding, she accepted it, shaking hands—as if it were about to explode. She tore it open. One note. Four words. Four words that froze her blood. I know the truth. Her fingers wrapped around the paper. Who had penned it? What did they know? Her past was dead. She had killed it, reduced the evidence to ashes, erased all record. But someone had just dug up the corpse— And resurrected it. There was a storm in full fury. And this time, she wasn't so certain that she could outrun it.