Chapter 3 - The Armored Glass
The inside of Leandro’s Maybach felt like another world entirely. The city noise vanished the second the heavy, soundproof door clicked shut. The interior smelled of expensive leather, polished cedar, and a subtle trace of sandalwood cologne that belonged entirely to the man sitting beside me.
I sat back against the butter-soft upholstery, suddenly hyper-aware of how wide my hips were against the seat, how simple my coat was compared to the handcrafted luxury surrounding us.
Leandro noticed. He took off his tuxedo jacket, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt, and leaned back, loosening his bow tie with one hand.
"Take a breath, Clare," he said softly. "The trial by fire is over."
I let out a long, shuddering exhale that ended in a nervous laugh. "I think that was less of a fire and more of an execution. Wesley looked like he was about to faint."
"Wesley is a coward who preys on people he thinks won't fight back," Leandro said, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler from a built-in console. He offered it to me. "Bourbon?"
"A little water would be better, if you have it. My head is spinning."
He produced a bottle of mineral water, poured it into a glass, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, and that same electric static from the dance floor jumped between us. I took a sip, trying to ground myself.
"So," I began, watching the neon signs of Hennepin Avenue blur past in the rain. "Do you usually ruin men's family businesses over bad dinner jokes?"
"I don't ruin businesses over bad jokes," Leandro replied evenly. "I ruin businesses over disrespect. Wesley's family has been sloppy with their deliverables for six months. I was already looking for a reason to cut them loose. He simply handed me the shears."
"Convenient."
"Efficient," he corrected.
He took a slow sip of his bourbon, his hazel eye studying me in the dim light of the cabin. "Tell me about yourself, Clare. Not the story you tell to get through charity galas. The real one."
I looked down at my hands. "There isn't much to tell. I'm a senior layout designer for a boutique publishing house in the North Loop. I grew up in Saint Paul. My father was a mechanic, and my mother was a school nurse. When my dad got sick three years ago, the medical bills piled up, so I took extra freelance gigs to help keep my mother in her house. Tonight was supposed to be a professional networking event. My boss gave me his ticket because he had the flu."
"And you spent weeks saving for that dress." It wasn't a question; it was an observation.
I felt a flash of self-consciousness, but I held my chin up. "Yes. I did. Because even if I don't belong in ballrooms with trust-fund heiresses, I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere beautiful for one night."
Leandro was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of the commanding edge he used in public.
"When the crash happened," he said, turning his face toward the window so the shadows accentuated the deep ridges of his scars, "I spent three months in a medically induced coma. When I woke up, the first thing the doctors gave me was a mirror. They wanted me to be prepared."
I didn't interrupt. I barely breathed.
"Half my friends disappeared within a week," he continued. "The women I had dated—the socialites who claimed to adore me—suddenly had conflicting schedules. People who used to look me in the eye started staring at the carpet whenever I entered a boardroom. They saw a monster."
"They saw their own shallowness reflected back at them," I said softly.
Leandro turned back to me, something profound shifting in his expression. "Perhaps. But after a while, you begin to accept the isolation. You armor yourself with it. You make them fear you because fear is cleaner than pity."
He leaned in slightly, his gaze piercing. "Then tonight, a woman with warm eyes and a sharp tongue sat next to me. She didn't flinch when I looked at her. She didn't look away. And when she laughed, she wasn't doing it to win a favor or save a contract. She was just... real."
My throat tightened. "Leandro..."
Before he could respond, the driver’s voice came over the intercom, tight and professional. "Boss. Gray Dodge Charger has been tracking us since Third Street. They blew two reds to stay behind us."
The warmth in the cabin vanished instantly.
Leandro didn't panic. His posture simply shifted—from an introspective gentleman to a hardened commander in the span of a single heartbeat. His hand reached down toward the side pocket of his door, slipping around the grip of a concealed firearm.
"How many inside, Marco?" Leandro asked, his voice dead calm.
"Looks like two. Heavily tinted. They aren't trying to hide."
Leandro tapped the glass divider. "Take the Lowry Avenue Bridge. Do not head toward Clare's apartment."
My stomach dropped into my shoes. "What's happening?"
"Stay down, Clare," Leandro instructed, his hand gently but firmly pressing my shoulder down toward the cushioned seat. "Keep your head below the window line."
"Are they—are they shooting at us?"
"The glass is reinforced ballistic steel," he said, peering calmly out the side mirror. "A handgun won't penetrate it. But I don't intend to let them scratch the paint."
The Maybach accelerated violently, pinning me back against the seat. The heavy engine roared as Marco took a hard left, tires screeching against the wet asphalt. Behind us, through the rear windshield, I saw the twin halogen headlights of the gray sedan lunging forward, aggressively tailing our bumper.
"Morozov?" Marco called out over the speaker.
"Or someone hired by them," Leandro answered coldly. "They knew I would be leaving the gala late. They didn't count on me leaving early."
He looked down at me, seeing the sheer terror in my eyes. The adrenaline in the car was suffocating, but Leandro reached out with his free hand and wrapped his fingers around mine.
"Look at me, Clare."
I forced my eyes away from the roaring window and looked into his face.
"You are completely safe," he said, his tone entirely steady. "I give you my word. Nothing will touch you while you are in this car."
Marco cut hard across the bridge approach, cutting off a semi-truck with pinpoint precision. The pursuing sedan tried to follow, but a blaring horn and the massive grill of the eighteen-wheeler blocked its path, forcing the gray car to swerve violently into a snowbank on the median.
Metal crunched. Glass shattered in the distance behind us.
"They're immobilized, Boss," Marco said calmly.
"Notify our sweepers to collect them," Leandro replied. "I want names before dawn."
"Copy that."
The car settled back into a smooth, cruising speed. Leandro let out a quiet breath, slowly holstering his weapon. He looked over at me, his eyes full of an emotion that looked dangerously close to regret.
"I apologize, Clare," he murmured. "I should not have brought you into this."
I slowly sat back up, smoothing down the folds of my green dress with trembling hands. "Is that your life? Every day?"
"Not every day," he said with a grim, humorless smile. "Sometimes it rains."
Ten minutes later, the car pulled up in front of my modest brick apartment building in South Minneapolis. It was an ordinary street, quiet and unassuming, bathed in the orange glow of old street lamps. It looked completely alien compared to the luxury and violence I had just witnessed.
Marco stepped out and opened the door.
Leandro didn't get out, but he reached into his breast pocket and produced a heavy, textured black card with embossed gold lettering. He pressed it into my hand.
"That is my personal number," he said. "If anyone approaches you, if anything feels wrong—call me immediately. I will have a car stationed on your street tonight."
"Leandro, you don't have to—"
"I do," he interrupted, his voice fiercely protective. "You entered my orbit tonight, Clare. And until I ensure the sky is clear, you are under my umbrella. Do you understand?"
I looked at the heavy card in my palm, then back at his scarred, unforgettable face.
"Thank you for the dance, Leandro."
A rare, soft smile touched his lips. "The pleasure was entirely mine. Get some sleep, Clare."
May you like
I stepped out of the vehicle and walked up the front steps of my building, my heart pounding in my ears. As I unlocked the front door and looked back, the Maybach remained parked at the curb, its lights idling in the mist, waiting until I was safely inside.
***
