Page 42 of The Bodyguard

“It’s a shield,” he said. “Not a symbol.”

She slipped it onto her right hand, twisting it once. “Does it come with a matching one for the overbearing bodyguard?”

“No,” Mitch said, watching her closely. “Mine’s permanent.”

She went still at that, eyes flicking to his. “You wear something like this?”

“Not jewelry. But when I take someone under my protection, I don’t take it lightly. If you go down, I go down trying to stop it.”

She swallowed hard, then stepped in and placed her palm on his chest, right over his heart. “This isn’t just the job anymore, is it?”

Mitch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“You trust me to follow orders now?” he asked instead.

Andi arched an eyebrow. “Mostly.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to that low, commanding pitch she was starting to recognize. “Try again.”

She started to roll her eyes—then caught herself. “Yes. I trust you.”

“Then put on the black jacket,” he said. “We’re heading to campaign HQ.”

“What, no time for breakfast?”

“You can eat in the car.”

She turned to grab her bag, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “You’re not going to tell me what you did to it, are you?”

He met her gaze head-on. “No.”

Andi gave a short half-laugh and disappeared into the bedroom.

Mitch took the opportunity to grab his gear, double-check the new encrypted comms unit, and loop in Coop for eyes-on support once they arrived at the HQ. Whatever came next—whoever was selling her out—wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Not now.

He tapped a message into the Cerberus feed:

New parameters: Monitor all staff devices within 20-foot proximity of Donato’s GPS. Look for signal spikes, unauthorized access, secondary device syncing. We’ve got a traitor to pin.

He slid the phone into his back pocket and holstered his weapon. This wasn’t just about keeping her breathing anymore. This was about eliminating the threat—decisively, permanently—and proving that when Andi Donato gave him her trust, he was the man worthy of holding it.

* * *

Mitch parked the SUV three blocks from the press venue. He could’ve pulled right up to the cordoned entrance, but he didn’t trust the street perimeter. Too many open lines of sight. Too many reporters who didn’t play by the rules.

Andi looked over from the passenger seat. “You’re calculating a sniper angle, aren’t you?”

“I’m calculating ten.”

She gave a dry little laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He reached across her lap, opened the glove box, and pulled out the encrypted comm badge he’d clipped for her that morning. Matte black, shaped like a campaign pin.

“Left lapel,” he said.

She took it, pinned it without a word. She didn’t argue anymore about things that looked like control but were really safety. Progress.

As they walked toward the building, she stayed a half step ahead. She was back in performance mode—heels sharp, stride confident, chin high. But Mitch could see the tension in her spine. Her jaw worked a little harder with every step. She didn’t enjoy being on this side of the ambush zone again. Too public. Too unpredictable.

He scanned the faces ahead, then the rooftops. No glint. No elevated figures. A channel update from Coop pinged in his ear: no known threats on location, perimeter holding.

---