Gabe

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West Adams at night feels like hell.

Sweat drips from my forehead as I lie on my worn mattress, my hand propping up my head. Even during those sweltering Italian summers as a kid, I can't recall ever feeling as uncomfortable as I do now. Back then, my room was more of a converted closet, quickly put together by my grandmother when my mother left me in their village without warning. The broken ceiling fan and lack of air conditioning made the heat almost unbearable, but it didn't bother me much.

I had my grandmother, whose support in the aftermath of my parents' abandonment was enough to make even the most unbearable nights feel worth it. It's when you have nothing—no hope, no future—that everything becomes suffocating.

I close my eyes, thinking of Piccola instead—specifically when she declared she never wanted to see me again. I try not to hold it against her. I was arrogant—a trait I've been reminded of more times than I care to admit—and assumed her loyalty to her mother would override any distaste she had for my methods, making her compliant.

I made a mistake. 

I never make mistakes. 

I wouldn't again if given the chance, but I can't see any way of forcing myself back into her life after this. In her eyes, I did the one thing she's deemed unforgivable: I took her freedom.

If only she knew I was prepared to take a whole lot more.

I exhale slowly, attempting to divert my thoughts, only to end up thinking about her body. I can almost feel the softness of her skin against mine, the warmth of her breath on my neck. Her dress, clinging to her curves, holds me hostage. Three months of her would have been absolute torture, so maybe I got lucky.

It's almost three am. Lifting my t-shirt, I wipe away some of the sweat from my face, wishing it were morning. Nights in this place are unbearable enough without torturing myself further.

I shift uncomfortably on the lumpy futon, the worn fabric barely cushioning me from the unforgiving springs poking through. My gaze drifts across the room, taking in this shit-hole apartment. The walls are a dull beige, stained with age and neglect. A broken dresser stands in the corner, half-blocking the door. I think back to Evangeline's mansion, with its dozens of rooms and air conditioning. After tonight, this is as good as it gets for me.

Once Denaro discovers I fucked up, he'll undoubtedly come after me and possibly my brother. A few broken limbs are guaranteed, but I have a feeling he won't let me off so lightly this time, not with millions of dollars at stake. Either we run and hope he never catches up or wait for him to get us.

The problem is my ego won't let me run.

Abandoning any hope of sleep, I sit up and rub my face before heading to the living room. Collapsing onto the sofa, I sift through the press clippings and documents I've gathered over the last few weeks. It's all useless now—the floor plans of her house, the profiles of her closest associates—but I can't bring myself to accept defeat.

I get that from my father.

At the front of the papers is the contract for her new security system that was supposed to be installed tomorrow. I gather the documents, jaw clenched, ready to toss them into the trash when my phone rings. Evangeline's name flashes on the screen, stopping me in my tracks.

Seeing her name there, after everything that's happened, is the last thing I expected. I take a moment to compose myself, then gruffly say, "Hello?"

"It's Evangeline Ryder," she says, her voice clipped. "I know it's late, but I had no one else to call. Did I wake you?"

"I was already up," I reply, rising from my seat. There's something off in her tone, something that sets me on edge. I start toward the bedroom, keeping the phone pressed to my ear with my shoulder as I pull on my jeans. "What is it? Are you there?"

"I'm here," she says, pausing. "I'm calling because I think someone may have tried to break into my house tonight."

That's all I need to hear. I'm already moving, grabbing my keys from the table with one hand while slipping my feet into my boots. "I'll be there as soon as I can," I say, my voice firm as I head for the door. "Stay in the living room and close the door. Don't move until I get there."

"I won't," she says, her voice softening slightly, the iciness melting away. There's a brief pause, and then, "Thank you."

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I head outside and climb into my truck, fastening my seatbelt as I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I focus on one thing—getting to her as quickly as possible. I retrieve my gun from the glove compartment, placing it on the passenger seat beside me.

I had no one else to call. That means she didn't call the cops or Stu. Why? It's clear Stu cares about her more than he should, so why couldn't she trust him enough to call him for help? Why reach out to the one person she trusts the least?

In the back of my mind, I can't shake the feeling that this could be a setup. Maybe she's on to our plan, and I'll arrive at a police ambush. Or maybe I'm just being too cynical, letting the paranoia get the best of me. All I know is that I've never wanted to get to Bel Air so badly, and I'm not taking any chances.

It's late enough that there's hardly any traffic. I accelerate toward Bel Air and reach the gates in record time. Once past security, I turn left onto her street and speed up the winding road leading to her mansion.

I pull into the circular driveway and kill the engine. Swiping my gun, I tuck it into my waistband before approaching her front door. Before I can even knock, the door is flung open, and there she is standing in the hallway in just a satin dressing gown.

The gown barely covers her breasts, the delicate fabric teasing more than it hides. Her eyes follow mine as they dip briefly to her cleavage, and with a raised eyebrow, she tugs the gown tighter around her and silently steps aside.

"Are you alright?" I ask, closing the door behind us. I take a quick, assessing glance at her—no visible injuries, but there's a shakiness in her eyes that she tries hard to mask. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I was in the bath," she begins, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson, "relaxing, when I heard a noise. I went to the kitchen to investigate and noticed the patio door was open. It was locked before I left. The hot tub was on, and that can only be activated by a sensor."

My gun is out in a flash, my thumb brushing over the safety as I move past her, scanning the hallway. "Any signs of forced entry?"

"Not that I can see," she replies, her voice faltering slightly. "There was no broken glass or anything by the door. I've also checked the entire house, so I don't think anyone made it inside, but I could have missed something."

I catch the tremor in her voice, the way she clutches the edge of her dressing gown a little tighter. She's scared, but she's trying hard to hide it, determined to prove she doesn't need anyone's help—least of all mine. I can't help but wonder why she feels the need to prove anything to me.

"Stay here," I instruct, already moving down the hallway, but she doesn't listen; instead, she follows closely behind, her bare toes almost brushing my heels as I move from room to room, checking each one.

We reach the kitchen, and I immediately check the main patio door locks, testing them with a firm hand. They're intact, no visible signs of force or tampering. "The locks are intact," I say, glancing back at her. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest, her impatience radiating off her.

I turn my attention to the hot tub, kneeling beside it to inspect the settings. The controls are straightforward, and when I press the button to activate the massage function, the water comes to life, bubbles thrashing violently. I watch for a moment, then stand, surveying the patio for any signs of intrusion—footprints, disturbed plants, anything. But there's nothing out of the ordinary.

"It doesn't seem like an attempted break-in," I say, turning to face her, ignoring the icy glare she's shooting my way. "But I'll check the rest of the house to be sure. It's possible you forgot to lock the door, and the hot tub sensors are sensitive. The settings could have been triggered by the wind."

She steps forward, looking ready to throttle me. "Do you think I would have called you if this was a case of me forgetting to lock the door?"

"I don't know," I say slowly, stepping closer to her. There's a tension between us, and I can see the stubborn defiance in her eyes, a look she reserves just for me. For reasons I can't fully understand, that look has me wanting to do things I shouldn't. "In fact, I'm struggling to work out why you called me at all."

Her mouth tightens, diverting my gaze to the silhouette of her hips beneath the sheer fabric of her robe, the way the satin clings to her curves. "You're a bodyguard," she says, forcing my eyes to return to hers. "Securing the house is part of your job."

I raise an eyebrow, impressed by her boldness. Taking my time, I reach up and gently tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her cheek. She freezes at the contact, her breath catching as I lean in closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. "In case you forgot, you fired me, Piccola."

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, neither of us moves. "You deserved worse."

I let out a low breath, imagining all of the ways she could punish me. "Far worse."

"I'm glad we finally agree on something," she says, straightening her shoulders. "Now, if you're done wasting my time, perhaps we can focus on the break-in."

"This isn't a break-in." I look around. "I doubt it was even an attempt."

Her eyes narrow, the spark of anger flaring up again. "Do you think I'm making this up?" she snaps. "They were here, Gabe. I know it."

I close the distance between us, feeling her breath hitch. "Who are 'they,' Evangeline?"

"No one." She looks away, her gaze darting to the side, but for someone who grew up in Hollywood, her acting leaves much to be desired. "I meant 'they' in a general sense."

I lower my head until I'm eye-level with her. "Tell me, Piccola."

Her subtle swallow betrays her nerves, despite her composed expression. I allow the silence to press on her, watching her run a hand back and forth along her robe's belt.

"If I tell you," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper, "you have to promise not to tell anyone. My mother and Stu will never trust me to be alone again. They'll—"

"Piccola," I interrupt, my thumb finding its way beneath her chin, lifting her face so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. "Now."

She closes her eyes. "I have a stalker."

"A stalker." The words hit me like a punch to the gut. As a bodyguard, the only thing we ask of our clients is honesty. We can't protect what we don't know, and withholding this kind of information puts us both at risk. "For how long?"

"Weeks," she exhales in one breath, as if relieved to finally get it out. "Maybe a month. At first, it was just stupid messages, so I thought I could handle it. But then they sent flowers to my home. They know where I live."

I close my eyes, forcing myself to remain calm despite the urge to yell. This changes everything. "Stay here," I warn, retrieving my gun from my waistband.

She nods as I do another sweep of the house. It's likely she scared off whoever might have tried to get in, but when dealing with stalkers, it's only a matter of time before they return. They're not like burglars; they're not after a quick payday. They're patient, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Relentless.

"I told you I checked everywhere."

Her voice startles me, and I glance back at her, my expression hardening. "And I told you to stay put." Tucking the gun back into my waistband, I face her fully, frustrated at her lack of self-preservation. "I don't think they got inside. It seems like they were probably interrupted before they could get in, but that doesn't mean they won't try again. You should tell Stu."

"I can't," she says, looking at her feet. "He cares about me too much. As crazy as it sounds—" She looks up now, sliding her gaze up my body until it meets mine. "I need someone who doesn't care about me to protect me."

I run a hand through my hair, unable to believe my luck. It's a way back in if I ever saw one, practically handed to me on a golden platter. But for a moment, I can't speak. Here it is, my chance—not just at financial freedom, but at redemption. I could refuse her offer, face the consequences, and live out the rest of my—albeit short—life with a clear conscience. Or I can finish what I started and accept that I'm walking a path straight to hell.

It's the kind of decision that needs a moment.

But only a moment.

"I can protect you," I say slowly, "and I'll keep your stalker a secret, but only if you let me do my job. No more running, and no more games. I need to know your whereabouts and activities at all times. I need to know who's coming in and out of this house and when." I meet her gaze. "I need you to trust me."

"Trust is earned," she says without missing a beat, "and you haven't earned mine, but as long as you do your job correctly, I won't interfere."

That's good enough for me. More than good enough. While a stalker is a complication I hadn't anticipated, it works in my favor. She needs me now in a way she didn't before, and that gives me leverage.

"Tomorrow, I'll arrange for your security system to be installed," I say, watching her carefully, "and then I'll get started on figuring out who this stalker could be. I'll need access to your messages and every room in the house."

"You can access most rooms," she negotiates, "and I'll have Kat forward you everything so far, but just know that if you attempt another stunt like the tracker, I'll have you removed from this house immediately. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I say, cocking my head. "But if you want me back, you'll need to ask nicely, Piccola."

Her eyes narrow so fiercely that I half expect them to pop out of her head. Goading her when I've only just gotten my job back is risky, but I can't pass up an opportunity to remind her who's in charge here.

"No chance in hell."

I shrug casually, turning slightly as if to leave. "Then I guess you don't need my help."

Just as I'm about to take a step, she moves closer. I brace myself, half expecting a slap, but instead, her expression shifts, and the hardened glare softens into something more vulnerable.

"Please."

The soft plead cuts through me. Wrapped in her dressing gown, she looks smaller, more fragile than I've ever seen her. The anger in her eyes is gone, replaced by a fear that she can't hide. All I want to do right now is protect her. "I doubt they'll try anything tonight," I say, "but I'll crash on the sofa to be sure."

She stares at me for a long moment, torn between hate and gratitude. "The sofa isn't that comfortable," she says finally, turning around. "You can stay in the guest room. There's an ensuite if you want to shower, and I'll have Luciana bring you breakfast."

Without another word, she heads up the stairs, disappearing around the curved balcony as I process everything that just happened. Of all the ways I thought tonight would end, this isn't one of them. A bed, a functional shower, and unrestricted access to Evangeline Ryder's house.

Maybe I'm not damned just yet.