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He says nothing else as he grabs his and my carry-ons and takes the lead out of the airplane. Once we retrieve the rest of my luggage, we head to the exit, each of us with a large rollaboard and a carry-on, to track down the driver Dean Harper contracted out for a month.

I could have done the same, but Dean insisted, saying he wants to assess firsthand who he’s hiring. Knowing Dean, I have a feeling my driver will be far more than just someone to drive me around.

Sure enough, as Fig and I approach a guy holding a sign with my name scrolled on it in English, I realize I’m right about the driver.

Damn, the man is beautiful. The black suit he’s wearing is tailored to fit perfectly with his runner’s build. He is as impressive as the suit—not a wrinkle in sight, not even the serious look he is wearing can mar his flawless face.

His hair is nearly shaved to the scalp on one side of his head. The rest of his hair is shiny black, hanging just a little bit long on the other side while the top is a little shorter and pomaded into vertical spikes—clean and precise. The whole style is perfect. There’s not a hair out of place.

Even so, he can’t compare with Lyric, the man I’m chasing after.

I glance at Fig, who’s wearing a frown. I’m guessing he knows who this man is and isn’t happy about.

I raise a hand, and my driver’s face softens a bit. “Mr. D’Angelo⁠—”

“Call me Rafe,” I say, extending a hand.

“My name is Ji Ho, but you can call me Ji, like the letter G.” He smiles at me but the second his eyes slide to Fig it disappears. “Ready, Rafe?”

I look at Fig once more, and I can see his jaw muscles working overtime. He unclenches them enough to growl, “I’m lead, Ji. I say when we leave.”

I pause for a second in confusion, staring at my bodyguard. “Why are we waiting?”

“Because he wants to establish that he’s top dog.” Ji smirks.

“Fuck off, Ji Ho. Now let’s move,” Fig growls again and then turns to me. “Stay between us at all times.”

“Oh, okay.” I quickly look around, assuming he thinks people will recognize me from Warrior Black, because why else would I need this protection? But there isn’t a single paparazzi flashing a camera in my face nor a single fan rushing toward me. I’m just like any normal traveler here, and I’m liking it.

I want to ask Fig why is he acting like a drill instructor, but his hard glare has me shutting up and doing as he orders.

With Ji leading the way, I follow in stride, my rollaboard rumbling behind me, until we reach a black SUV. It must be a Korean model because it looks… different than the SUVs I’m familiar with. He unlocks the back door and holds it open. Sliding my carry-on from my shoulder, I set it beside my rollaboard for Ji and Fig to deal with. I slip inside, and the first thing I notice is the leather seat—it’s so luxurious I could melt into it.

I’m still stroking the leather when Ji closes the door behind me, but then I’m distracted by movement in my periphery. I look through the window and see the two men standing nearly nose to nose. The soundproofing in the SUV must be top of the line because I can barely hear what they are shouting to each other, but I don’t have to in order to know there’s a beef between them. It wouldn’t help even if I could hear, because they are arguing in Korean. I wonder if it’s professional or personal, then decide I don’t care what it’s about as long as they don’t impede my chances with Lyric.

Not a minute passes before Fig stomps off. He must circle behind the SUV because he slides in on the other side of the seat. It’s obvious the power games are continuing, because he’s left Ji to deal with my luggage. When Ji finally climbs into the SUV and settles into the driver’s seat, we take off.

“So where are we going?” I ask Fig, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, Fig turns his head toward the front of the car and asks, “Ji?”

Well holy shit. Fig doesn’t know where Ji is taking us. My eyes widen in surprise. I slide my attention from Fig to the review mirror, where I can see Ji’s eyes reflected in it. “You’re more than just my driver,” I say with confidence.

“You can say that.”

“Get on with it,” Fig huffs.

Ji rolls his eyes before returning his mirror-attention to me. “Mr. Harper e-mailed me the details on Lyric Kim, aka Yeong Ho Kim, and I easily traced him to a location about an hour north of here.”

“That’s his Korean name?” Why didn’t I know that? Because you didn’t stop to ask for it, dumbass.

“It’s the name he was given at birth,” Ji says evenly, but his right eyebrow rises high on his rigid forehead.

I clear my throat, guessing my question was a misstep, and nod. “Where is he now?”

“Currently, he’s in Busan, with friends. My contact tracked him down to the Park Hyatt Busan.”

“Then let’s go.” I turn to Fig and ask, “Is that where we’ll be staying?”