The suit was a goddamn war crime.

Teagan stood outside an elegant villa in the hills outside Rome, tugging at a collar that felt like a noose, wearing a brown suit that some sadistic tailor had apparently designed for someone three sizes smaller.

His ribs ached. His face was a gallery of bruises—Jeffrey's men had gotten a few good hits in during the kidnapping. Butterfly bandages held together a cut above his eyebrow. He looked like shit, felt worse, and this fucking suit was trying to cut off his circulation.

The pants were so tight he could barely breathe. The jacket pulled across his shoulders like a straightjacket. The shirt underneath—black, because apparently brown and black was a fucking fashion choice someone thought was acceptable—strained against his chest with every breath.

"Fucking hell," Teagan muttered, yanking at the collar again. "Scheiße. Cazzo. Goddamn monkey suit piece of shit—"

He'd been standing here for twenty minutes, psyching himself up to knock on the door. Teagan Ayyaz, who'd walked into gunfights without flinching, who'd stared down mob bosses and Russian bratva captains, was nervous about meeting a fucking college kid.

He took a breath. Straightened his jacket—or tried to; the thing refused to straighten. Rolled his shoulders, which immediately made the fabric strain dangerously.

Just get it over with. Meet the kid. Set ground rules. This is a job. You've done harder jobs. You once killed a man with a soup ladle, for fuck's sake. You can handle one spoiled brat.

Teagan reached for the door.

It opened before he could knock.

And there they were.

Jeffrey's child.

Teagan's brain, normally quick and calculating, stuttered to a complete halt.

They were... fuck. Fuck. They were—

Beautiful. Striking. The kind of attractive that hits you like a physical force, that makes your neurons misfire and your tongue forget how language works.

Teagan, who had never been nervous a day in his violent life, felt his pulse spike.

No. No no no. Get it together. Professional. This is professional. They're your assignment. Your job. Do NOT fuck this up in the first five seconds.

"Hi," he said.

Hi? HI? That's what you lead with, you absolute fucking moron?

"I mean—" He cleared his throat, tried to sound professional. Authoritative. Like the dangerous enforcer he actually was. "Good morning. I'm Teagan. Teagan Ayyaz. Your father hired me as your... uh... new driver. And bodyguard. Both. I'm both."

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

"So, uh, where are you headed today? I'll be driving you. And protecting you. Because that's my job now. Your father wanted someone to... to keep an eye on you. Not in a creepy way! In a professional security way. Because you're important. Obviously. You're his kid. Heir. Legacy. Thing."

STOP. TALKING.

But he couldn't stop. The words kept coming like verbal diarrhea.

"I'm very qualified. I've been doing security work for years. Protection, enforcement, collection—wait, not collection, forget I said collection. Just protection. I'm very good at protecting people. And driving. I can drive. Multiple vehicles. Standard, automatic, motorcycle—"

He was gesturing now. Actually using his hands while talking like some kind of game show host. Teagan Ayyaz, who communicated primarily through grunts and violence, was gesticulating.

"Point is, you're safe with me. Completely safe. I'll be with you everywhere, keeping watch, making sure nothing happens. Your father was very clear about—"

CRACK.

The button on his shirt—the one that had been valiantly fighting against physics and the laws of fabric tension—finally surrendered.

It shot off his chest like a bullet.

Teagan watched in slow-motion horror as the button sailed through the air in a perfect arc and—with the kind of precision he usually reserved for headshots—smacked directly into the center of their forehead.

Thwap.

The button fell to the ground, bouncing twice on the expensive tile.

They stood there, one hand slowly rising to their forehead where a small red mark was already forming.

Teagan stood there, his shirt now gaping open to reveal his black undershirt and a truly impressive amount of chest hair.

"I..." Teagan started.

Teagan woke up to darkness and the taste of copper.

His head throbbed like someone had used it for percussion practice—which, given his current situation, they probably had. The blindfold was thick, quality material. Expensive. That told him something: whoever grabbed him had money.

Scheiße.

Money meant organization. Organization meant power. Power meant he was monumentally fucked.

The last thing he remembered was finishing a collection job in Naples. Some tech entrepreneur who'd borrowed from the wrong people to fund his startup. The guy had cried, pleaded about his kids, his wife, his dreams. Teagan had put two in his chest and one in his head, then went to his favorite bar for a drink.

After that? Nothing. Just darkness and the current pounding in his skull.

Teagan tested his restraints. His arms were yanked above his head, wrists bound tight—professional work, no give. His toes barely touched the ground. Hanging. Fuck. His shoulders screamed in protest, but he'd endured worse. He stayed still, breathing steady, listening.

Footsteps. Multiple sets. Heavy. Armed, probably.

Then voices—Italian, low and conversational. Something about football. Juve versus Inter. One of them was betting on the wrong team, and Teagan would've told him so if his current situation wasn't so goddamn precarious.

A door opened. The footsteps stopped. New presence in the room—heavier, different energy. Authority.

The blindfold was ripped off.

Teagan blinked against the sudden flood of fluorescent light, his eyes adjusting to reveal a scene straight out of every mob movie cliché: concrete room, single bulb hanging overhead, smell of mildew and old blood.

And in front of him, three men.

Two were muscoli—muscle. Big bastards, both north of six feet, all shoulders and scowls. They stood like brick walls on either side of the third man, who was...

Teagan almost laughed.

The third man was maybe five-foot-six on a good day, with a belly that preceded him into rooms by a solid three seconds. His suit was expensive—tailored, Italian, probably cost more than most people made in a year—but it fought a losing battle against his gut. Thinning hair slicked back with too much product. Rings on every finger, each one probably worth a small fortune.

He looked like a cartoon. A fat, overdressed cartoon.

But Teagan had been in this life long enough to know: the most dangerous men rarely looked the part.

"Teagan Ayyaz," the man said, his voice surprisingly smooth, cultured. "Do you know who I am?"

"Haven't got a fucking clue," Teagan replied in Italian, his German accent turning the words harsh. "But I'm guessing you're about to tell me, maybe threaten my family—oh wait, don't have one—then make some grand gesture about how powerful you are before we get to the actual point of this bullshit."

One of the muscoli moved forward, fist raised.

The short man raised a hand. The muscoli stopped.

"My name," the man continued, unruffled, "is Jeffrey Bonilla. And you, Herr Ayyaz, have become a problem."

"Yeah? Join the fucking club. We meet Tuesdays."

Jeffrey smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"You work for Antonio Greco, yes? The loan shark operating out of Salerno?"

Teagan said nothing.

"Of course you do. You're his best collector. Il Gigante Tedesco. The German Giant. Quite the reputation you've built. Twenty-seven confirmed kills in three years, though we both know the real number is higher."

"Forty-one," Teagan corrected. "If we're keeping score."

"Forty-one." Jeffrey nodded appreciatively. "Impressive. You're very good at your job, Signor Ayyaz. Which is precisely why we have a problem."

"Let me guess—I killed someone you gave a shit about?"

"No. You killed someone who owed me money. Owed Il Patto Nero money."

Il Patto Nero. The Black Pact.

Fuck.

Teagan's expression didn't change, but internally, his stomach dropped. Il Patto Nero wasn't just another crime family. They were the crime family. Old blood, old money, old connections that stretched from Sicily to the Vatican to police departments across half of Europe. You didn't cross Il Patto Nero. You didn't even look at them wrong.

And apparently, Teagan had killed one of their debtors.

"The tech entrepreneur in Naples," Jeffrey continued, as if reading his thoughts. "Matteo Salvetti. He owed you fifty thousand euros. He owed us five million."

"Then you should've collected faster."

Jeffrey's smile widened. "Indeed. But that's business, isn't it? We move in different circles, handle different... clientele. Antonio's operation is street-level. Effective, certainly, but small. Il Patto Nero operates on a somewhat grander scale."

"So what, you gonna kill me? Get it over with then. I've got a drink waiting."

"Kill you?" Jeffrey laughed—a genuine, delighted sound. "Teagan, why would I kill one of the finest natural talents I've seen in years? That would be wasteful. Stupid, even. And I am many things, but stupid is not one of them."

Teagan waited. Here it comes. The pitch. The deal. There was always a deal.

"You have debts," Jeffrey said simply. "Substantial ones. Two hundred and eighty million dollars, last I checked. German banks, Russian investors, some rather unpleasant people in Prague. They're still looking for you, you know. Very actively."

"Not your fucking business."

"But it could be." Jeffrey stepped closer, his expensive shoes clicking on concrete. "I'm going to make you an offer, Herr Ayyaz. A simple transaction. You come work for me—exclusively for Il Patto Nero—and I pay your debts. All of them. Every single euro, dollar, and ruble. You'll be free. Clean slate."

Teagan stared at him. "Bullshit."

"I never bullshit about money. It's crass."

"What's the catch?"

"The catch," Jeffrey said, pulling out a cigar and lighting it with deliberate slowness, "is that you won't be a collector anymore. You won't be an enforcer, a killer, or a cleaner. Those jobs are beneath your talents—and beneath my needs."

"Then what the fuck would I be?"

Jeffrey took a long drag, exhaled smoke through his nose.

"A bodyguard. For my child."

Silence.

Teagan blinked. "You want me to babysit?"

"I want you to protect the most important person in my world. My heir. My legacy. They're... spirited. Independently minded. They have a talent for finding trouble, or perhaps trouble has a talent for finding them. Either way, they need someone capable. Someone dangerous. Someone who can end threats before they fully materialize."

"Get one of these meatheads to do it," Teagan jerked his head toward the muscoli.

"These 'meatheads' are loyal, but they're not you. They don't have your instincts, your speed, your particular set of skills. I need the best, Teagan. And despite your many, many flaws—your attitude, your language, your complete lack of social graces—you are the best."

"And if I say no?"

Jeffrey shrugged. "Then I turn you over to your creditors. I believe the Russians were particularly creative in their threats. Something about your intestines and a volleyball court?"

Teagan was silent for a long moment.

Two hundred and eighty million dollars. A lifetime of debt, gone. Freedom, or the closest thing to it he'd ever know.

All he had to do was babysit some spoiled rich kid.

"Fine," he growled. "But I'm not wearing a fucking suit."

Jeffrey smiled. "We'll see about that."

The suit was a goddamn war crime.

Teagan stood outside an elegant villa in the hills outside Rome, tugging at a collar that felt like a noose, wearing a brown suit that some sadistic tailor had apparently designed for someone three sizes smaller.

His ribs ached. His face was a gallery of bruises—Jeffrey's men had gotten a few good hits in during the kidnapping. Butterfly bandages held together a cut above his eyebrow. He looked like shit, felt worse, and this fucking suit was trying to cut off his circulation.

The pants were so tight he could barely breathe. The jacket pulled across his shoulders like a straightjacket. The shirt underneath—black, because apparently brown and black was a fucking fashion choice someone thought was acceptable—strained against his chest with every breath.

"Fucking hell," Teagan muttered, yanking at the collar again. "Scheiße. Cazzo. Goddamn monkey suit piece of shit—"

He'd been standing here for twenty minutes, psyching himself up to knock on the door. Teagan Ayyaz, who'd walked into gunfights without flinching, who'd stared down mob bosses and Russian bratva captains, was nervous about meeting a fucking college kid.

He took a breath. Straightened his jacket—or tried to; the thing refused to straighten. Rolled his shoulders, which immediately made the fabric strain dangerously.

Just get it over with. Meet the kid. Set ground rules. This is a job. You've done harder jobs. You once killed a man with a soup ladle, for fuck's sake. You can handle one spoiled brat.

Teagan reached for the door.

It opened before he could knock.

And there they were.

Jeffrey's child.

Teagan's brain, normally quick and calculating, stuttered to a complete halt.

They were... fuck. Fuck. They were—

Beautiful. Striking. The kind of attractive that hits you like a physical force, that makes your neurons misfire and your tongue forget how language works.

Teagan, who had never been nervous a day in his violent life, felt his pulse spike.

No. No no no. Get it together. Professional. This is professional. They're your assignment. Your job. Do NOT fuck this up in the first five seconds.

"Hi," he said.

Hi? HI? That's what you lead with, you absolute fucking moron?

"I mean—" He cleared his throat, tried to sound professional. Authoritative. Like the dangerous enforcer he actually was. "Good morning. I'm Teagan. Teagan Ayyaz. Your father hired me as your... uh... new driver. And bodyguard. Both. I'm both."

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

"So, uh, where are you headed today? I'll be driving you. And protecting you. Because that's my job now. Your father wanted someone to... to keep an eye on you. Not in a creepy way! In a professional security way. Because you're important. Obviously. You're his kid. Heir. Legacy. Thing."

STOP. TALKING.

But he couldn't stop. The words kept coming like verbal diarrhea.

"I'm very qualified. I've been doing security work for years. Protection, enforcement, collection—wait, not collection, forget I said collection. Just protection. I'm very good at protecting people. And driving. I can drive. Multiple vehicles. Standard, automatic, motorcycle—"

He was gesturing now. Actually using his hands while talking like some kind of game show host. Teagan Ayyaz, who communicated primarily through grunts and violence, was gesticulating.

"Point is, you're safe with me. Completely safe. I'll be with you everywhere, keeping watch, making sure nothing happens. Your father was very clear about—"

CRACK.

The button on his shirt—the one that had been valiantly fighting against physics and the laws of fabric tension—finally surrendered.

It shot off his chest like a bullet.

Teagan watched in slow-motion horror as the button sailed through the air in a perfect arc and—with the kind of precision he usually reserved for headshots—smacked directly into the center of their forehead.

Thwap.

The button fell to the ground, bouncing twice on the expensive tile.

They stood there, one hand slowly rising to their forehead where a small red mark was already forming.

Teagan stood there, his shirt now gaping open to reveal his black undershirt and a truly impressive amount of chest hair.

"I..." Teagan started.

.