Page 2 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

I watch her move behind the bar, all efficiency and grace despite those ridiculous heels they undoubtedly make her wear. Hazel. Her name fits her—those eyes the color of amber whiskey, flecked with gold and green.

She handles the surge of corporate assholes smoothly, never losing her composure even when three of them shout orders simultaneously. Her smile remains fixed in place, professional but distant.

I sip my drink, savoring the burn as I observe her. My phone buzzes with a message from Damiano—details about Friday's meeting—but I silence it without looking away from her. Business can wait five minutes.

Women have always been simple for me. Uncomplicated. A physical release, nothing more. I learned early that attachment is a luxury I can't afford in my line of work. Emotions make you vulnerable. Vulnerability gets you killed.

I've perfected the art of temporary companionship. Beautiful women in high-end hotel rooms. Expensive dinners with dessert served in bed. Clear expectations established from the beginning. No false promises, no morning-after awkwardness, no strings that could become nooses.

They know what they're getting. I know what I'm giving. Everyone leaves satisfied.

It's a system that works. Clean. Efficient. Safe.

Hazel returns to my end of the bar after setting up the corporate boys with their first round. A light sheen of sweat glistens at her temple and she discreetly shifts her weight, easing pressure off one foot.

"Sorry about that," she says, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Corporate happy hours are the worst. They think ordering an Old Fashioned makes them Don Draper."

I smile despite myself. "Let me guess—they also undertip and over explain how to make their drinks?"

"God, yes." Her eyes light up with genuine amusement. "One of them just told me he likes his Manhattan 'bold but approachable.'"

"Sounds like he's describing his LinkedIn profile."

Her laugh hits me—unguarded and real.

"You've got a good read on people," she says, wiping down the bar. "What do you do, Matteo?"

"Import-export," I answer automatically. The standard cover. "Logistics management."

"Sounds fascinating," she says with just enough sarcasm to make me smile again.

"It has its moments." I take another sip of whiskey. "Better than wrangling bold but approachable Manhattan guys."

Her smile fades slightly as one of the suits approaches the bar, waving his empty glass like a flag. "Duty calls again. Enjoy your whiskey."

Hazel

I head back to the suits at the far end of the bar, feeling Matteo's eyes on me as I walk away. His gaze doesn't make my skin crawl like most men do. It feels different—intense but not invasive.

"Another round for the gentlemen," I announce, plastering on my professional smile. They barely acknowledge me as they debate quarterly projections and market fluctuations.

As I prepare their drinks I find my glance flicking back at Matteo.

He sits with casual confidence, one hand wrapped around his whiskey glass, the other resting on the polished bar.

His expensive suit fits him perfectly but unlike these corporate types, he wears it like it's an extension of himself rather than a costume.

Import-export. Sure. With those watchful eyes and that careful way of studying everyone in the room, he's either military, law enforcement, or something I shouldn't know about.

But there's no wedding ring and he hasn't tried to get handsy or make sleazy comments, which puts him ahead of ninety percent of the men who sit at my bar.

I deliver the fresh round of drinks to the suits, then return to find Matteo's glass nearly empty.

"Another?" I ask, already reaching for the Macallan.

He nods, sliding his glass toward me. "What time do you finish tonight?"

The question makes me pause mid-pour. I've heard this one before—usually followed by unwanted propositions and having to explain that no, I don't want to ‘grab a drink’ after serving them all night.

"I don't date customers," I say firmly. "Bar policy."

His lips curve into a slight smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I didn't ask if you date customers."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Right."

I study him, trying to read his intentions.

"I'm off at one," I finally say.

I've barely set Matteo's refilled glass down when movement at the far end of the bar catches my eye. A man in a rumpled suit waves his empty glass in the air like he's hailing a taxi.

"Just a minute," I tell Matteo, already moving away.

The man's face is flushed from too much alcohol, his tie loosened and crooked. I recognize him—he's been here for hours with a group of coworkers who left an hour ago. He stayed behind, getting progressively drunker and louder.

"What can I get you?" I ask, maintaining my professional smile.

"Another scotch, sweetheart." His words slur together. "And maybe your number."

"Just the scotch," I say firmly. "And I think this should be your last one."

His expression darkens. "Don't tell me when I've had enough."

I pour him a half measure, sliding it across the bar. "Water's on the house."

"I didn't ask for water." He pushes it back, sloshing liquid onto the polished wood. "And I didn't ask for half a drink either."

"Sir, I'm required to serve responsibly."

He leans forward, invading my space. The stench of alcohol and stale cologne makes my stomach turn. "Listen, honey, I've spent a lot of money here tonight. The least you could do is be nice."

"I am being nice," I say, keeping my voice even. "I'm making sure you get home safely."

His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. "Don't patronize me, bitch."

My heart pounds against my ribs. I've dealt with aggressive drunks before but something about this guy sets off alarm bells. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin.

"Let go," I say, voice low but firm. "Now."

"Or what?" He sneers.

"Or I'll break every finger on that hand." Matteo's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. I didn't even notice him approach. He stands beside the drunk man, looking relaxed except for his eyes—cold and focused, like a predator assessing prey.

The drunk turns, sizing Matteo up. "Mind your own business, asshole."

Matteo doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. "I'm making it my business."

There is a hint in his tone—the quiet certainty of a man who doesn't make empty threats—that makes the drunk hesitate. His grip on my wrist loosens.

"The lady asked you to let go," Matteo continues. "I suggest you do it. Now."

The man releases me but his alcohol-fueled bravado hasn't completely deserted him. "Whatever. Drinks are overpriced anyway."

He stands unsteadily, reaching for his wallet. He throws some bills on the bar. "Keep the change, sweetheart. You're not worth the trouble."

As he turns to leave he bumps into Matteo, who doesn't move an inch. For a tense moment they lock eyes. The drunk seems to finally register that Matteo's gaze holds an edge that cuts through his alcohol haze and triggers a survival instinct.

He mutters something under his breath and staggers toward the exit.

I rub my wrist where the drunk's fingers left red marks. The skin stings but it's my pride that hurts more. I've handled difficult customers before but this one caught me off guard.

"Thank you," I say to Matteo, who's returned to his seat at the bar. "You didn't have to step in, but I appreciate it."

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, those dark eyes watching me over the rim of his glass. "Does that happen often?" he asks.

"Often enough." I shrug. "Part of the job."

"Shouldn't be."

I grab a clean cloth and wipe down the bar where the drunk spilled his drink. "Welcome to the service industry. Some men think buying drinks entitles them to the pourer as well as the pour."

I busy myself organizing bottles, trying to ignore the feeling of being merchandise. When I glance back he's checking his watch—an understated but clearly expensive timepiece that catches the light as he moves.

"I should get going," he says, finishing his whiskey in one smooth swallow.

"I'll get your check."

I print his tab and slide it across the bar. He barely glances at it before pulling out a sleek leather wallet and placing several bills on top—way more than necessary.

"Keep the change," he says, standing up.

"This is too much." I push some of the money back toward him.

He gently slides it back. "You earned it. Dealing with idiots like that guy deserves hazard pay."

Our fingers brush and the brief contact sends a ripple of warmth up my arm. I pull my hand away quickly, suddenly conscious of how close we are, leaning toward each other across the bartop.

"Thank you," I say, tucking the bills into my apron pocket. "For the tip and the rescue."

"Maybe I'll see you around, Hazel." The way he says my name makes it sound like something precious.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns and walks away. I watch him leave, his confident stride carrying him through the thinning crowd and out the door.

What the hell was that?

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

I slice lime with more force than necessary, annoyed at myself. This is ridiculous. I don't even know the man. He's clearly wealthy, probably used to getting whatever and whoever he wants. The definition of a one-night stand guy.

And I am definitely not a one-night stand girl. I'm a relationship person. Always have been. The few times I tried casual, it ended with me getting hurt while the guy moved on without a backward glance.

Besides, I don't have time for relationships, let alone meaningless hookups. Between my shifts here, my morning job at the café, and sending money home to help with Dad's medical bills, my life is already overbooked.