Page 33 of The Bodyguard

Mitch reached for his phone and typed a brief message into the secure Cerberus channel.

Client coverage request: Coop McCullough. Four-hour window. 0930 arrival. Full briefing upon handoff.

He watched the message send and immediately followed with a second to Coop’s private number:

Need you to shadow Donato this morning. No deviation. No exceptions. I’ll be back by 1330.

Cerberus would call it a professional rotation. Mitch knew better. He wasn’t stepping away to debrief with command. He needed a different kind of counsel—one he couldn’t get from a field report.

And only one place made sense.

* * *

Club Southside opened at eleven. Not for the public. Not even for vetted members unless they had clearance. But the private lounge? That private lounge remained accessible to Cerberus personnel and any needed servers, cooks, or janitorial staff.

Mitch didn’t walk in like a man asking for permission. He never had.

Dark walls. Polished wood floors. The place was quiet at this time of day—no sound carried through the space like a pulse, steady and familiar. A few early staff passed him by with polite nods. One or two recognized him with more than that—lingering glances, subtle shifts of posture, the smallest curve of lips meant to signal invitation.

He ignored all of it. He wasn’t here to play.

Royce Sanders was already at the corner table when Mitch arrived. Kingston Coltrane joined them less than a minute later, wearing a slate-gray shirt rolled up at the sleeves and the kind of expression that said he’d skipped his morning workout to make the meeting happen.

“I thought hell would freeze before you came back here,” Kingston said, sliding into his seat.

“I’m not here for scene work,” Mitch said. “I’m here for information.”

Royce raised a brow. “From us or about the case?”

“Both.”

A server brought coffee—black, strong, poured without asking. Royce sipped his. Kingston leaned back with a grunt.

“You’re covering Donato?” Royce asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re already breaking protocol,” Kingston said, glancing at his watch. “She doesn’t leave the loft unescorted.”

“She won’t. I left McCullough on her.”

Royce’s eyes narrowed. “Still not like you.”

Mitch didn’t respond right away. He focused on the coffee, the heat of it centering him, the familiarity of this room settling somewhere under his skin. He hadn’t been here in months. Maybe a year. The last time he’d stepped foot inside one of the clubs, it hadn’t been this one. He’d sent a woman packing with tears in her eyes and bruises blooming on her pride from the London club, Baker Street.

“You thinking about her?” King asked—very little escaped King’s notice.

Mitch gave a clipped nod. A sub attached to the South African diplomatic liaison. Smart, beautiful and it turned out, manipulative as hell. They assigned him to the ambassador’s diplomatic protection detail. The woman wanted more than he could give. She wanted ownership from him, and in the end betrayed them all.

He’d had to neutralize her as a threat, and she was now spending her time in an English prison. She’d thought she could weaponize both her position with the delegation and her submission to Mitch. She’d thought to make him choose between the contract to protect the ambassador and his relationship with her.

He chose the job. Her trial had torched his name with just enough innuendo to make him radioactive for six months. He swore he’d never make the mistake of mixing emotion with control again… until now.

Royce leaned forward. “So, what is it? Donato different?”

Mitch nodded once. “She doesn’t pretend. She doesn’t ask for comfort. She just... handles it. Until she can’t.”

“That’s not weakness,” Kingston said. “That’s exactly the kind of strength that breaks if no one notices soon enough.”

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