HIS BODYGUARD

Chapter 1: The Pilot Episode

"Uncle."

"Step."

"Away."

The wailing basement comes to rest with the quiet yet commanding din of her voice.

The gun was steady in her hands, aimed at his head. Not a sign of fear in her eyes—only a cold, emerald gaze, frightening enough to make Valentino Manzel pause.

"Little McNeil, it's been a long time since I last saw you." His eyes were oddly pleased. Her once straight, long black hair had grown beyond her shoulders, and her youthful features had matured into those of an elegant woman.

Her facial structure was more defined, her lips painted with red matte lipstick. Already tall, her frame was made even taller by pointed heels, and her red dress with a thigh-high slit accentuated her tiny waist.

Sure, scars littered her body here and there, but she wore them with pride. Her skin's texture wasn't perfect either, but those flaws didn't bother her.

"You've grown up." His remark earned him an eye roll.

"You've grown old." She smirked, and he chuckled softly.

Valentino's eyes shifted back to Gregory McNeil, who was still on the ground, his eyes tightly shut.

"Very well, then," Valentino said as he stood upright and adjusted his coat. "You're lucky to have a daughter like her—fierce, beautiful, and intelligent. I'll spare you at her mercy."

Valentino shot her a rare, soft smile.

"Did you sip someone else's whiskey this morning?" she asked, referring to his compliment, considering he had never given her one before.

His dark green eyes were nearly invisible in the dim light of the basement. "I need my payment by the 28th of August, Gregory." His voice grew sterner as he addressed his brother.

"This is your last warning."

As Valentino climbed the creaky stairs, he stopped just in front of her gun's muzzle.

"Have fun at college, little McNeil," he said, a trace of uncanny sincerity hidden in his voice. Then, he walked out of the room, leaving only the memories of terror behind.

One Month Later

"Dad, breakfast is set on the table, and the dirty dishes are loaded into the dishwasher," I tell my father, who is still half-asleep in his room on his single rosewood bed.

I wait for a response, but nothing.

"Dad?" I call out as I climb the two flights of stairs.

Entering his room, I say, "I'm off to college," as his back faces me. With some effort, his left arm rises, and the back of his hand waves at me as he mutters, "Bye."

I walk out of the tiny room, brushing my feet against the mat outside the door. The floor in his room is sticky.

Dad's room is a mess—I'll have to tidy it up soon.

I check my watch; it's already seven-fifteen. I rush down the stairs and let out a low sigh.

I grab my backpack from the two-seater couch and walk to the foyer.

I take one last look at myself in the tall mirror attached to the back of the front door. My tight black jeans, simple white shoes, and teal-colored, long-sleeved top meet the dress code. My hair is a mess, but I don't have time to fix it now.

Picking up the house keys from the stand, I clutch the doorknob.

"Alright, Mom, wish me luck," I whisper to myself as I step out the door and face the familiar scene of the daily routine.