Page 5 of Oath of Protection (Blood Oath Bargains #1)

FIVE

NEW RULES

Coffee at seven-thirty had always been Nico's favorite part of the morning. Black espresso, yesterday's financial reports, and thirty minutes of silence before the phone started ringing. Today, he had company.

"You're exposed from three different angles." Cam stood by the safe house windows, scanning the street below with methodical attention that probably kept people alive. "And you've been sitting in the same spot for twenty minutes."

"It's called breakfast."

"It's called a pattern. Patterns get people killed."

Nico took another sip of espresso, savoring the bitter taste and the fact that he could still drink his coffee however he damn well pleased. "I've been having coffee at seven-thirty for fifteen years. No one's shot me yet."

"Yet being the operative word."

The safe house felt like a corporate apartment—beige furniture, generic artwork, a place that cost a fortune but had all the personality of a doctor's waiting room. Cam had chosen it because it was secure, anonymous, and completely forgettable. Nico already hated it.

"We need to discuss today's schedule," Cam said, settling into the chair across from him with a tablet and focused energy that suggested he'd been up since five.

"The schedule's simple. Shipping meeting at nine, lunch with the Harbor Commission at noon, contract review with legal at three."

"The shipping meeting—where?"

"Valente Import offices. Twenty-second floor, corner of Fifth and Market."

Cam's fingers moved across the tablet screen. "Security?"

"Building security, plus whatever you think we need."

"I think we need a different location."

Nico set his cup down carefully. "The meeting's been scheduled for two weeks. I'm not changing it because you don't like the feng shui."

"I don't like the fact that your office has floor-to-ceiling windows facing three different sniper positions." Cam's voice stayed level, professional. "Just like your penthouse."

"My office doesn't have—" Nico stopped. The bastard was right. The Valente Import offices had the same architectural weakness as his home—beautiful views that doubled as perfect kill zones.

"We can move the meeting to a conference room on a lower floor," Cam continued. "Interior space, no windows, controlled access."

"And look like I'm hiding from my own business partners?"

"You'll look like someone who learned from experience."

Nico studied Cam's face, looking for signs of smugness or condescension. Found neither. Just careful assessment and calm confidence that came from being right more often than not.

"Fine. But I'm not changing the other meetings."

"The Harbor Commission lunch?—"

"Is at Romano's. Fixed reservation, my usual table. Not negotiable."

"Romano's has outdoor seating."

"Yes, it does."

"Outdoor seating with clear sight lines from?—"

"Mr. Rios." Nico's voice stopped the analysis mid-sentence. "I understand your concerns. I also understand that I have a business to run and relationships to maintain. I'm not changing my entire life because you're paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid. I'm experienced. There's a difference."

"Then we'll have to agree to disagree."

They stared at each other across the bland corporate table, and Nico felt something familiar settle in his chest—the particular tension that came from dealing with someone who wouldn't back down. Most people bent when he pushed. Cam pushed back.

It should have been annoying. Instead, Nico found it almost refreshing.

"Compromise," Cam said finally. "Romano's lunch, but we arrive early, choose the table, and I get to position additional security."

"What kind of additional security?"

"The kind that looks like they're having lunch at nearby tables."

Nico considered this. It wasn't unreasonable, and it wouldn't interfere with his actual business. "Done. But they better know how to order properly. Romano makes the best osso buco in the city."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across Cam's face. "I'll brief them on the menu."

The drive to the Valente Import offices took forty minutes through downtown traffic that moved like cold honey. Cam had insisted on an armored sedan instead of Nico's usual car— bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, and enough technology to coordinate air strikes from the backseat.

"This is overkill," Nico said, watching pedestrians through windows thick enough to stop rifle rounds.

"This is Tuesday." Cam sat in the front passenger seat, constantly scanning intersections and rooftops with the kind of awareness that never seemed to turn off. "Yesterday someone tried to kill you with a sniper rifle. Today we assume they might try again."

"Yesterday was about timing and opportunity. They knew my routine, knew when I'd be vulnerable."

"What makes you think today's different?"

Nico didn't have a good answer for that, so he went back to reviewing the shipping contracts that would net the family eight figures over the next two years. Legitimate business, completely legal, the kind of diversification that would eventually let them operate entirely above board.

If he lived long enough to see it.

The meeting went smoothly—Harbor Authority permits approved, shipping schedules coordinated, profit margins that would make his father smile for the first time in months.

Cam stationed himself by the conference room door, close enough to intervene but far enough away to avoid overhearing confidential business details.

Discreet. Nico appreciated that.

"Mr. Valente?" Sarah Chen, his logistics coordinator, looked up from her tablet. "The Kozlov shipping group requested a meeting next week. Something about coordinating dock schedules."

Every person in the room went quiet. The Kozlov name carried weight in this city—the kind of weight that came with concrete shoes and harbor-bottom burials.

"Decline," Nico said. "Politely."

"Sir?"

"Tell them we're at capacity for new partnerships. Recommend they contact Morrison Shipping instead."

Sarah nodded, making notes. "Should I expect follow-up contact?"

"Probably. Route any calls to Matt Rossi." Nico closed his file. "Anything else?"

The meeting wrapped quickly after that. Kozlov interest in Valente operations meant territorial disputes, pressure tactics, and the kind of business negotiations that ended in obituaries. Exactly the kind of attention Nico didn't need while someone was already trying to kill him.

"Problem?" Cam asked as they headed toward the elevator.

"Potential problem. Nothing that can't be managed."

"The Kozlovs aren't known for taking no for an answer."

Nico glanced at him sharply. "You know about the Kozlovs?"

"I know about anyone who might want my client dead. It's called preparation."

The elevator descended in silence, giving Nico time to consider the implications. Cam had done his homework, understood the local players, recognized threats that most bodyguards would miss entirely. Competence was rarer than most people realized.

Romano's occupied a corner building in Little Italy, with red brick walls, window boxes full of herbs, and the kind of authentic atmosphere that couldn't be faked.

Nico had been eating here since he was twelve, back when his father brought him to business dinners and taught him how to read people over antipasto.

"Table's ready," Cam said, scanning the dining room with tactical precision. "Two of my people are already seated—man in the blue suit, woman by the windows. They'll stay through your meal."

"And they know about the osso buco?"

"They know about everything on the menu. Including which wine pairings Mr. Romano recommends."

Nico found himself almost smiling. "Thorough."

"It's what you're paying for."

The Harbor Commission meeting was routine—permits, schedules, the usual municipal bureaucracy that kept legitimate shipping moving through the port. Commissioner Williams was old-school Italian, a man who appreciated good wine and better conversation.

"Nico, how's your father?"

"Strong as ever. Still working eighteen-hour days despite Ma's objections."

"Give him my regards. We go back forty years, you know. Back when this harbor was run by men who understood what a handshake meant."

They were halfway through the antipasto when Nico noticed the man at the bar.

Wrong build for the neighborhood. Expensive clothes that didn't fit the clientele. And he was watching their table too carefully, too systematically. His observation suggested business interest rather than casual curiosity.

Nico's hand found his water glass, taking a slow sip while tracking the man's position. "Cam."

"Already saw him." Cam's voice was barely audible, his posture unchanged. "Table by the window, blue jacket, hasn't touched his drink."

"How long?"

"Since we sat down. He's been photographing our table with his phone."

Commissioner Williams continued talking about harbor regulations, completely oblivious to the fact that their lunch had developed an audience. Nico nodded and smiled, playing the part of an attentive businessman while his mind calculated angles and distances.

"Options?" he murmured.

"We leave. Now. Back exit through the kitchen."

"That'll look suspicious."

"Better suspicious than dead."

The man at the bar stood up, reaching for something inside his jacket. Nico tensed, ready to hit the floor, but Cam was already moving.

Two seconds. That's how long it took Cam to cross the dining room, disarm the man, and have him face-down on the floor with his arm twisted behind his back. So fast that most diners didn't even notice until it was over.

Nico watched the entire thing with a mixture of appreciation and something that felt uncomfortably like arousal. The fluid movement, the controlled violence, the way Cam had assessed and neutralized a threat without hesitation. It was competence distilled into pure action.

"Press credentials," Cam said, examining the man's identification while keeping him pinned. "Freelance photographer. Says he's working on a story about waterfront development."

Nico felt his heart rate slow from combat-ready to merely annoyed. But underneath the irritation was something else—recognition that he and Cam had just worked together seamlessly. Nico had spotted the threat, Cam had neutralized it, and they'd communicated without words.

"Let him up."

"Sir?"

"He's not a threat. He's just a pain in the ass."

Cam released the photographer with obvious reluctance, his eyes never leaving the man's hands. Even now, he was ready for the situation to change, ready to move again if needed.

The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds. Commissioner Williams hadn't even stopped eating.

After the photographer left—still muttering about lawsuits and assault charges—Williams raised his wine glass with obvious approval.

"Your friend has excellent reflexes."

"He's thorough," Nico agreed, watching Cam return to his position by the wall. The man moved like a predator, all controlled power and restrained violence. It shouldn't have been attractive.

It was.

"In my experience, thorough is what keeps honest businessmen breathing in this city." Williams smiled. "Your father chose well."

The rest of lunch passed without incident. Business conversation, good wine, and municipal networking that kept legitimate businesses operating smoothly. Cam returned to his position by the wall, alert but unobtrusive.

Walking back to the car, Nico found himself reassessing his new bodyguard.

Fast reflexes, good judgment, and smart enough to distinguish between real threats and annoying ones.

Most security consultants would have treated the photographer like an assassin and created a scene that would've made tomorrow's newspapers.

"Good work back there," Nico said.

"Just doing my job."

"Part of your job is knowing when not to shoot first and ask questions later. Not everyone gets that right."

Cam opened the car door, scanning the street one more time before allowing Nico to get in. "Dead journalists create more problems than live ones."

"Exactly." Nico settled into the backseat, thinking about patterns and routines and the way professional competence looked different than he'd expected. "Same time tomorrow?"

"We'll vary the timing. And the route." Cam closed the door, already planning modifications that would keep them both alive. "Patterns get people killed, remember?"

As they pulled into traffic, Nico realized something had shifted during lunch. He still didn't like having a babysitter, but Cam wasn't just muscle with good reflexes. He was smart, adaptable, and apparently capable of distinguishing between necessary caution and pointless paranoia.

Maybe this arrangement wouldn't be a complete disaster after all.

Maybe Camden Rios was exactly what Nico hadn't known he needed.