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I don’t need a bodyguard.
Marco and I are friends. We joke together, we eat meals together, and we—
Marco looks my way, and instead of the kindness, instead of daggers, there's an apology there.
“God, he did, didn’t he? What a fucking idiot, protecting snatch like it’s made of gold.”
“Roddy, get him to his driver, make sure he gets in the fucking car,” Marco says, pushing Paulie to his coworker. He reaches into his pocket, sending a text to someone. “Tino will be right outside and waiting to help.”
“Got it,” Roddy says in his gruff, no-nonsense tone, leading Paulie out.
“Fuck you guys. This is bullshit.”
“Talk to Dante about it, Paulie, not me, not Lilah,” Marco says, moving toward me. As Roddy opens the door with Paulie in tow, there’s a scuffle, but then I hear Tino’s voice, and they must have it covered because the door slams behind them, and Marco doesn’t look back.
“Are you okay?” he asks, looking me over, standing a respectable distance from me. I’m still pressed with my ass to the counter near painfully, as I continued to try and move back to get away from Paulie, but I’m frozen, unable to move. “Did he touch you?” he asks, but he knows that answer. He walked in on it, so he changes his question. “Did he hurt you?” I shake my head.
The worry clears a fraction.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he says, gently touching my elbow and leading me away.
“The snacks—"
“Martha's got it.” I nod because Martha can handle refilling snacks and hair products, of course.
“I have to call Dante, have to—"
“No,” I say, my voice strong. “No. Don’t call him.”
“Lilah, I have—"
“Are you my bodyguard?”
Marco’s face freezes out any sort of emotion or tell, and his body stills.
“You are, aren’t you. Dante assigned you?” No response, just that blank face.
It’s strange seeing him, seeing who I thought was a friend just because we worked alongside each other, not because he was assigned to fake it, have this blank, mafia-man face on.
He’s just like the others.
“When?” I ask.
“Let’s get you to Dante.”
“Oh, I’ll be talking to him. Right now, I’m talking to you, Marco,” I say, my voice firm, my shoulders moving back.
In that moment, I remember who I am.
I remember my goals.
I remember my mission.
I am not Shane Turner’s daughter, victim of gambling addictions and poor choices.
I'm not Dante Carluccio's woman who needs protecting.
I am Delilah Turner, daughter of Arturo Russo. The man my mother secretly loved with all her heart.
