The problem with Mila Hart wasn't that she didn't notice anything.
It was that she noticed everything.
Growing up in foster care had trained her that way. You learned quickly when adults were about to lose their patience, when a smile meant trouble, when a room was about to turn unsafe.
You learned to read shoulders, hands, posture. You learned to watch without staring and listen without reacting.
It kept you alive.
It kept you safe…ish.
Mila hunched forward over her laptop in the corner table of a small corner café. Her shoulders were rounded and her eyes were fixed on the screen like it held all the answers she needed.
Job listings filled the page. Part-time. Contract. Temporary. Anything that didn't require references she couldn't provide or experience she didn't have proof of.
She told herself to focus.
She told herself to ignore the men at the table across from her.
They were sitting too comfortably for strangers, the two cups of coffee in front of them completely untouched.
One of them leaned back against the plastic chair, relaxed and smiling as if the conversation was casual.
The other didn't move much at all. He sat straight, his hands loosely folded on the round table in front of him, his eyes steady. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He had a bored look on his face like the entire conversation didn't matter, that the entire world didn't matter, and the people around him adjusted their behavior without realizing they were doing it.
Mila tried to convince herself that if she noticed something wrong, so would he.
The men near him were positioned wrong for casual company. Too alert. Too aware. They watched the room instead of their drinks. They leaned slightly inward, like they were already braced to move.
Security, Mila thought. Or something close to it.
She kept her eyes on her laptop.
The man with the easy smile shifted.
It was small. A slight lean forward. A tightening in his shoulders. His hand moved, not quickly, but with purpose, toward his jacket. Mila's fingers froze on the keyboard.
Her stomach dropped.
She waited for someone to react, but no one did.
The terrifying man across from him didn't move. His men didn't move. The room kept humming with conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine.
The gun came out fast.
Mila barely registered the shape of it before it was aimed directly at the terrifying man's chest.
For half a second, the world stalled.
Then instinct took over.
Mila was on her feet before she realized she'd moved. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she launched herself forward. She didn't think. She didn't plan. She slammed into the terrifying man with everything she had.
The gun fired.
The sound was deafening in the small café.
They hit the floor hard. Mila felt the impact knock the breath out of her as they crashed into the tiles. Pain exploded across her shoulder, white-hot and immediate, and she screamed as the force ripped through her.
People started screaming too.
Chairs toppled. Cups shattered. Someone shouted. Another gun went off, then another. The air filled with smoke and the sharp smell of burnt metal.
Mila lay there for a second, stunned, her body pressed against the man she'd just tackled. Her ears rang. Her shoulder burned and it took a moment for the pain to fully register, spreading down her arm in a nauseating wave.
"That will teach me to get involved in conversations I have no business getting involved in," she muttered through clenched teeth.
Strong arms wrapped around her.
They tightened suddenly, locking her in place. Not panicked. Not frantic. Controlled. Powerful.
Mila sucked in a sharp breath as she became painfully aware that she was straddling a man who had not missed a single beat during the chaos.
"Who are you?" the man beneath her demanded. "Who sent you?"
His voice was calm. Too calm for someone who'd just had a gun pointed at him.
"No one sent me. And a thank you would be nice," Mila snapped, trying to push herself up. "I did take a bullet for you, after all."
She didn't get far.
The arms around her tightened further, pinning her to him. She felt his chest rise beneath her as he breathed, steady and even, like gunfire wasn't erupting around them.
She wasn't going anywhere.
"Stay down," he said.
Mila opened her mouth to argue, then shut it when another shot cracked nearby. A table flipped. Glass shattered somewhere to her left. The man holding her shifted, rolling them just enough to shield her body with his own.
The movement was deliberate.
Mila's mind caught up to her fear.
He's protecting me.
That realization was almost as unsettling as the pain in her shoulder.
Men moved around them. Fast. Efficient. Someone fired back with controlled bursts that didn't spray wildly. The man with the gun shouted something unintelligible before his voice cut off abruptly.
The chaos ended as quickly as it began.
Silence rushed in, heavy and unreal, broken only by distant alarms and the ragged breathing of the people still hiding behind overturned furniture.
The man beneath her loosened his grip slightly but didn't let go.
"You're bleeding," he said.
Mila swallowed hard. There was nothing that she hated more than pain. "I kind of noticed."
She shifted again, wincing as pain flared. Blood soaked into the sleeve of her jacket, warm and slick. The man's hand came up, firm, pressing against her shoulder to apply pressure.
"Don't," she hissed.
"You were shot."
"I know," she snapped. "Let me up."
His hand didn't move.
"Later."
That word—later—sent a spike of irritation through her panic. Mila planted her good hand against the floor and pushed. This time, he let her rise just enough to sit back on her heels.
She looked around.
The café was destroyed. Tables were overturned and there was glass everywhere. Two men lay on the floor, dead or just unconscious, she wasn't sure. But others were being dragged away by men who didn't seem to care if their friends lived or died.
Mila's stomach churned when she saw the blood pooling on the white tile floors.
Fuck, she hated violence.
"You tackled me," the man said.
"Pretty sure I saved you," Mila shot back, turning her head so she wouldn't see the bodies, wouldn't see the blood.
His eyes finally focused fully on her face. They were dark and unreadable. Assessing.
"You didn't hesitate," he said.
"Neither did you," she replied. "You could've moved a bit faster, you know."
"I was watching."
"That's comforting."
He didn't smile but Mila could tell that he was amused.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
The man's grip tightened again, this time at the back of her neck. Not painful. Grounding. Mila hated how it steadied her breathing.
"We're leaving," he said.
"What?" Mila stared at him. "No. I need a doctor."
"You'll get one."
"I need a hospital, with doctors, and pain meds, and people who know what they are doing," she clarified.
He ignored that.
Men cleared a path toward the door and when the man was satisfied, he stood, lifting Mila with him easily. Her feet barely touched the ground before she was forced forward, half-dragged, half-carried through the wreckage.
"Hey!" she protested. "I didn't sign up for this."
"You inserted yourself," he replied calmly.
"Because you were about to get shot!"
"And now you were shot instead."
Mila glared at him. "You're welcome."
Cold air hit her face as they stepped outside. A black car waited at the curb, its engine running. The back door was already open, angled toward them, like someone had expected exactly where they would come out.
"You can let me out at the corner," Mila said automatically as he steered her toward it. She clutched her laptop to her chest like it mattered, like it anchored her to normal life. She adjusted her large black-rimmed glasses with shaking fingers. "I'm not getting involved in whatever this is."
"It's too late for that," he replied. "You got involved the moment you saved me from a bullet."
He shoved her into the back seat.
Mila hit the leather and gasped as pain flared again. Before she could scramble away, he climbed in after her, closing the door with a solid thud that cut off the outside world.
"Home," he said to the driver through the rearview mirror.
The car pulled away.
Mila's heart pounded as the city blurred past the tinted windows. She pressed herself against the far door, breathing hard, trying to think past the pain and fear.
"You can't just take people," she sputtered.
"I can," he replied. "And I just did."
"That doesn't make it right."
"I didn't say it did."
She stared at him. "Why are you taking me?"
"You saved my life."
"That doesn't mean you own me."
"No," he said evenly. "It means I owe you."
She scoffed. "And you are paying me back by kidnapping me?"
"I'm paying you back by making sure you stay alive," he grunted, leaning against the black leather seats of the back seat. "You were seen with me," he continued. "You touched me. You're now connected."
Mila's chest tightened. She hated that the logic made sense.
"You won't be safe going back," he continued. "Not now."
She clenched her jaw. "So I'm collateral damage."
"No," he said. "You're my responsibility."
His hand lifted and settled again at the back of her neck, firm and steady. Mila froze, anger tangling with a strange sense of security she didn't want to acknowledge.
"What's your name?" she demanded.
He watched her for a moment, then answered.
"Dante."
Mila swallowed.
"Dante," she repeated. "Let me go. Please. I don't know what is going on, I won't tell anyone, even if I did. But I have to get back."
He leaned closer, his presence filling the space until she had nowhere to retreat.
"No," he said.
The car accelerated, carrying them away from the café, from the life she'd been trying to hold together, and deeper into something Mila knew she wouldn't be walking away from anytime soon.