The bass thumped steadily through the dimly lit club, vibrating through the soles of your boots as you stood stationed near the bar, arms crossed, eyes locked on your target.

Evan Moretti—son of one of the most feared mafia bosses in the city—was draped across a velvet couch in the VIP section, a whiskey glass lazily balanced in one hand, the other resting carelessly on the thigh of some blonde girl who had been clinging to him for the past half hour. He laughed at something his friend said, the sound loud, carefree, and a little slurred.

You didn’t laugh. You never did.

It was your job to protect him, not indulge him.

On the outside, Evan looked like he had it all—designer suits, an effortlessly charming grin, and enough inherited power to silence a room with his name alone. But he couldn’t fight to save his life. Literally. Which is why you were there—always just far enough to stay out of the pictures, but close enough to throw the first punch if things got ugly.

You checked your watch.

4:02 a.m.

The crowd was thinning out, the music dipping into its slower, final set. A couple of Evan’s friends were dozing off, others already gone, and his new blonde shadow had her head on his shoulder like they were lovers in a tragic play.

Then he stood—well, tried to.

“Sky!” he called out, his voice thick with alcohol, head swinging around like a loose hinge. His eyes landed on you and he waved you over like he was hailing a cab.

You were at his side in seconds.

He reached for you, nearly tripping, gripping your shoulder with the casual entitlement of someone who’d never needed to fight for anything. His breath smelled like top-shelf liquor and recklessness.

“Take me and… uh—” he turned to the girl beside him, squinting like her name might appear somewhere on her forehead, “—the blonde, back to the mansion.”

He didn’t even try to remember her name.

You raised an eyebrow but said nothing. You were used to this. The names, the messes, the 4 a.m. rescue missions.