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ANDI

A ndi Donato hated red ink.

It reminded her of every high school essay she’d ever written—bleeding with critiques and underlines from her AP English teacher, Ms. Larson, who always seemed to find flaws in what Andi thought was brilliance. But the envelope on her desk wasn’t a grade. It was a message.

And the ink didn’t look like any kind she’d ever bought at Staples.

“Is that blood?” Maya Ramsey, her chief of staff, asked, leaning over her shoulder with a mug of coffee clutched between her hands.

Andi didn’t answer. She stared at the jagged letters scrawled across thick cream stationery—fancy, like the kind used for overpriced wedding invitations.

GET OUT OF THE RACE BEFORE YOU BLEED FOR REAL.

She forced her fingers to stay still, though her nails bit into her palms.

“Probably just a prank,” Andi said, setting the letter down with deliberate care and reaching for her phone. “You know how people get when they think they’re being clever. Some anonymous jackass with a twisted sense of humor.”

“You don’t really believe that.” Maya set the coffee down and folded her arms. “This is the third threat in two weeks, and this one... this one is personal.”

Of course it was. Andi’s name was on the envelope, hand-lettered in the same rusty red ink, and the return address read like a joke: Truth Hurts, Chicago IL . No zip code. No mercy.

“I’ve got a live debate in two hours, Maya. I’m not giving the press the satisfaction of watching me flinch.”

Maya’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “You’re not bulletproof, Andi. You might be a badass, but you’re still human.”

“Tell that to the voters.” Andi stood, smoothing the navy slacks she’d chosen for the debate—a subtle show of strength, clean lines, no-nonsense fabric. Her stylist had begged her to wear something softer, more ‘approachable.’ She refused. She wasn’t running for prom queen. She was running for mayor.

And someone clearly didn’t want her to win.

Maya opened her mouth to argue again, but Andi cut her off with a raised hand. “No press leaks. No gossip. If anyone asks about the letter, tell them I laughed it off over a latte. Don’t even blink.”

Andi picked up the envelope and walked it to the shredder.

She didn’t laugh. Not even once.

* * *

Two hours later, the scent of hairspray and anxiety clung to the backstage hallway of the city auditorium. Volunteers scurried like ants around podiums and camera rigs while a makeup artist dabbed a brush under Andi’s left eye.

“You sure you want to keep the hair down?” the artist asked, biting her lip. “It’s just—your opponent’s camp keeps saying you’re trying to look ‘too glamorous for serious politics.’ Maybe a ponytail would?—”

“If I change one damn thing about myself to please a man who can’t even pronounce ‘infrastructure,’ I’ll withdraw from the race right now.” Andi stepped back, letting the curtain fall between her and the well-meaning, overly ambitious stylist.

Across the stage, Senator Rick Wexler stood smiling like he owned the air between them, shaking hands with the moderator and whispering something in her ear that made her laugh a little too hard. Cameras flashed. An intern dropped a clipboard.

He caught Andi’s eye and gave a subtle nod, as if this whole thing were just a friendly spar between equals. It wasn’t. Rick Wexler wasn’t just another opponent—he was a man with a long memory and a vindictive streak.

And he knew exactly what to say to cause the most damage.

The opening questions were predictable—housing, education, and crime prevention strategies. Andi hit her points hard, speaking clearly, forcefully, not hiding her disdain for Wexler’s polished talking points or the soft-shoe dance he did around the corruption charges dogging his campaign.

But then the moderator smiled a little too smoothly.

“Councilwoman Donato, it’s admirable how transparent you’ve been about your record, especially your dedication to community improvement. However,” she said, voice honey-slick, “there have been some... renewed concerns about your judgment in past relationships. How would you respond to critics who question your decision-making—particularly when it comes to associating with individuals later linked to criminal behavior?”

The room hushed. Andi’s heart stopped for one quiet beat. Then it thundered.

Rick stood still as a marble statue, the ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. The bastard didn’t even have to say her name. The insinuation was enough. Everyone knew she’d once dated him—before the cocaine charges. Before the photos. Before the sealed arrest records.

Careful. Do not show fear.

Andi’s lips parted. “I would say experience builds judgment. I made a mistake, and I walked away before it cost me more than my pride. But I’ll tell you what I’ve never done—sold lies to voters, accepted donations from criminal organizations, or turned my back on the people I swore to protect.”

The audience murmured, and the moderator blinked.

“I’ve never been afraid to own my choices,” Andi added, “but some people would rather pretend their sins don’t exist just because they never got caught.”

Rick shifted behind his podium. And that was enough.

She kept her voice level, but fire simmered in her gut. Not just from the ambush—but from the reminder. The memory. She could still see herself at that party, arguing with Rick in the shadow of a glass coffee table dusted with lines of cocaine, begging him to walk away before it was too late.

They arrested her while she was trying to drag him out of there. The file was supposed to be sealed. But sealed didn’t mean buried. Not in this world.

The rest of the debate passed in a blur of forced smiles and biting rebuttals. She stepped offstage with damp palms and a mouth feeling as though sandpaper had scoured it clean.

She peeled off her mic and handed it to an aide, ignoring Maya’s wide-eyed look as she approached.

“You saw?”

“Everyone saw,” Maya muttered. “Social media’s already dissecting it.”

Andi grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with too much force. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Not the time, Maya.”

“You need protection, Andi.”

“I’ve got a great team.”

Maya leaned in, voice low and urgent. “No. You need a bodyguard; this could get ugly . I know people at Cerberus and have already been in contact with them.”

“What’s the old saying about sticks and stones?”

“That wasn’t just dirty politics, that was a targeted strike and combined with the message in blood…”

“We don’t know that it was blood, Maya,” said Andi, trying to placate her assistant.

“Someone is coming after you. I’m not convinced that ignoring some of the more veiled threats like the slashed tires is in your best interest. Your life could be on the line.”

Andi’s laugh was hollow. “I think you’re over-reacting. I don’t think some hunky bodyguard is going to make it better.”

“Ignoring it will not make it better either. But someone who’s trained to kill for a living might be the only reason you’re still breathing next week.”

The letter. The note at the debate. The way Rick hadn’t needed to speak her name to slit her throat in front of a camera.

“Fine,” she said, the word bitter in her mouth. “Call Cerberus. I will meet with them, but that’s all I’m agreeing to.”

“Andi…” started Maya, obviously frustrated with her.

Holding up her hand, Andi said, “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.” Maya’s shoulders dropped in relief.

Andi turned away, but not before muttering to herself. “God help the man who thinks he’s going to tell me what to do.”

* * *

By the time Andi left the campaign office later that afternoon, the sky had turned the color of an old bruise. Streetlights blinked on overhead, casting yellow halos on the damp asphalt. She slid behind the wheel of her hybrid, clutching the steering wheel like it could offer something resembling clarity.

Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat. Maya, again. A dozen missed calls since the debate, probably to say ‘ I told you so’ or demanding she eat something other than coffee and political adrenaline. Andi ignored it.

She needed quiet. A moment where the only sound was her heartbeat, not reporters screaming for statements or donors whispering warnings about electability. She was tired of playing chess with knives—tired of being the one who played by an ethical rulebook—tired of everything. But what was her choice? Politics as usual? Let the guy who was willing to play the dirtiest win? Chicago deserved better than that.

The campaign SUV followed her out of the garage, as always. A junior staffer behind the wheel, Maya in the passenger seat and some intern texting from the backseat. They’d keep a cautious distance, just close enough to follow protocol.

Andi opened the moonroof. She had two absolute extras she insisted on having—a moonroof and heated seats—everything else was negotiable. The evening air poured in, cooling her skin and softening the frayed edges of her nerves. She might convince Maya she wasn’t concerned, but she was.

The light at the intersection turned green, and she pulled forward. A second later, the hum of tires behind her grew louder—then louder still.

A different SUV—wrong shape, wrong headlights, wrong emblem on the front grill.

She checked her mirror again. The vehicle wasn’t following traffic laws. It swerved left, surged forward, engine roaring.

Her Spidey senses started tingling. She watched as the unknown, black SUV shot forward, no turn signals, no hesitation—closing the distance fast. Too fast.

Andi slammed her foot down on the gas.

The tires screamed in protest, fishtailing on the slick pavement, but the SUV kept coming. No headlights. No hesitation. Just relentless speed and the gleam of metal under the streetlight—like a predator closing in on its kill.

Her pulse spiked. Her hands clenched the wheel, breath shallow and sharp. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t ? —

She yanked the wheel hard right.

Too late.

The SUV clipped her rear bumper with a brutal crunch, and her car lurched sideways. Tires skidded across rain-slick asphalt, the world tilting as centrifugal force spun her like a toy. She screamed—instinctive and panicked—as she hit the curb with bone-jarring force.

Then the ground disappeared.

Her car flipped.

Steel shrieked. The windshield exploded into a glittering storm of safety glass. The airbag detonated, slamming into her chest like a concrete wall. Her head cracked against the window, stars bursting behind her eyes.

Everything went silent.

Then the roof crumpled with a groaning roar, metal folding in as the car rolled once, twice, before slamming to a stop on its side. The engine hissed. Smoke twisted into the air, thick and acrid. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm wailed like a warning she couldn’t outrun.

Andi gasped—sharp, ragged—air scraping down her throat like gravel. The seatbelt had locked tight, pinning her in place.

She wasn’t sure how long she hung there. Seconds? Hours?

Her ears rang. Her hands shook. Her heart thundered in her chest like it was trying to punch its way out.

They tried to kill me.

Not intimidate. Not scare. Kill.

The realization hit her harder than the crash.

With a snarl, she fumbled at the belt. Her fingers slipped. Again. Again. The buckle finally gave, releasing her with a snap that dropped her hard onto shattered glass. Her shoulder slammed into the doorframe. Pain screamed down her arm.

The door wouldn’t open.

Trapped.

No. No, not like this.

Andi gritted her teeth and kicked at the passenger window until the crack spread. She twisted, crawling across the wreckage. One more shove—one more grunt of effort—and she tumbled out onto the sidewalk, scraped and shaking, knees hitting the concrete hard.

Her vision swam. The SUV was gone.

Just... gone.

No witnesses. No driver. No plates.

Vanished into the night like a ghost that didn’t want to leave evidence behind.

Andi knelt there, blood dripping down her cheek, breath shallow, chest aching from the airbag, hands torn and filthy. Her pulse roared in her ears.

This wasn’t a warning. This was a message. And Andi had received it loud and clear. She lifted her head to look around. The black SUV was definitely gone. Gone, like it had never been there.

The campaign staff SUV pulled up seconds later, screeching to a halt. Maya leapt out, heels be damned. “Oh, my God—Andi!”

Andi sat up slowly, her head spinning.

“I’m okay,” she lied, voice hoarse. “Help me stand.”

Maya crouched beside her cell phone in hand. “Don’t even try.” She turned to the staff person who’d been driving. “Call 9-1-1.” She hit a button on her phone. “This is Councilwoman Donato’s Chief of Staff. Someone just tried to kill her. I’m getting her to the hospital.”

“Take a breath, Maya,” Andi said soothingly.

“Not until I know you’re safe,” snapped Maya. “They targeted you, Andi. That was no random hit and run or a drunk driver. Don’t even pretend that wasn’t deliberate. That SUV tried to kill you.”

Andi motioned to the staffer who helped her up. Swaying on her feet, Andi forced her legs to hold steady.

“I called Cerberus,” Maya said. “They’ll meet us at the hospital.”

“No,” Andi snapped, though her hands shook. “I don’t need a hospital…” She felt her knees begin to buckle and lowered herself to the ground.

Flashing red lights painted the buildings in a curious myriad of colors, the wail of sirens fading as the ambulance pulled up alongside the mangled wreck of her car. The paramedics moved quickly—efficient, focused—as they dropped a kit beside her and crouched down on the sidewalk. Maya and the two staffers waved people by and kept, Andi was sure, a sharp eye out for the press.

“Ma’am, are you conscious?” the first one asked, a young guy with sharp eyes and a clipped tone.

“Clearly,” Andi muttered, though the sound came out raspier than she intended.

He didn’t blink. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Andrea Donato. Councilwoman. Mayoral candidate. Girl who just got nearly murdered. Pick one.”

The woman beside him gave a short huff—half laugh, half disbelief—as she checked Andi’s vitals. “You’re alert. That’s good. Let’s look at the cut on your face and see how bad that shoulder is.”

“I’m fine,” Andi said automatically, even as she winced when the woman dabbed antiseptic on her cheek.

“Your blood pressure’s high, adrenaline’s still doing its thing, and I’m guessing your entire left side is going to feel like it went twelve rounds with a freight train tomorrow,” the male paramedic said, scanning her with a handheld light. “You have a whole lot of scrapes and bruises and could have a mild concussion. Nothing seems to be broken.”

He paused, tilting her chin carefully to the side. “I’d recommend going in for imaging. Head trauma can be deceptive.”

“I don’t have time for a hospital, and I don’t need the optics,” Andi said, pushing herself a little straighter. “I’ve got interviews at dawn, and a lot of work to do before then. Apparently I also have enemies with heavy vehicles.”

He exchanged a glance with his partner, who shrugged.

“Her vitals are stable, and nothing appears to be fractured. If she’s lucid and refuses transport, we can’t force it. We’ll wrap the worst of it, clean her up, and have her sign the discharge forms.” The woman began bandaging Andi’s shoulder with practiced hands. “But someone should monitor you tonight. Just in case symptoms escalate.”

“She’s not staying alone,” Maya said, stepping forward from where she’d been pacing at the curb. “We’ve got it covered.”

Andi gave her a look. Maya’s chin lifted in defiance.

The male paramedic stood, closing his kit. “All right. You’re lucky, Ms. Donato. That crash could’ve gone a hell of a lot worse. We have to file a report with the police; they’re going to want to talk to you.”

Andi stared at the twisted wreck of her car, heart pounding in her ears.

“I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.”

Maya grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Ma’am, please don’t shake her,” said the female paramedic.

For once Maya actually looked sheepish. “Right. Andi, you could have been killed. I don’t give a damn about optics. They’ve smeared you with scandal; your rival is using your past as a weapon; and someone is trying to finish this campaign with a body bag. We’re hiring Cerberus. We’re hiring him . ”

“Him?” Andi blinked. “Don’t you mean them? Don’t they have some female operatives?”

Maya’s lips tightened. “They’ve already assigned someone. He’s ex-military. Top of the chain. He doesn’t take on political clients, but Cerberus insisted.”

“You set this up without my consent?” Andi whispered.

“I set it up to keep you breathing.” Maya’s voice cracked. “You can fire me later. I’ll call Cerberus and tell them to meet us at your place in the morning.”

Andi rolled her eyes and winced. Maybe she’d wait on witty, sarcastic comebacks.

The ride to her loft condo was mostly a blur with the two staffers looking as if they were in shock and Maya fussing over her. Once they were safely tucked inside, Andi spent a fitful night, mostly because Maya kept waking her every two hours. One thing she had to admit, Maya was more than her chief of staff, more than a friend… the woman was a Godsend.

Andi woke the next morning in her own bed, body sore and mind spinning. The accident had totaled her car. The campaign SUV driver confirmed the black vehicle had no plates. No one caught a good look.

Andi was standing in her kitchen, clutching her coffee like a lifeline when her security buzzer rang.

“Cerberus security. Langdon. Here to meet Andrea Donato.”

Her stomach dropped as Maya gave him the code. Seconds later, her front door opened. She turned, ready to argue—but the words stalled in her throat. The man who stepped inside didn’t look like any bodyguard she’d expected. No pressed suit. No politician’s smile.

He wore a fitted black T-shirt that clung to broad shoulders and was tucked into black jeans. She could just make out a shoulder holster with some kind of handgun peeking out from his black leather jacket. His boots were heavy and dark and his expression unreadable. He carried a black leather overnight bag.

He was tall. Towering. He had the well-sculpted physique of a fitness model, but she suspected years of hard work, not just time in a gym, had honed it. And he exuded an incredibly calm demeanor—like the kind of calm that came from staring down gun barrels without flinching.

Andi squared her shoulders. “Let me guess. Cerberus sent their brooding alpha.”

His eyes flicked over her once, slow and deliberate. “Langdon. You can call me Mitch.”

“Can I call you unnecessary?”

He shut the door behind him without responding, walked straight into her kitchen like he’d already claimed the space. “This place is unsecured. I counted three entry points and no cameras. No guard patrol outside. There’s an elderly concierge, and no reinforced locks. You’re a high-profile target living like a civilian.”

“It’s my home , Langdon, not a war zone.”

“A professional driver in an unplated black SUV nearly ran you down, and you’ve received several credible threats by mail and email,” he replied coolly. “We’re well past debating semantics.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, voice rising.

He stepped closer. Too close. The heat from his body reached her even though he didn’t touch her.

“No. You didn’t. But I don’t particularly care what you asked for. I’m here now. You either work with me—or I let your campaign team know you rejected professional protection. When the next attack hits, they can explain it to the press.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t play subtle, do you?”

“Not when lives are on the line.”

The air between them shifted. Her pulse kicked. She hated the way her body reacted to the command in his voice, the calm certainty in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t even trying to convince her. He was just telling her how things were going to be.

Her sanctuary—the loft she’d designed down to every soft-edge chair and beach-swept rug—suddenly felt invaded and much, much smaller.

“You brought a bag,” she said, her voice more dry than surprised.

Mitch didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because I’m staying,” he said.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He dropped the duffel beside the island counter, his movements unhurried. Deliberate. “Cerberus protocol. You’re a high-risk target after last night’s incident. Until your space is secure, I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Langdon.”

“No,” he agreed, cool as stone. “You need someone who can take a bullet and still drag you to safety.”

Andi folded her arms, ignoring the pull in her sore shoulder. Do you think crashing on my bohemian-chic sofa will magically make a hitman back off?”

“No.” He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes scanning the lakefront like he could see threats through the glass. “That’s why a Cerberus team is en route to retrofit this place. Security. Surveillance. Entry point reinforcement. The works.”

Her pulse jumped. “You’re not tearing apart my home.”

“No. We’ll be discreet and if you ever sell this place, it will be a feature of your loft. Besides, you don’t have a choice.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

Mitch turned then, eyes locking with hers. That quiet dominance she’d felt before—just a whisper of it—slammed into her like a physical thing now. There was no heat in his stare. Just command.

“It’s this loft,” he said, voice low, “or one of the safe rooms at Club Southside.”

She went still. “You’re not serious.”

“I never joke about security. Club Southside is fortified, discreet, and we maintain twenty-four-hour armed surveillance. If you think your reputation can handle it, I’ll pack you up and take you there right now.”

She glared at him, but her mouth had gone dry. “You know damn well I can’t go there.”

“I also know damn well you won’t be walking away from another hit if whoever has set their sights on you tries again. So choose.”

Her head swam with the possibilities. She’d spent years building a public image polished enough to survive in politics, balancing fire and diplomacy with a scalpel’s precision. The media would devour a rumor of her being holed up at Chicago’s most exclusive BDSM club like wolves on blood.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Retrofit the loft. But if anyone drills into my white oak cabinetry, you’re paying for it.”

His mouth didn’t twitch, but something in his eyes gleamed—dark and satisfied.

“Deal.”

A knock sounded at the door. Not the buzzer this time. Three short, clipped taps. Andi moved instinctively, but Mitch was already there, hand on the grip of the concealed weapon under his jacket as he looked through the peephole before opening the door.

Three men in tactical gear stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Quiet. Efficient. No wasted movements. One carried a tablet. Another was already sweeping the room with practiced eyes.

Mitch spoke without looking back at her. “They got in without tripping your building’s security or being seen by the guy at the front desk, by the way.”

Of course they had.

Andi rubbed her temples and muttered, “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“No,” Mitch said, still watching the team move like shadows through her space. “But you’ll be alive to complain about it. So there is that, and that’s the point.”

Again she thought about saying something or not complying, but the desperate look on Maya’s face convinced her not to. So she turned and retreated to her bedroom—not because she agreed, but because when a man like that gave a command, something inside her listened—even when her brain screamed otherwise.