Page 1 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

THREE YEARS AGO

Matteo

I sip my scotch and wait for the Mexican guy to finish explaining why we should consider buying their cocaine instead of our current supply chain.

The meeting's been dragging for an hour now, and he doesn't realize I made my decision twenty minutes in.

The Feretti family doesn't change suppliers without damn good reason, especially not when the current arrangement has been profitable for both sides.

"So you see, Senor Caruso, our product is superior and our delivery method more secure." He slides a small sample bag across the table, hidden by his expensive leather portfolio.

I don't touch it. "I appreciate the offer, but we're satisfied with our current arrangement."

His smile falters. "Perhaps if you tried?—"

"No." I keep my voice low but firm. "The Feretti family values loyalty. Our current partners have proven theirs."

The man opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

Smart choice. Damiano sent me to Austin to handle this meeting precisely because I know how to say no without creating unnecessary enemies.

We don't need Mexican cocaine, but we might need Mexican cooperation on other matters someday.

"I understand." He collects his portfolio and stands. "Should your situation change..."

"You'll be the first call we make," I lie smoothly, standing to shake his hand.

After he leaves I settle back into the leather booth, in no hurry to return to my suite. The Remington bar is quiet tonight—just how I like it. Exclusive enough that the clientele knows to mind their own business, dim enough that conversations remain private. Perfect for our kind of meeting.

I loosen my tie while scanning the bar. That's when I notice her for the first time.

She's not the bartender who served me earlier. This one moves with a quiet grace behind the bar, her honey-blonde hair caught in the amber glow of the pendant lights.

She prepares a drink with practiced precision, her slender fingers working efficiently.

The bar's lighting casts golden highlights through her waves as she moves, making her seem almost luminous against the dark mahogany. She's beautiful in an understated way that doesn't demand attention but deserves it anyway.

I find myself watching her hands—delicate but confident as they mix drinks and handle glasses. There's something mesmerizing about the way she works, like she's performing a dance she's known all her life. No wasted movements.

My phone vibrates against the table, Damiano's name flashing on the screen. I answer without taking my eyes off the bartender.

"It's done," I say, keeping my voice low. "They got the message."

"No complications?" Damiano asks, his voice crisp through the connection.

"None. They pushed, I declined. Professional." I take another sip of scotch, watching as she reaches for a bottle on a high shelf.

Her blouse rides up slightly, revealing a strip of creamy skin at her waist.

"Good. We don't need new suppliers or new enemies," Damiano continues, but his voice fades into background noise as I focus on the bartender’s ballet.

She turns to serve a customer and I get my first full view of her profile.

Fuck. Her body is a perfect balance of curves and delicate lines.

The way her shirt hugs her plush mounds makes my fingers itch to trace that same path.

I’m certain she has the kind of ass that would fit perfectly in my hands—round and firm, begging to be grabbed.

"Matteo? Are you listening?" Damiano's voice cuts through my imaginings.

"Yeah, of course." I force myself to concentrate. "The Mexicans won't be a problem."

"Good."

My eyes track her as she leans forward to hear a customer's order, her blouse dipping just enough to hint at what's underneath. I imagine how she'd look sprawled across my bed, her hair spread out on my pillows, those delicate hands gripping the sheets.

She smiles at something a customer says. Her lips are full and naturally pink, the kind that would look perfect wrapped around my cock. I shift in my seat, adjusting myself discreetly.

"The meeting with the Colombians is still on for Friday," Damiano continues. "I need you back by Thursday."

"I'll be there," I promise, watching as she shakes a cocktail, her body moving in a rhythm that makes me think of other, more primal shaking. I wonder if she'd be vocal in bed or the quiet type. Something tells me there's fire beneath that composed exterior.

"Don't get distracted," Damiano warns, somehow sensing my attention is divided.

I almost laugh. If he could see what I'm looking at he'd understand completely. "Never on the job."

When she bends to retrieve something from a lower shelf I get a perfect view of her ass through the open passthrough, and my mind fills with images of taking her from behind, my hands gripping those hips, her back arching as I drive into her. Christ, I need to get a grip.

"Call me when you've reviewed the numbers," Damiano says.

"Will do." I end the call and pocket the phone, never once taking my eyes off her.

My cock hardens at the thought of her legs wrapped around my waist.

I drain my scotch and decide to order another. Not because I need the drink but because I want to hear her voice, see if it matches the fantasy building in my head.

Hazel

I mix another overpriced cocktail for the balding businessman who's been eye-fucking me for the past hour. His wedding ring catches the light as he slides his credit card across the bar, flashing what he thinks is a charming smile.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asks, leaning forward to invade my space. His cologne—too much of it—stings my nostrils.

"Just started last week," I answer, keeping my voice professional as I run his card. I don't mention that I've been bartending for years. Men like him don't care about my experience—just my measurements.

I return his card with a forced smile that never reaches my eyes. "Enjoy your drink, sir."

He lingers, clearly hoping for more conversation, but I'm already moving to the next customer. The dismissal stings his ego—I can tell by the way his smile hardens before he retreats.

The Remington pays better than any bar I've worked before but the dress code is brutal—tight pants and heels that make my calves burn by the end of the night. Worth it for the tips, I remind myself. Worth it for the money I can send home.

I glance at the clock. Two more hours until I can kick off these torture devices and collapse into bed.

This wasn't the plan. None of this was the plan.

Three years ago I was supposed to be graduating college, not dropping out to support my family after Dad's accident. Not working three jobs while Mom juggled medical bills that crippled us. Not watching my siblings give up their own dreams because there simply wasn't enough money.

I grab a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pour a double for a man in a custom suit. He doesn't look up from his phone, just slides cash across the bar like I'm a vending machine.

At least he doesn't leer. Small mercies.

The bar at The Remington is different from the dive bars I've worked before—quieter, more expensive, filled with men who think their wealth entitles them to whatever—and whoever—they want.

The money is better but the customers are worse in their own way.

Their entitlement comes wrapped in designer suits instead of cheap cologne, but there's the same hunger in their eyes.

I feel it now—someone watching me. The prickle of awareness crawls up my spine as I prepare a gin and tonic. I don't need to look up to know I'm being observed. After years of bartending I've developed a sixth sense for it.

When I finally glance over I catch him—a dark-haired man in a booth, watching me over the rim of his glass. Unlike the others he doesn't look away when caught. He holds my gaze, unashamed of his interest.

Something about him makes my skin bloom with heat. Maybe it's the confidence in his posture or the intensity in his eyes. He's dangerous—I can tell from across the room. Not the obvious kind of dangerous like the drunk frat boys who get handsy, but the quiet kind that runs deeper.

I look away first, intent on mixing a mojito.

I focus on muddling mint leaves, trying to ignore the weight of his stare.

The mojito customer leaves a decent tip and I'm wiping down the bar when the doors swing open. A group of six men in expensive suits pours in, talking loudly about quarterly projections and market share. Corporate types who think they're masters of the universe.

"Miss? We'll need a table," one calls out, barely glancing at me.

I gesture toward the hostess. "Angela will seat you."

The hostess leads them to a large round table near the bar. Great. Just what I need—a corporate happy hour to manage alone. My co-bartender called in sick, leaving me to handle the entire bar section.

"Looks like you're about to get busy," a deep voice says.

I turn to find him—the man who'd been watching me—now seated at the bar. Up close he's even more striking. A well-groomed beard frames a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes are warm brown, almost amber in the dim lighting.

"Busy is good." I answer, setting a cocktail napkin in front of him. "What can I get you?"

"Macallan 18, neat." His voice has a slight roughness to it, like expensive whiskey poured over gravel.

As I reach for the bottle I notice his hands—strong with long fingers, a subtle tan offsetting the crisp white cuff of his shirt. There's a small tattoo on his wrist, peeking out when his sleeve rides up. A cross, simple and black. I slide him the glass.

He takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "Matteo."

It takes me a second to realize he's offering his name. "Hazel," I reply, tapping my name tag.

"Hazel," he repeats, like he's tasting it. "It suits you."

Before I can respond the corporate group descends on the bar, shouting for drinks. I hold up a finger to Matteo. "Duty calls."