I type with a manic, shaky energy, my thumbs sliding over the glass.
I’m okay. Better than okay. I just had one of the best orgasms I’ve had in years masturbating to the images of my three new bodyguards. I honestly don’t know if I want to run away or get on my knees for all three of them the second they walk through the door.
I hit send.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I look at the screen. The bubble isn’t green. It isn’t a private message to Steph. It’s blue. It’s in the group chat.
Read by Nick.
Read by Rafe.
Read by Jude.
The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. I try to delete it, but the app locks as the “delivered” symbols turn into “read” receipts.
The filthiest text of my life wasn’t sent to Steph. It was sent to the three men I am fantasizing about.
Downstairs, the front door groans open.
They’re here.
And they know exactly what I want them to do to me.
2
NICK
Adrenaline floods my veins the second I cross the threshold.
She stands frozen in the center of the sprawling foyer.
My earpiece crackles with static. Rafe and Jude fan out instantly. They clear the flanking rooms with silent, lethal precision.
I don’t move. I can’t.
The briefing file Dominic provided hasn’t done her justice. Two-dimensional surveillance photos are completely useless. They can’t capture the absolute, devastating reality of Lucia Costa.
The file had mentioned the Gala’s guest list. I read every name twice. Most are what I expect—cartel adjacents, city officials, men who owe Dominic money or favors or both. One name sits different. Calix Ferraro. The Leonardi cartel’s consolidation man. The Butcher of the West, if you believe the federal intelligence summaries, which I do because I have seen the evidence reports and they are thorough and they are ugly. Ferraro does not attend charity galas for the canapes. He attends them to inspect acquisitions. Whatever Dominic is planningtonight, Ferraro’s presence means the price tag has already been agreed upon. The only question is what is being sold.
She wears a dark emerald silk slip dress. It clings to every single curve of her body like a second layer of skin.
The fabric dips low, exposing the smooth, golden slope of her cleavage. It hugs the dramatic flare of her hips. It skims over a heavy, perfectly rounded ass that makes my mouth go instantly dry.
She isn’t delicate. She isn’t fragile. She is lush.
Thick thighs, a tiny waist, and skin that looks softer than sin.
She is a massive distraction. A walking, talking liability to the mission.
My blood rushes south. Hard and fast.
“Kitchen,” I bark. My voice scrapes out rougher than crushed gravel.
Her dark eyes snap to mine. Defiance wars with absolute, paralyzing panic in her gaze. She doesn’t budge an inch.
I close the distance between us. My heavy combat boots make zero sound on the polished marble floor.