Trigger Warning: This chapter contains an attempted assault scene (non-graphic, stopped in time). Please skip after the asterisks(read the very end) if this may be triggering.
Harry sat, ankle hooked over a knee, at the bar, leisurely sipping from the glass of beer in his hand, his eyes trained on the dance floor, on two figures in particular—tracking their movements like a sniper through a scope. Her dark ginger hair made her easy to spot in a crowd. He was clad in a crisp white shirt, the first two buttons undone, and black slacks. His black leather shoes, meticulously polished, caught the light.
His jaw set, his grip on the glass of beer tightening. He set it on the counter, tapped twice, and the bartender appeared immediately, filling it up.
"Fiesta estúpida," he murmured. (Stupid party)
He shouldn't even be here. María had asked him specifically to stay away, agreeing only that his men come along for protection. He'd tried to stay back, burying himself in work, but here he was. He'd grabbed the chance to see her face up close. To be just a few feet away from her.
After so many years.
His phone rang just then, dragging his gaze from the dance floor. For a second. He answered, eyes already finding their way back to the dancers.
"Qué?" (What?)
"Uh, Capo, Señorita María just passed out at a ping pong table, I think… uh, she might have hit her head?" (Boss)
"Might?"
Harry sighed, placed a stack of cash absentmindedly on the counter, and stood.
After a rustle on the line: "Uh. She hit her head. There is no visible bruise or fracture though—"
"Is she breathing?"
"Yes, Capo, I checked immediately."
Harry took a few steps toward the ping-pong section, gaze flicking back to the dance floor, and hestopped cold in his tracks. The two figures he'd been watching on the dance floor were moving toward the restroom. His eyes narrowed on the man's grip on her waist, her unsteady steps, the way she leaned too heavily into him. The man's eyes kept darting, checking the room.
Harry's body tensed, his sixth sense clicked—something was off. Just then the man shot a thumbs-up to the bartender. Harry's eyes darkened as he remembered the drink the bartender had given her, how quickly she'd loosened after it.
"Capo? What should I do?" The voice on the line asked, panic cutting through. The call yanked Harry's attention back, and reminded him his sister needed him, too.
Harry raked a hand through his dark, thick mane of hair, stifling the hot rage that flashed through him. This was why he didn't like working with newbies: he had to tell them what to do every fucking time. His hand clenched as the two figures disappeared through the restroom door.
"Keep her still. Don't move her head or neck. Any bleeding?" Harry asked, eyes shifting to the bartender as his blood boiled.
"No, Capo."
"Call 911. While you wait, check her airways, make sure they're clear. If she vomits, roll her carefully onto her side to avoid choking. Got it?"
"Yes, Capo."
He listened as the newbie relayed the orders to someone in the background, probably one of his men. When the line was clear, Harry continued, "Make sure she—"
"She just opened her eyes," the newbie exclaimed, cutting him off. "She's sitting up now."
Harry heard María's groan and let out a breath of relief. "Keep watching for any change in her alertness or breathing until medical help arrives. Got it?"
"Yes, Capo."
"If anything happens to her, you're as good as dead," Harry warned. He didn't wait for a reply before disconnecting.
He stalked toward the bartender, putting his phone away.
"Move," he hissed through clenched teeth at the two women waiting for their drinks.
One look at him, and the girls scurried out of his way, grabbing each other's arms. Harry gestured to the bartender. With a suspicious glint in his eyes, the bartender stepped closer, leaning forward a bit.
Harry moved like lightning: his arm drew back, snapped forward, and his fist slammed into the side of the bartender's neck, just below the jawline. The man's eyes went wide, his hands flew up as if to claw at his throat, then his knees buckled. He hit the floor with a dull thud, out cold before he even registered the pain.
Gasps. Shouts. Flurry of movements. Chaos ripped through the crowd.
Harry shook out his hand once, and stalked off. Toward the restroom, people parting in his path.
******
"Hey, easy," the man from the stripper pole murmured as Isabella stumbled, catching her with his arms just as they reached the bathroom door. "Come. Let's get you inside."
He shut the door behind them with a soft click, and flicked the lock.
Isabella leaned over the sink, groaning. "Oh God. I—"
"You'll feel better soon," he whispered, stepping up behind her. "Let me help."
His hands grabbed her waist—too firm, too familiar. They trailed lower, squeezing her butt. She jerked away but he followed, pinning her between his chest and the sink.
"Don't," Isabella slurred.
"Oh come on, baby. You were all over me out there, don't play shy now."
He leaned down and kissed her neck. He reeked of alcohol and smoke, the combination made her feel more nauseous. Her skin prickled and she shoved against his chest. Panic widened her eyes when he didn't budge. The alcohol in her system betrayed her, making her prey. He grabbed hold of her hands with one of his, a smug grin splitting his face.
"Please..." Isabella's heartbeat thundered in her chest, deafening.
"Trust me, baby, you will love every bit of this," he grinned.
He yanked a strap of her dress down, exposing her breast. His lips lowered toward her nipple. She recoiled, shoving back into the sink. His grin disappeared. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her forward.
"Behave, Bella," he hissed. "This will end faster if you do."
Her brain fogged. She barely registered the words—just the danger. Just as his lips closed around her nipple, and she tensed, a loud knock pounded on the door. Firm.
"Open the door. Now."
The man cursed, pulling back. He glanced toward a corner— toward a fake potted plant, where a tiny camera blinked red. Hidden.
"What shitty luck," he muttered. He ignored the knock, grabbed Isabella again, but another knock came—louder this time.
He snarled, "Use another fucking restroom, idiot. I'm busy."
Silence fell. Heavy. Isabella sagged against the sink, sliding to her knees. He caught her, grinning.
"Gone. Now, where were we?"
And then—BANG—someone slammed into the door, and it shuddered. The whole bathroom vibrated. The man cursed, turning toward the door just as another shudder ripped through it. The lock rattled.
"What motherfucker doesn't know when to—"
Words died on his lips as he swung the door open to reveal Harry—face thunder-dark, eyes murder-bright. Harry glanced behind him. The man took a step back quickly, hands raised.
"She's drunk, man. I was just gonna help—"
Harry's fist snapped forward.
CRUNCH.
The man's nose exploded, blood spraying as he staggered back, screaming, hands covering his nose.
"Fuck! Fuck!" He cursed. "You broke my fucking—"
Harry stepped through the door, grabbed him by the collar—and drove his knee into his gut. The man wheezed, crumpling, blood slicking his nose. Harry didn't blink.
He crouched over the man, grabbed his collar and pulled his head off the ground. He punctuated each word with a punch, knuckles cracking against bone, blood splattering on his white shirt, "Next. Time. Keep. Your. Hands. Off. What. Isn't. Yours."
From the corner of his eye Isabella crumpled; He let go, hurried over, and caught her just before she hit the ground. He tensed the moment she fell into him, her dark ginger hair splayed around her, skin soft against his touch. He adjusted her dress, reached toward her face—and stopped.
He stared down at her, and then tucked her hair away, behind her ears. She was out cold—lashes resting against her rosy cheeks, freckles dusting her fair skin. Harry was almost afraid to touch her.
He hesitated, then ran his thumb over her cheek, a deep breath shuddering through him. "I shouldn't be this close to you," he muttered under his breath. "We agreed to forget that night… and each other."
And then he cursed—his thumb had left blood trails on her cheek. He tugged his shirt free from his slacks, the crisp fabric tearing slightly as a few buttons gave way. He bunched the cotton in his hand, his movements uncharacteristically gentle as he pressed it to her face. The white darkened quickly, soaking up the thin trail of blood along her skin.
He stared down at her face, then shook his head. "Get her to a fucking hospital, fool," he cursed at himself.
He wiped his bloody hands on his slacks as well as he could, slid his arms beneath her knees and back, and gathered her gently into his arms, standing. Without a second glance at the man sprawled on the floor, he strode out of the bathroom.
The man stirred, sputtering blood, his face unrecognizable. He groaned as he turned to glance at the fake potted plant. He grinned, immediately cursing at the pain that bloomed on his face.
"Got you, Bella."