Chapter 17

Vance

Before we even step on the landing, the front door whips open and I come face to face with Isabella's father. His face twists into a tight frown, and his eyes scan behind him.

"Why are you here?" he asks me in a harsh whisper.

"What do you mean? I'm doing my job. The one you hired me to do." I respond with the fakest fucking pleasantry.

"No, I asked you to watch her." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Not here. You can't be here."

I look behind him. Now I definitely feel the need to be here since he's so dead set on me not being here. I don't like how it feels. Who hires someone to guard their daughter, then calls them off the clock before she enters the wolves' den? Does he think he can protect her? His self-interest is clearly greater than his love for his daughter.

"With all due respect, I plan to do my job," I say.

"If you don't leave, you won't get paid."

Oh no, no. I haven't been on this babysitting gig for this long for him to renege on payment. I didn't work for free. Well, free-ish. I got some fun out of it. Either way, I will go back to my roots if he tries to withhold payment from me. He forgets what makes me such an efficient guard.

"You hired me to keep your sweet little angel in my sight at all times, and what you're asking me to do now doesn't align with that. I don't tell you how to do your job, sir, so don't tell me how to do mine. If you don't want to put me on any more gigs because of my dedication, so be it, but I'm finishing this one right. So please move aside before I take her right back home and shit on your dinner plans." I raise my chest, pretty sure I've already shit on whatever his plans were tonight.

His mask of anger twists further, but just before he speaks, a hand grabs his shoulder and pulls him back a step.

"Isabella and Mr. Lore, I expected you to come along. Quite the guard you got for her, Angelino," Mr. Vendetti says. He reaches a well-groomed hand toward me, with the crispest fold I've ever seen in his expensive suit sleeve. "My son has been awaiting your arrival. Shall we?" He crooks his elbow and offers it to Isabella, and she tucks her arm in his as he leads her away. I follow, giving her father a killing glare as I pass. Fucking rich people. Never an unshady one in the bunch.

Jealousy rakes my spine and nestles in my lower gut at the sight of him leading her into a den of wolves. It's becoming real. Too fucking real. I don't like this one bit, and I'm not sure if it's the overall shadiness or because I kind of hate the thought of her with her future husband and his skeezy dad.

We walk into a giant kitchen that's bigger than my entire home. Waitstaff stand by double doors, awaiting orders. It's so fucking weird. Having staff on standby is a luxury I will never have or get used to. Even with a million dollars, I have so many other things I'd rather do than hire someone to stand outside the bathroom door, waiting to wipe my ass on command. I can perform all the basic necessities on my own, thanks.

Mr. Vendetti pulls out the chair for Isabella, and she takes a seat. One of the waitstaff guides me toward a seat across from her, but I force my way next to her instead. Her shit husband can sit across from us. I want to see his face as he talks. I want to get a read on him. Will he treat my girl right?

I clear my throat as the insanity of that thought reaches my rational mind. She's not my girl. She's not mine at all. And I know that. She's promised to this shitty family, not someone like me.

Antonio comes into the kitchen, followed by the shit brother I've already met. Unfortunately. He recognizes my presence and curls his lip. Her future husband also stumbles over his words at the sight of me.

"I didn't expect your help to come along," he quips, and I'm about a cunt hair away from pulling my gun and shooting him square in the forehead.

"Just doing my job," I say, trying to be a little less homicidal about it. I know these kinds of people, and I shouldn't expect anything different.

"So commendable," his brother says with a sarcastic laugh. I can't help but wonder if Antonio knew his brother tried to kidnap her. That he probably planned to kill her. Would they be so buddy-buddy with each other then? Or does no one in these families have a genuine connection with each other? Seems like everyone will turn on everyone, and I don't know how they live in a world with so little dignity.

"Isabella," Antonio says, pointing at his side like she's a dog.

I see red.

What surprises me and dulls the crimson hue is that Isabella gets right up to walk around the table and greet him. He leans in and kisses her on the mouth, and that fleeting touch makes me just as homicidal as when he called me the help. But when she turns her face to glance at me, her big eyes rounding with flirtation, I realize what she's doing.

She's doing this on purpose.

She's giving in to that man because she knows exactly what it's doing to me.

It's making me fucking rabid, and she loves it. She's playing a risky game in their own house. Their home turf. I'm a really good shot, but I'd be grossly outnumbered.

Don't play, little girl, I mouth toward her. I'm not sure she can read my lips, but she better fucking stop.

She smirks, throwing her hip to the side and leaning closer into him. He's clearly loving what he perceives as power, but it's not power. He's being played for a fool.

She doesn't want him.

She wants me.

There's not a chance in hell that she'll be a good girl for me this evening. She'll be a very bad one. And it could get us killed. Not that she cares about that. But I kinda do.

Kind of.

She sure knows how to make a really awkward dinner more uncomfortable by eye fucking me at the table as she sits so close to her future husband. Every so often her gaze leaves Antonio's and meets mine as she takes a sensual sip of wine. It's not how any girl drinks wine unless she wants you to envision your dick touching those lips. And believe me, I am. My dick hardens at the thought of it, and I move my black fabric napkin to my lap to hide it.

Stop, I mouth, and she throws me a sinister smirk. She's willing to get us killed just so she can get my dick hard beneath this fancy fucking table.

Dinner is served, and the staff puts plate upon plate of food in front of us. I'll admit, this shit looks delicious. One thing rich people can do is serve the best food. They probably have Gordon Ramsey back there, for fuck's sake.

I lift my fork while everyone else waits for Mr. Vendetti. It's probably some respect thing, but I'm starving and I don't have respect for any of these people. I start eating because who the fuck cares? I'm not one of them, even if I'm babysitting one.

Mr. Vendetti walks into the room, commanding the attention of everyone but me. He starts talking about the impending nuptials, and I chew louder in hopes of drowning it out. I don't really want to hear about it. I don't care about the fancy decisions they need to make. A horse and carriage? A champagne fountain? Millions of dollars in rich-people bullshit to create a fake fucking wedding where the bride-to-be would probably rather drown herself in that champagne fountain than marry Antonio. Isn't there something better to do with that kind of money?

I scoff, and Isabella kicks me under the table. Why? Scoffing isn't kosher but her single-focus mission to keep me hard at this miserable dinner is a-okay? I can't wait to get back to her swanky mansion, and I never thought I'd say that.

The conversation drags on about the wedding, but the sounds become background noise when I feel Isabella pawing at my lap as she slips her hand beneath the fabric napkin. I grab her wrist, trying to keep a straight look on my face. We are not doing this here. She has a death wish, I swear. Her fingertips curl along my hardened length, teasing me.

Fucking A.

I scoot my chair a little closer to the table and loosen my grip on her wrist. She rubs the palm of her hand along my length, putting pressure on my head as she passes it. The subtle touch causes the most intense pleasure. Maybe it's because we're in a room of people I hate, or maybe it's the risk, but every touch is electric and dangerous.

Her fingers move to my zipper and ease it down. She pulls my cock from the slit in my pants and strokes me. The huge, flared wooden table keeps my lap hidden beneath it, but as her hand wraps around me and begins stroking, I'm trying to keep my emotions hidden too. I'm trying to keep my face still and expressionless as she swirls around my head. A moan settles in my throat, wanting to come out and spill across this fancy plate. But a moan would get us caught. I curl my fingers around my fork, digging my nails into my palm. She's going to be in so much trouble for this. If we make it out of here alive.

I'm going to come. Each stroke brings me closer and closer. Somehow she keeps her upper arm so motionless except for the little flex in the muscle. Thank god. But the groan that wants so desperately to leap from me is making me restless. Uneasy. Not sure if I can come without making a single peep, especially when she's pulling so much pleasure from me with her touch. This girl strokes a dick once and becomes a fucking expert.

I draw my hand to my lips, setting my chin on my palm. My lips part as the head of my cock twitches, and I spill my load on her pretty little hand in front of her future husband. I try to hide the soft exhale as I finish coming. Right in front of their faces, she cleans my pleasure from her skin with disturbing confidence. She draws her hand away, wiping it off with her napkin as if she was simply removing a bit of grease from her fingers.

I wait for the moment I can tuck myself away before zipping my pants again. She's in so much trouble. No matter how good that felt, she can't do shit like this. I won't die in a place like this. She may be used to the death and destruction inside walls like these, but I'm not. And I'm not willing to lose my life for emptying my balls in her hand. Maybe her pussy, but not her hand.