Chapter 3

"I don't really understand," I whisper to Natasha as she rushes me toward the door. "If we haven't set a wedding date, do I really need to choose a dress?"

My uncle's wife, Natasha, has always seemed nice enough. She's quiet, very well dressed, with perfect hair and makeup. She has huge, firm breasts, which she often covers with high necklines, and enough Botox to question if she has feelings. Perhaps that's why when she smiles, it never reaches her eyes. Deep down, I can't help but think she's just like me—scared to be here and aware that this is not normal.

She gives me a small, tight-lipped smile and nods. "Mr. Romano wants you to find your dress because the wedding will be whenever he has time in his work schedule. So, that's what we'll do—get a dress so you're ready. It'll be fun." She gives me a wink. "Hey, we can make it a girls' day and get pedicures afterward."

When she pushes the door open, I see the guard from last night, Hercules, standing next to a large black SUV with windows so dark that I can't see inside.

With Natasha, I don't feel like I have to pretend I'm as oblivious as I am when I'm around the Romanos or my uncle. With her, I can joke around a little without worrying that I'm going to piss someone off.

"A girls' day with that guy?" I mutter as he opens the back door for us to climb inside. Looking at him, I raise an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as the painted-toe type."

He doesn't look at me or smile. He simply waves his hand toward the seat, instructing me to climb in like a good little girl.

Sighing, I shrug my shoulders. "Fine. Fine. I'm going. I'm going," I huff out. "It's a little creepy though, you know? You tagging along on girls' day and not getting a pedicure. So, just take one for the team, roll those pants up, pull those socks off, and treat yourself."

Still, he shows no emotion as he shuts the door behind us before jumping behind the wheel. His white button-down hugs his arms in a way that makes me drool. I clearly have a screwed-up brain—one that finds men who shoot and kill others, like he likely did last night, hot.

"Bailey, we'd like to look for a dress first, and then we'd love to get pedicures." She glances down at her phone. "There's a place about two miles from the dress boutique."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls slowly, giving her a slight nod and nothing else. "And, uh … not to be rude, but it's Hudson. Or Hercules."

Embarrassment floods her face, and her eyes widen. "Oh my gosh, I know your name. I'm so sorry. One of the other security guards who has traveled with us also had tattoos, and his name was Bailey. I'm sorry about that."

"No big deal," he says coolly, not showing a single ounce of emotion.

Something about him intrigues me, though I have no idea why, other than he's fun to look at. I am also curious to know how he ended up here as my bodyguard when I know he worked for my uncle back in the States before because I heard Beckett talking about him.

I didn't put it together last night when Enzo called him Hercules. When Beckett refers to him, he always calls him Hudson.

"Is he, like … going to be with us all day?" I whisper to Natasha, moving my eyeballs to Hudson in a secret message like she doesn't already know that's who I'm talking about. "If so, that's pretty weird."

She shrugs. "You will get used to it." She glances out the window. "Besides, he's with us for a reason, Briar. Trust me, now that we are in Romano territory, you'd much rather him be here than be alone."

I know what she's saying. Danger. We need a guard. We need this big, bulky, tattooed, intimidating-AF hunk of man meat to keep us safe. If I stopped and really thought of the reasons why we needed a guard, I'm sure it would be unsettling. So, right now, I refuse to think about it at all.

Blowing out a breath, I turn toward the window and stare as we head through the streets of Italy, making our way to pick out a wedding dress. One I'll wear on the day I marry a man who I'm sure has the blood of many people on his hands.

Just another thing I can't stop to think about too much.

Sort of like the man last night, who was covered in sweat, panic on his face as Hudson yanked him outside before a gun went off.

Yep. I definitely shouldn't be thinking about that.

I look at him again, watching him in the mirror, admiring his sharp jaw. His chin has one of those subtle dimples in the middle, but somehow, it makes him more appealing. I make a mental note to add these little touches I'm noticing to my drawing later. Only for the future purpose of nailing each and every person here, of course. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he's hot.

Nah. Nothing at all.

As his eyes glance back to the back seat, just for a split second before returning to the road, a chill runs down my spine.

He's the hottest specimen I've ever seen. And I'm thinking that even after knowing he shot someone.

I stand by the door, looking straight ahead. I make sure to keep my eyes off the girl as she walks out of the changing room over and over—each time in a new white dress. Even without looking, I can feel her uneasiness from across the room, indicating she's not all that enthused about this whole wedding shit.

"Briar, that one …" her aunt says, almost gasping. "That is absolutely stunning on you."

From the corner of my eye, I see the flash of bright white as she steps before the mirror. And finally, I dare myself to glance at her. Just once and only for a split second. But once I've looked, fuck me, it's hard to keep my eyes off of her.

I stare. Too fucking long, I stare. And suddenly, it's like I'm taken back in time to seven years ago. My breath hitches, and my heart begins to feel like a stampede.

Her daddy brought her up the three stairs to where I stood in front of the archway before releasing her to me. She looked stunning, giving me a cheesy grin.

"What do you think?" She winked. "Was it worth the wait?"

Taking her hands, tears filling my eyes like a little pansy, I swallowed down the emotion that wanted to come out. "It was worth the wait, baby. You are the most beautiful bride."

"You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Hale," she whispered, still grinning.

I get to spend my life with her. How the fuck did I get this lucky?

The pastor needed to hurry up and marry us before she changed her mind.

When someone opens the door, making a small bell ring, I'm startled and brought back to the present. My chest feels tight, but I force myself to pull in a few deep breaths and get my shit together. Today isn't the day to go down memory lane and end up going off the deep end.

I try my best to keep my eyes away from her, but I can't. I tell myself it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with a ghost from my past. And maybe … that makes it okay.

She looks sad as she stares at herself, mindlessly dragging her fingertips over the delicate white fabric. Even though I hate to admit it—because I fucking hate that she has to marry that lowlife—the gown itself looks like it was made for her body. It hugs her chest—a chest that sure as fuck does not need to be modified the way her uncle said it was going to be. The gown is tight on the bodice and down to her ass, giving me a perfect sight of what a nice ass she has. White silk buttons line her back, and her honey-blonde hair floats down her shoulders and over her back in long, silky, luscious waves. I imagine reaching out and running my hands through it. Maybe even gripping it a bit.

Cut the fucking shit, dumbass , I silently tell myself, pulling in a deep breath and looking down at the ground for a second, hoping that tearing my eyes from her will smarten me the hell up. It doesn't work though. And it's no time before I'm staring at her again.

Natasha walks behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What do you think, Briar?" she asks her sweetly. "Do you love it? Does it feel … right?"

For a beat, it almost seems like she's offended or maybe annoyed by her aunt's words. But she quickly snaps herself out of it. Tilting her head to the side, she continues to stare at herself, appearing like a broken little dove with its wings clipped, keeping it grounded. Making it dependent on everyone else to keep it safe. Not knowing that the majority of the people around her want to do more harm than good.

"I, uh …" She stops, shaking her head. "I don't know. It's fine, I guess. I mean, it'll do." She pushes her shoulders back and straightens her spine. "If I say yes, can dress shopping be over?"

There's a particular emotion on Natasha's face. Sympathy maybe? Whatever it is, she looks a little unsure of how to respond. But eventually, she gives her a tiny smile.

"I can have them hold it if you'd like?" She speaks gently, and it's almost as though she actually cares how Briar feels about the entire situation. "And then if you find something else, we can get that instead." She says the words so sweetly, like she's not talking about a dress her niece is going to wear while she gets forced to marry a Mafia leader.

"Okay," Briar mutters, agreeing to whatever is thrown her way. She's weak. And pathetic.

So, why can't I fucking look away?

And why am I holding on to every word that comes from her lips, waiting for the next one to float out? Why am I watching her in awe when she's nothing but a pawn in her uncle's game? All because she was too frail to stand up for herself and tell him no.

When her eyes lift to mine, I quickly shift to look somewhere else. The man she is marrying is a bad, bad dude. I'm not about to come off as a creep. Besides, if I make her uncomfortable, they might pull me from this job. We're so close to catching Enzo and his father for their involvement in crimes on US soil. I can't fuck it up now. And not over some random girl.

"I'm going to change," she grumbles.

"Of course." Natasha nods eagerly. "Go on. I'll let them know to hold it."

I feel her eyes once more, burning into my skin like a fucking heat gun. I fight the urge to gaze back, but instead, I continue staring straight ahead. I'm not sure if she's suspicious of me or if she's going to try to silently beg me for help. Either way, I'm avoiding it at all costs. If she looked at me with those sad, broken eyes and told me she needed help getting out of here … I'd fucking do it. And I'd ruin everything I'd worked so hard for.

I'm sure she's put two and two together, so she has to understand that she requires a guard to go with her when she tries on wedding dresses, which is bad news.

From what I've gathered from her file, she grew up very poor. Her parents were hard on drugs until they finally overdosed years back. Though I'm not all that surprised that her mother went down a wrong path, seeing's her own family had been running drugs in and out of the country her entire childhood. A lot of which were coming from Italy and supplied by the Romano family themselves. Proving that the ties between the Bensons and the Romanos go back well before Beckett.

I also learned that Briar graduated high school, but didn't attend any further schooling. I already know she has a younger brother, Walker James, because I've met him before, when Beckett insisted that we travel somewhere with him.

He's the opposite of his sister. He'd never agree to marry someone just because his uncle Beckett pushed it on him. He's a hotshot hockey player at Brooks University, likely headed to the NHL in the next few years.

The few times I've been around him, he made it clear with his words that he couldn't stand his uncle. Briar is different. She tries to fake that she's comfortable here. And that this shit is all normal.

Knowing she can fake this well? That's fucking terrifying. That means she's dangerous.

"Is there anything I can get you, sir?" a brunette coos, walking beside me and batting her long, thick lashes. "A water perhaps?"

I look away from her. "All set, thanks," I mutter before pressing my back to the wall as I wait for her to leave.

Eventually, she does, and I silently stand there while Natasha gets everything with the dress squared away and Briar walks out from the dressing room.

Threading her fingers through her hair, she pulls her hair into a ponytail.

"Ready to go get pedicures?" Natasha asks, walking up to her.

"Yep." She nods, completely indifferent, but her aunt doesn't seem to pay attention to it.

"Ready when you are, Mr. Hercules," Natasha says to me with a small smile.

As we head out of the dress shop, Briar trudges beside me. "You never answered me, Hercules. What color are you going with for your tootsies?" She pauses. "You strike me as … a black-polish sort of guy. Not in an emo way. But in, like, a bad-boy sort of way. Black to match your black motorcycle or something."

"Don't have a motorcycle," I mutter as I pull the door to the Escalade open, and they slide across the leather seat. I close it, not wanting to engage further, before climbing into the driver's side behind the wheel.

"Wow, I had you all wrong. I thought for sure you were a motorcycle guy," she says nonchalantly.

It's weird to see this side of her. The same side I saw for a split second earlier, when she told me I didn't strike her as the type of guy to get my toes painted.

Glimpses of an actual human being. That's what I see in her before she goes back to being a robot. And I don't know what the fuck is real and what isn't.

Robot or not … I don't care. And I'll keep telling myself that too. Because I can't fuck up this job.

I sit in the waiting area, sticking out like a giant fucking sore thumb while Briar and her aunt get their pedicures. I flip through a random magazine and look at the time.

How long does this shit take?

I feel like I've been here for an hour. It's hot in here. And it smells like nail polish remover, making my head hurt.

My phone vibrates, and I quickly pull it out of my pocket. I instantly feel tense when I see Enzo calling. That's almost never good news.

"Hello?" I say into the phone and wait for whatever this fucker is going to throw at me. And with him, it's extremely hard to guess.

"You took Ms. James out dress shopping today." His cold voice speaks flatly, but it's clear he's pissed. "And you didn't think, for one fucking second, to make her change her clothes before you brought her out and about, looking like a goddamn homeless crackhead."

I stare at her as she reads a book with a bright cover that has cartoon people on it. A small crease on her forehead tells me she isn't completely relaxed. But the way she slumps down before a yawn rips through her proves she's calmer than she was earlier.

I don't think she looks like a homeless person; I think she looks beautiful. But I'm not going to tell my supposed boss that.

"Apologies, sir," I say quickly. "I honestly didn't give her outfit much thought. But now, I know for next time."

"Word's getting out that she's going to be my wife," he growls. "Do you think I want my fiancée having paparazzi take pictures of her in fucking leggings and a trashy sweatshirt? Use your brain, Hercules. For Christ's sake, Beckett bragged you up as a top-dawg guard. I'm beginning to think you sucked him off to get this position."

At his words, I roll my eyes. I'd like to tell him to get fucked, but instead, I drag my hand down my face and remind myself to breathe. "Sorry, boss. That's my bad. I really didn't know. But now that I do, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Good," he tosses back before quickly ending the call with no further words.

While Natasha is decked out in a fitted dress with her hair curled perfectly, Briar is wearing a Brooks University hockey hoodie with black leggings. Those damn things that hug women's asses and thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

Even through the thin black fabric, I can see her legs are sculpted, like she works out, which is good because there will be times in her life with Enzo when she will have to fight back. I relax a little, knowing that maybe, just maybe, she'll be strong enough to fight back if she ever has to.

But who am I kidding? The girl is five foot three—at most. And she can't weigh more than one hundred twenty-five pounds.

She should be able to wear whatever the fuck she wants without being criticized by a man who's going to be her husband one day. If I'm being honest, men like Enzo would be better off dead. Because I know without a doubt that he won't hesitate to hurt a girl at any given time.

I barely know her, yet I know I can't let that happen. She doesn't deserve to be in this fucked-up situation. If I could, I'd make sure she got out of it.