Her Mafia Bodyguard

Though we have very different reasons as to why we know it.

I crank up the speed on the equipment like I can outpace my guilt. Every time I fuck her, I turn my back on my duty. I’m supposed to be presenting her to her father as pure and untouched as she was when he sent us here. What’s that old saying about not being able to put the toothpaste back in the tube? It fits the situation.

Even that, we can get around. She can pretend. I don’t think they’re going to be medieval about it. I doubt the boss would have her checked out by a doctor again. Even then, I know it’s not possible to really tell if a girl is a virgin or not. It’s all outdated shit.

But I’ve been betraying her. And that, I can’t lie about. Every time she talks about next semester and next year and her plans for the future. Every time I listen quietly without warning her, I’m betraying her. Where’s the line here? Do I owe her anything? I could easily brush this off, pretend this is nothing more than two people forced together who can’t keep their hands off each other.

I’m not so sure that’s the truth, is all. Because the more time we spend together—cooking, watching movies, even sleeping in the same bed—the closer I come to caring about her. Really, truly caring.

And more than anything else, that’s the biggest mistake I could’ve made. I’m afraid it’s too late now to do anything about it, though, that’s the thing. It’s almost enough to make me want to take a step back, to tell the boss I can’t handle this anymore. I’m not cut out for the job, something like that. That she would do better with somebody else, one of the boss’s other soldiers.

But they might be as dismissive of her as he is. They might break her spirit, and she’s got enough of that coming to her in the future. The rest of her life, in fact. I doubt the husband the boss chooses for her will be a nice, kind, sympathetic sort of guy.

She’s going to fucking hate me when she finds out I’ve always known what he has planned. I’ve had so many opportunities to give her the heads-up, too, and she’ll remember every single one of them. Not only will she feel betrayed by her father, but by me, and how am I supposed to live with that? I’ve lost track of the number of lives I’ve taken, yet somehow, this is what gets under my skin the worst. This is what makes me wonder if I’m half the man I thought I was.

And what if I tell her and she tries to run away? I can’t trust that she wouldn’t pull one of her old stunts—only this isn’t the same as sneaking out for a party. She could be taking her life into her hands if she runs. Unless I went with her, there would be no telling whether or not she’d be safe. Would it be better to let her absorb the betrayal upfront, knowing she’ll at least be protected from harm?

No matter which way I turn, no matter how I look at it, I’m fucking trapped. And so is she.

And I can’t pretend I don’t care more about her than I do about myself.

After half an hour, I don’t feel much better mentally, but at least physically, I’ve shed that heavy, bloated feeling. I slow down my pace, checking my phone for any alerts. Everything is status quo upstairs. After a brief cooldown, I turn off the machine and grab a bottle of water from the complementary stash before heading back up.

Maybe I’ll have a talk with the boss when we go home for winter break. It isn’t as if I have to come out and tell the man how unfair it is, the way he underestimates her. I can at least get a feel for what he has in mind. Who he has in mind.

A few major families have sons young enough to make a decent husband for her, at least on paper. I’m sure that’s what he has in mind. A marriage that will look good for the press and the other families. One that will strengthen his position.

Part of me wonders if she wouldn’t have been better off if he had never found her. But that would mean I’d never have met her, and I’m not sure I want to think about my life without her in it.

It finally hits me before I open the door leading out to the hall: I went and let my feelings get in the way. I wasn’t even paying attention, but somehow it happened.

I’m still trying to grapple with this when I walk up to the front door.

And right away, I see the envelope sitting on the floor. Carefully placed and centered in the doorframe, it clearly wasn’t dropped. It was positioned.

Before I touch it, I check my phone again to make sure nobody’s opened the door since I left. Meanwhile, I dart back and forth down the length of the hall, though it’s no use. Whoever was here is long gone.

I approach the envelope, my heart pounding. It could be innocent for all I know, but who leaves what looks like a card outside somebody’s door in the middle of the night? Not to mention that half of the building holds college students who are home on break now. And it isn’t like Mia knows any of the neighbors.

I pick it up at the corners using just my fingertips, examining every inch of the envelope before slowly easing the flap free. There’s a plain, white notecard inside. Nothing else—no powder, nothing like that. All that’s left is for me to extract the card and read the message.

It’s short and sweet, and it sends my heart into overdrive. In big, block letters, somebody has printed four simple words.

YOU CAN’T PROTECT HER