Page 1 of Oath of Protection (Blood Oath Bargains #1)

ONE

UNDER FIRE

The bullet shattered the floor-to-ceiling window three inches from Nico Valente's head.

He hit the marble floor hard, expensive Italian leather scraping against stone as glass exploded around him in glittering fragments.

His espresso cup bounced once and shattered, dark liquid spreading across financial reports that had been marked "confidential" five minutes ago and were now worthless paper scattered in a war zone.

A second shot punched through the reinforced glass, then a third. Professional spacing. Professional timing. Professional intent to kill.

"Marco!" Nico's voice cut through the sound of destruction, but his bodyguard was already moving. Had been moving since the first shot, throwing himself between Nico and the windows with the kind of reflexes that came from ten years of keeping dangerous men alive.

Marco Santangelo took the fourth bullet in the chest.

The impact spun him around, his weapon clattering across the floor as he fell. Blood bloomed across his white shirt like a dark flower, and his eyes—always alert, always scanning for threats—went wide with surprise before they went empty.

"No." The word tore from Nico's throat as he crawled toward Marco's still form, staying low as more bullets punched through what remained of the windows. "No, goddammit, no."

Marco had worked for the family for eight years. Had a wife named Teresa and twin daughters who'd just started high school. Had never missed a birthday, an anniversary, or a single day of work until a sniper's bullet found the gap in his vigilance.

Another shot whistled overhead, close enough that Nico felt the displacement of air against his scalp. Professional. Methodical. Patient enough to wait for a clear shot at the target.

Nico's phone was buzzing somewhere in the debris, probably his father calling to confirm he was still breathing.

The emergency protocols would have kicked in the moment the building's security detected gunfire.

Within minutes, this place would be swarming with soldiers, police, and federal agents all asking questions Nico couldn't answer.

Who wanted him dead this time? The list was longer than most people's grocery receipts.

He belly-crawled across the floor, glass cutting through his suit jacket and into his skin, toward the reinforced panic room hidden behind what looked like a bookshelf.

The mechanism required a fingerprint scan and a six-digit code that changed daily.

Paranoia had its privileges, even when it couldn't save the people trying to protect you.

The steel door sealed with a whisper of hydraulics, and suddenly the world went quiet. Soundproofed walls blocked everything except the hammering of his pulse and the ragged sound of his breathing. Emergency lighting cast everything in clinical white, making the blood on his hands look black.

Marco's blood.

Nico slumped against the wall, fingers finding his phone with muscle memory. Three missed calls from his father, two from Matt Rossi, one from his sister Bianca. The family network mobilizing to assess damage and assign blame.

He dialed his father's private number.

"Nico." Sal Valente's voice carried relief and fury in equal measure. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. Marco's dead."

Silence stretched across the connection, heavy with implications. Marco Santangelo had been one of the good ones—loyal, competent, dedicated. His death would ripple through the organization like a stone thrown into still water.

"The shooter?"

"Gone." Nico wiped blood from a cut on his cheek, watching the red smear across his fingers. "Professional work. Long range, probably from the construction site across the street. They'll find the nest, but they won't find the shooter."

"This is the second attempt in six months."

"I'm aware."

"The second time you've nearly died because you refuse to take adequate precautions."

Nico's jaw tightened. They'd had this conversation before—after the car bomb that had taken out his driver, after the poisoned drink that had almost killed him at Russo's restaurant, after every close call that reminded the family how easily their carefully built empire could crumble.

"I take precautions."

"Marco was a precaution. Marco is dead." Sal's voice carried the particular edge that meant a decision had been made, consequences be damned. "You will accept professional protection, or you will be removed from active operations."

"Pop—"

"This is not a negotiation."

The line went dead. Nico stared at his phone, seeing his reflection in the black screen—blood-streaked, glass-dusted, looking exactly like a man who'd just survived his second assassination attempt in six months.

The thing was, Sal was right. Marco had been good at his job, but he'd still died protecting someone who couldn't protect himself.

Nico ran family operations that generated millions in revenue and employed hundreds of people, but apparently he couldn't walk through his own home without someone trying to put him in the ground.

His phone buzzed with a text from Matt: Tony's bringing someone to the compound tomorrow. Professional security consultant. Father's orders.

Nico typed back: I don't need a babysitter.

Matt's response came immediately: You need to be alive. Everything else is negotiable.

The panic room felt smaller with each passing minute, its white walls pressing closer as sirens wailed in the distance.

Emergency responders, probably. Crime scene investigators.

Federal agents who'd ask probing questions and take careful notes that would somehow find their way into ongoing surveillance files.

Another text, this time from his sister: Thank God you're alive. Sofia's cooking dinner tomorrow. Family meeting afterward.

Family meeting. Which meant sitting around the massive dining room table while everyone discussed his life like he wasn't in the room.

His father would outline new security protocols with military precision.

His mother would worry visibly and vocally.

Tony would suggest solutions that involved significantly more violence than necessary.

And Nico would be expected to sit quietly and accept whatever cage they decided to build around him.

He'd been managing family business operations since he was twenty-five. Had survived attempts on his life through a combination of paranoia, preparation, and sheer stubborn refusal to die. But apparently none of that mattered if he couldn't keep his bodyguards alive.

The sirens were getting closer now, their wailing echoing off the buildings that surrounded his penthouse like a canyon of glass and steel.

Soon this place would be crawling with people taking photographs, measuring trajectories, asking questions about enemies and alibis and why someone might want Nico Valente dead.

The answer was obvious to anyone who'd spent five minutes researching his family name.

His phone rang. Unknown number, which immediately set every nerve on edge. Very few people had access to his personal line, and none of them were strangers.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Valente?" The voice was professional, controlled, with the particular cadence that suggested military training. "This is Camden Rios from Rios Security. I understand you might be in need of protection services."

Nico almost laughed. Less than thirty minutes since someone had tried to turn his head into abstract art, and already Tony was making arrangements. His brother's efficiency would be impressive if it weren't so goddamn presumptuous.

"Let me guess," Nico said. "Tony called you."

"Your brother was very persuasive about the urgency of the situation." There was something in Rios's voice—amusement, maybe, or professional appreciation for a job well done. "I understand you've had some recent security challenges."

"You could say that."

"I'd like to discuss how we might address those challenges. At your convenience, of course."

At your convenience. As if Nico had any choices left, as if the walls weren't closing in with each passing day. He looked around the panic room—steel walls, filtered air, enough supplies to last three days if necessary. A cage built for his own protection, and he was already trapped inside it.

"Mr. Rios," Nico said carefully, "I appreciate the call, but I'm not sure we're a good fit. I have very specific requirements for personal security."

"Such as?"

"Competence. Discretion. The ability to do the job without treating me like an invalid." Nico's voice hardened. "And the understanding that I won't change my life to accommodate someone else's paranoia."

A pause. When Rios spoke again, his voice carried a different quality—less sales pitch, more honest assessment.

"Mr. Valente, I've been doing security for high-risk clients for eight years.

Three congressmen, two federal judges, one very paranoid pharma exec—all still breathing despite people wanting them dead.

" His tone was matter-of-fact, almost conversational.

"But I've never worked for a crime family, and I've never taken a client who thinks he knows better than the people trying to keep him breathing. "

Nico felt something shift in his chest—surprise, maybe, or the first stirring of actual interest. Most people trying to sell him something started with flattery and worked their way up to competence.

This man was starting with honesty, which was either refreshingly direct or professionally suicidal.

"And?"

"And I'm willing to make an exception, provided we understand each other from the beginning. Your brother described the threat level you're facing. If you hire me, you follow my recommendations. If you don't want to follow my recommendations, you find someone else to get shot at."

The emergency lighting flickered, reminding Nico that he was sitting in a reinforced box while crime scene techs processed evidence of his latest near-death experience.

Marco was dead. Someone had put three bullets through windows that were supposed to be bulletproof.

And his father was right—he couldn't keep living like this.

"When can you start?" Nico asked.

"I can be at your family's compound in two hours. Assuming you survive that long."

"I'll do my best."

"See that you do. Dead clients are terrible for business."

The line went dead, leaving Nico alone with the sound of his own breathing and the distant wail of sirens.

In two hours, he'd meet the man his brother had chosen to keep him alive.

Someone who talked to dangerous criminals like they were difficult children, who'd built a career protecting people others wanted to kill.

Someone who might be the only thing standing between Nico and a bullet with his name on it.

He closed his eyes, listening to the chaos beyond the steel walls of his sanctuary. By morning, this would be news—another attempt on the life of Nico Valente, another reminder that some people's enemies never stopped hunting.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Nico felt something other than resigned fatalism about his prospects for survival.

Tonight, he felt curious about the man who might be brave enough, or crazy enough, to stand between him and the dark.