Dangerously Yours

Chapter Six

Raymond had ditched her within an hour.

Or tried to, anyway.

He slipped out the back entrance of his building while Veronica was supposedly checking the security feeds in the lobby. Took the service elevator down to the parking garage, got in his car; a matte black Aston Martin that screamed 'shoot me', and drove straight to The Warren, an upscale bar in Tribeca where velvet ropes kept out the ordinary and money bought silence.

What Raymond didn't know was that Veronica had anticipated exactly this.

She tagged his car with a tracker during her security sweep. She already had his credit cards flagged for real-time alerts. And she'd been following him from three cars back for the last twenty minutes, watching him park in a lot with exactly two exits and zero overhead cover.

Amateur hour.

She parked across the street, killed the engine, and watched him stroll into the bar like he didn't have a target on his back.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Derek.

_He ditched you already? That's gotta be a record._

_He thinks he did,_ she typed back.

_You want backup?_

_I'm fine. Just babysitting._

She waited five minutes, then followed him inside.

The Warren was all low lighting and expensive liquor, the kind of place where conversations happened in leather booths and everyone pretended not to notice anyone else.

Raymond sat at the bar, already on his second drink, laughing at something the bartender said.

Veronica chose a seat in the corner with clear sight lines to the entrance, the back exit, and Raymond. Close enough to react. Far enough not to be obvious.

He didn't notice her. Too busy enjoying his freedom.

Idiot.

She ordered water, watched the room, and catalogued faces. Mostly harmless; business types, couples on expensive dates, a few trust fund kids trying to look important. No immediate threats.

Her phone buzzed again. Jenkins this time.

_The client is supposed to be at home. Status?_

_He's at The Warren. I'm on him,_ she typed back.

_He knows you're there?_

_No._

_Keep it that way. Parents are already asking questions._

Veronica pocketed the phone, eyes never leaving Raymond. He'd moved from the bar to a booth, joined by two women who'd appeared from nowhere with practiced smiles and designer dresses. They pressed close, laughing too loud, touching his arms, and his shoulder.

He ate it up.

Veronica felt a twist in her chest. Not jealousy, she barely knew him. But disgust, maybe. At the waste of it all. He had everything and treated it like a game he couldn't lose.

An hour passed. Then another.

The crowd thinned. The women left, one kissed his cheek, the other slipped him her number. Raymond stayed, nursing another drink, scrolling through his phone.

Veronica was about to call it; follow him home, have the fight about boundaries tomorrow, when three men walked in.

Wrong.

Everything about them was wrong.

They moved too deliberately. Scanned the room too carefully. One positioned himself near the back exit. Another near the front. The third headed straight for the bar.

Straight for Raymond.

Veronica was moving before she consciously decided to.

She crossed the room in seconds, angling to intercept. The man reaching for Raymond had his hand inside his jacket; gun, knife, didn't matter. She needed to stop this before it started.

"Raymond!" She said, loud enough to cut through the music.

He looked up, startled. Then his expression shifted to annoyance. "What the hell—"

She grabbed his arm, pulling him off the barstool. "We're leaving. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere with —"

The man's hand came out of his jacket.

Gun. Suppressor.

Veronica moved.

She shoved Raymond hard, sending him sprawling behind the bar as the first shot punched into the wood where his head had been. Splinters exploded. Someone screamed.

The bar erupted into chaos.

People ran. Chairs overturned. Glass shattered.

Veronica was already on the shooter, closing the distance before he could adjust his aim. She grabbed his wrist, twisted hard, felt something pop. He grunted, and tried to swing with his other hand. She ducked under it, drove her elbow into his ribs, once, twice. He folded.

She ripped the gun from his grip, reversed it, and slammed the grip into his temple.

He dropped.

Two seconds. Maybe three.

Movement to her left, the second man, pulling his own weapon. Veronica dove behind a table as shots tore through the air above her. Wood splintered. Bottles exploded behind the bar, liquor spraying like blood.

She came up firing.

Two shots, center mass. The man stumbled back, hit the wall, and slid down.

The third man was already running for the back exit.

Veronica started after him, then stopped. Raymond. She couldn't leave Raymond.

She spun back to the bar. He was still on the floor, covered in splinters and whiskey, eyes wide with shock.

"Are you hit?" she demanded.

He shook his head, mute.

"Stay down." She moved to the first shooter, kicked his gun away, and checked his pulse. Alive. Unconscious. Good enough.

The second man wasn't moving. She'd hit him in the vest, Kevlar, probably, but the impact had knocked him out cold.

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.

Veronica pulled out her phone, dialed 911, gave them the address and a brief description. Then she went back to Raymond.

He was trying to stand, shaking, face pale.

"I said stay down," she said, but her voice was gentler now.

"You—" He couldn't seem to finish the sentence. "You just..."

"Saved your life." She grabbed his arm, steadying him. "You're welcome."

"There were three of them."

"I know."

"You took out two in under ten seconds."

"Training." She checked him over; no blood, no holes, just shock and adrenaline. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Good. Because we're leaving before the police get here and this turns into a media circus."

She pulled him toward the back exit, past overturned tables and terrified patrons huddled in corners. Outside, the alley was dark and empty. She'd parked her car two blocks over; too far if someone was waiting.

"My car's in the lot," Raymond said, reading her mind.

"Your car's a death trap. We're taking mine."

She half-dragged him down the alley, checking corners, watching rooftops. The third shooter was gone, probably called it in already, warning whoever hired them that the hit had failed.

They made it to her car without incident. She shoved Raymond into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and pulled out into traffic before he could argue.

He sat there, breathing hard, staring at his hands.

"You killed them," he said finally.

"I stopped them." Veronica kept her eyes on the road, checking mirrors for tails. "The first guy has a concussion. The second one's got broken ribs and a bruised ego. They'll live."

"You shot—"

"His vest. I saw it when he moved." She took a corner faster than strictly legal. "I don't kill people unless I have to. But I will put them down if they're trying to kill my client."

Raymond was quiet for a long moment.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"That they were coming for me."

"I didn't. Not for sure." She slowed to a normal speed as they hit a main street. "But three men walk into a bar, position themselves strategically, and one moves on you with his hand in his jacket? Not hard math."

"You were watching me."

"That's my job."

"I left you at the building."

"I know. I followed you." She glanced at him. "You're not as clever as you think you are, Raymond."

His jaw tightened. Anger, probably. Or embarrassment. Hard to tell with the adrenaline still pumping.

"You had no right—"

"I had every right." Her voice went cold. "You hired me to keep you alive. You don't get to play rebel and then complain when I do my job."

"I didn't hire you. My parents did."

"Semantics. You're alive because I was there. So unless you want to have this conversation with a bullet hole in your chest, I suggest you save the attitude."

He went quiet again.

Veronica's phone rang. Jenkins.

She put it on speaker. "Ashford."

"I'm hearing reports of a shooting at The Warren. Multiple casualties. Please tell me you weren't involved."

"I was involved. Client's safe. Two attackers in custody, one fled. No civilian casualties."

Jenkins was silent for three long seconds. "Jesus Christ, Nova."

"They knew where he'd be. This wasn't random."

"I know. The Jules family is already calling me. They want you at the estate. Now."

"On my way."

She hung up.

Raymond stared at her. "My parents know?"

"Everyone knows by now. Police, media, probably half the city." She took the turnoff toward the Jules estate. "This is going to be fun."

---

The Jules estate sat on ten acres of manicured perfection in Westchester, all gates and hedges and the kind of security that made Veronica's job slightly less impossible. She pulled up to the main house, a mansion, really, all stone and glass and old money, and killed the engine.

Raymond's parents were waiting on the front steps.

Amelia looked like she'd aged a decade in the last three hours. Roberto stood beside her, face carved from granite, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting troops.

Veronica got out first. Raymond followed, still shaky, still pale.

Amelia crossed the distance in seconds, pulling Raymond into a hug that looked like it hurt. "Oh my God. Oh my God, you're okay."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"You're not fine. Someone tried to kill you." She pulled back, hands framing his face. "In a public place. With witnesses. They don't care anymore, Raymond. They don't care who sees."

Roberto's gaze shifted to Veronica. "Ms. Ashford. Walk me through what happened."

Veronica gave him the short version of Raymond slipping away, her following, the attack, the aftermath. Professional. Detached. Like she was filing a report instead of explaining why their son was still breathing.

When she finished, Roberto nodded slowly. "You saved his life."

"I did my job."

"Your job—" Amelia turned to her, and something in her expression cracked. "Your job kept my son alive when three armed men tried to murder him. That's more than a job, Ms. Ashford. That's a miracle."

"It's training," Veronica corrected gently. "And luck. They weren't expecting resistance."

"Next time they will be," Roberto said grimly. "Which is why you're not leaving his side. Not for a minute. Not for any reason."

Raymond started to protest. "Dad—"

"Not a discussion." Roberto's voice could've cut steel. "You nearly died tonight because you thought you knew better than the people trying to protect you. That ends now."

"I won't be a prisoner in my own life—"

"Then stop acting like a child!" Amelia's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop sneaking out. Stop testing her. Stop pretending this isn't real."

Raymond flinched.

His mother took a breath, composing herself. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. "Ms. Ashford, you have our full authorization. Whatever you need. Whatever you say goes. Raymond will cooperate fully or we'll freeze his accounts and lock him in this house. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Veronica said.

Raymond looked between them, betrayed. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly serious," Roberto said. "Ms. Ashford is now your bodyguard. Officially. Permanently. Until this threat is eliminated. And you will listen to her, obey her, and stop acting like your life doesn't matter."

"It's my life—"

"You're our son," Amelia said quietly. "And we will not bury him. So yes, Raymond. We can be this serious. And we are."

Silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Veronica watched Raymond's face cycle through emotions; anger, frustration, resignation. He looked young suddenly. Vulnerable in a way that made something in her chest tighten.

"Fine," he said finally. "She stays."

"Not just stays," Roberto corrected. "She has full authority. Her word is law. Understood?"

Raymond's jaw worked. "Understood."

Amelia turned to Veronica, taking her hands. Her grip was firm, desperate. "Thank you. For tonight. For everything. We can't—" Her voice broke. "We can't lose him."

"You won't," Veronica said. And meant it.

She'd taken this job for answers. For her mother. For revenge, maybe.

But standing there, watching Amelia Jules fall apart and Raymond Jules pretend he wasn't terrified, something shifted. They didn't look like people that could hurt someone, how much more cover the truth about it.

This wasn't just a job anymore.

She was going to keep him alive.

Even if he fought her every step of the way.