Gabe

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It was reckless to invite her to my father's birthday, a mistake that could cost me more than I'm willing to admit. Mixing business with pleasure was the one line I swore I'd never cross, but saying no to Piccola has never been my strong suit.

She's my weakness. The only one who can break down my resolve with nothing more than a look. And the second I saw the disappointment in her eyes, I knew I'd do whatever it took to fix it, even if it meant making an already messy situation worse.

Resigned to my fate, I move through my apartment, trying to tidy up, though it feels more like damage control than cleaning. The sink is piled with dishes I've been too distracted to deal with, so I fill it with hot water and soap, the suds rising as I scrub at each plate. My hands move on autopilot, rinsing and stacking while I run through all the ways this could blow up in my face. My father is a headcase. I'm supposed to be keeping my brother at a distance. If I make it through Friday without scaring Piccola away for good, I'll be surprised. 

I finish the dishes and move to wipe down the counters, scrubbing at invisible smudges with more force than necessary. The place isn't dirty; it's just not up to my usual standards. Normally, I'd never let it get this way—I'm efficient, orderly, always in control—but lately, I've been too busy to care about the small things.

I'm debating whether to tackle the bathroom when my phone buzzes. Redwood. The message is short and to the point, asking me to come into the office. 

On my day off.

My first thought is bastard. My second is, he knows. Maybe not about Denaro or Carrera or what we've been planning, but he knows something. 

For a second, I consider ignoring it, but the alternative is staying here, drowning in my own thoughts. Heading into the office, even to deal with Redwood, feels easier than facing the mess I've made. I toss my phone onto the counter and head for the shower, letting the hot water run longer than usual. When I'm dressed, I slip my Glock into my pocket and lock up behind me. 

When I reach the office, it's quieter than usual. Most of the desks are empty, and Redwood's office door is shut, the blinds drawn—a clear do not disturb sign if ever there was one. Whatever he's doing in there, I'm not interrupting until he calls me in. I head for the coffee machine, filling a cup and taking a slow sip before slumping into my chair. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk and rubbing my temples. 

I need a plan. A way to stop the heist without putting Piccola in danger. A way to clean up this mess I've made without dragging her down with me. The plan runs through my head on a loop, each angle dissected, each risk weighed, but no matter how I spin it, every scenario ends the same. One way or another, she gets hurt.

One week. That's all I've got. One week to get the code without raising her suspicions, or else Carrera will make good on his promise to hurt her. 

It's the one thing I swore I'd never let happen. I grip the edge of my desk, leaning into it, my knuckles whitening against the surface. Think. But it's no use. Whether Carrera's men get to her, or she finds out the truth from me—it doesn't matter. Either way, I fail.

I lift my head, staring at the shutter of Redwood's door, my jaw tightening as the only solution that keeps her alive comes into focus. If she hates me for it, so be it. At least she'll still be breathing.

Safe.

The word echoes hollowly in my head. What does safe even mean? It sure as hell doesn't mean happy. Not for her. Not for me. But if it keeps her out of Carrera's sights, it's worth it.

The plan forms in sharp clarity. I'll get the code. Play along just long enough to keep them off her back. Then, on the night of the gala, I'll slip away early to intercept Denaro and his men myself.

It's where Jack will come in handy. He'll stay with her at the event, keep her occupied. She trusts him. She'll be distracted, laughing, posing for pictures, blissfully unaware of what's happening. Meanwhile, I'll be waiting when Denaro at the house.

I rub a hand down my face, the calluses catching against the scruff on my jaw. It's a gamble. A big one. But with their tight schedule to get in and out undetected, my presence alone might be enough to derail their plan before shit goes down. And if it's not?

I'll make sure I take Denaro down with me. 

I feel my shoulders start to ease. With me out of the picture, Carrera won't have any reason to go after her. He thrives on staying low-key, operating in the shadows. Drawing attention to himself by targeting a high-profile celebrity like her would be too risky. The media would eat it alive. And Carrera knows it.

The only reason he's threatening her is because of me. Because, somehow, he knows I care about her more than I should—more than is safe. He's using that against me, but the problem with leverage? It loses all power when I'm gone. 

I'm still dissecting every angle when the door to Redwood's office swings open. Out strides Reed Redwood—the bastard heir to the GSS fortune himself. He's a rare sight around here, but when he does show up, he moves like he owns the place, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans, his dirty blond hair tied back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck. Even just his walk pisses me off. 

There are some people in life who get everything handed to them, and Reed fucking Redwood is one of them. He doesn't have to work to climb the ranks here. He knows, as do the rest of us, that one day this entire operation will be his. No blood, sweat, or tears needed. Skill? Dedication? They're optional when your name is Redwood, which is probably why I can't stand the kid. 

Lauren, one of the few female bodyguards on staff, pauses mid-typing as he passes. Her eyes linger, and I don't miss the flicker of something in her expression—irritation, maybe, or something closer to regret. I've heard whispers they hooked up a while back. Reed doesn't even break stride. He glances her way, winks, and keeps walking like an asshole. 

Jack saunters over next, a coffee in one hand and his signature grin plastered across his face. He drops into the swivel chair opposite me, kicking back with a spin and propping one foot up on the edge of my desk. His gaze flicks over me, amused, as he takes a slow sip of his coffee.

"There's only one person who makes you look this pissed this early in the morning," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Reed must be gracing us with his presence."

I tilt my head toward Redwood's office, my jaw tightening. "He never shows up unless there's a problem."

And I have enough problems to deal with. 

Jack snorts, spinning lazily in his chair. "Maybe he gambled all his trust fund away and needs Daddy to bail him out again."

The thought is enough to draw a bitter smirk from me, but it fades just as quickly. I lean back in my chair, my arms crossing over my chest as my gaze drifts back to the closed door of Redwood's office. For a second, the noise of the office fades, and all I can think about is the road I didn't take—the life I could've had if I'd stayed focused. If I'd kept my head down, worked to be the best bodyguard in this firm, and never made that damned deal with Denaro.

But then a thought cuts through. You'd never have met Piccola.

"Isn't it your day off, anyway?" Jack asks. 

I glance at him, my lips curling in a humorless smile. "Apparently, that doesn't matter."

Speak of the devil.

Redwood appears in his doorway, his sharp eyes locking on me. Without a word, he lifts a hand and beckons me over. Jack shoots me a knowing look, his grin widening, but I ignore him, my irritation bubbling just beneath the surface as I rise from my chair and follow Redwood inside. 

Redwood lowers himself into the high-backed chair behind his desk, gesturing for me to sit opposite him. I sink into the chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

"It's my day off," I say flatly, leaning back.

"I know it's your day off, smart-ass," Redwood replies. He adjusts his tie, settling into his seat. "I wanted to check if you've done all the security checks for the gala."

"Not yet," I admit. "I still need to scope out the venue and note all the entrances and exits."

"You need anyone else on the team?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I could use Jack," I say after a moment. "Another pair of eyes never hurts."

He nods once, already pulling up something on his computer. "Done."

My gaze drifts around the room, landing on the wall behind him. Rows of framed photos are neatly arranged, most of them featuring Redwood at various events or shaking hands with clients. But the one my eyes linger on is of him and Reed, standing side by side, both of them younger, looking like two versions of the same man—one sharp and seasoned, the other smug and full of potential he hasn't yet earned.

"What was Reed doing here?" I ask, nodding toward the photo.

Redwood follows my gaze, his mouth tightening. He exhales, leaning back in his chair. "You know Reed. Always has something to say about how I run things."

I arch a brow, more curious than I care to let on. "He's got a problem with how you're running GSS?"

"No. His problem," Redwood says drily, leaning forward, "is with me. He seems to think he should play a bigger role in the management of my company. Wants to skip the proving ground and go straight to the top. But I'm not about to hand him the keys just because he's my son."

There's a flicker of something in his tone—resentment, maybe, or disappointment. I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. Redwood isn't the type to talk unless he has a point to make.

"I meant what I said before," he says, resting his elbows on the desk and fixing me with a hard look. "We're getting a lot of business these days, and I'm looking at who I want to take to the top with me. My son thinks it should be him by default. Family and all. But I don't care about blood. I care about loyalty. Merit. What makes a good bodyguard." He pauses, his gaze sharp. "And you've been consistent since the day your scrawny, eighteen-year-old ass walked into my office."

I keep my expression neutral, but Redwood's words linger uneasily in my gut. I was green back then—eager to prove myself. Every assignment felt like a mission, like I was the good guy, the one who stepped in when people were in danger, standing between them and the worst of the world. Back then, I believed in what I did.

Years of honing my skills, working my way up the ranks, have shown me the ugly side of this job. Kidnapping attempts, stalking cases, political threats—I've seen it all. And through it all, I told myself I was one of the good ones.

Then I made a deal with the devil. 

"You get through this assignment, and there's a lot more waiting for you here," Redwood says, cutting through my thoughts. "Keep that in mind, Loretto."

I nod, rising to my feet, forcing my face into something that passes for neutral. "Will do."

I head back to my desk and sit down, barely noticing Jack's quip about me looking more annoyed than usual. My phone buzzes on the desk, the screen lighting up. It's Mack, reminding me—again—about our father's birthday, like I don't already have a million more pressing things to deal with.

I stare at the message for a moment, jaw tightening, when another notification pings through. This one is from Piccola.

What does your father like? Need gift ideas.

I grit my teeth. The only thing that man deserves is a set of handcuffs and a warrant for his arrest. You're not getting him a gift, Piccola, I type back, my fingers hitting the keys harder than necessary.

Her reply is immediate. Yes, I am, so tell me what he likes.

I exhale sharply, running a hand over my face. I hate this. Hate that she's so kind to people she barely knows, hate that we're pretending to play happy families when everything about this situation is a lie. I keep trying to hold her at arm's length, keep her out of my world, but it doesn't matter. She's already in it, and it's too late to push her out.

Aftershave, I type grudgingly, knowing she's too stubborn to let it go. Cheap, I add, because this is Piccola, and if I don't specify, she'll probably end up buying something ludicrously expensive.

I set the phone down and turn on my laptop, pulling up the files I've kept meticulously organized since taking on this assignment. Background checks, schedules, profiles—it's all there. And among them, the file on Piccola's family.

I glance at Stu Morelli's name and almost laugh. I'd thought he was my biggest threat going into this. But my problem was never Stu. It was Carrera–a man I didn't even know existed. But if there's one thing I do know, it's that he's not getting a thing from her. 

I'll make sure of it.