Ordinary in all the Ways that Made it Precious

Ordinary in all the Ways that Made it Precious
Lola

The morning was ordinary in all the ways that made it precious.

Sunlight slid across the hotel suite’s floor like warm silk, catching on dust motes and the chrome edge of Enzo’s espresso machine. The city beyond the glass was already loud—sirens somewhere distant, a fountain down on the Strip hissing into life—but inside it was just coffee, quiet, and the squeak of her sneakers because she couldn’t stop bouncing.

“Mall day!” she declared, arms flung wide like she was christening a ship. The hoodie she’d half-zipped swung open, sports bra flashing; her braid wasn’t even braided yet—more like a rope she’d given up on halfway through. “I am going to buy clothes that aren’t trauma-adjacent. Imagine!”

Enzo didn’t look up from the tablet he was reviewing, but the line of his mouth flattened like a door closing. “You’re not going with less than twelve men.”

She stopped mid-bounce. “Twelve? That’s more than the president. Which—hate to break it to you—I am not.”

“You’re worth more than the president,” he said, voice calm enough to be a warning.

God, that line shouldn’t make my chest hurt the good way. “Enzo,” she groaned, grabbing a throw pillow and thunking it into his shoulder. “This is a mall run, not a raid.”

“You don’t raid anything without me,” he returned, eyes still on the tablet, but softer now at the edges.

She flopped across his lap dramatically, limbs everywhere, because being reasonable had never once worked on him. “Fine. But if all twelve soldiers follow me into Victoria’s Secret, we’re starting a rumor so catastrophic your grandchildren will feel it.”

His knuckles slid against her knee, absentminded. “Then Nico leads the detail. He’s enough.”

“Compromise,” she said, popping up. “I love when you play the hits.” She cupped his jaw, kissed the corner of his mouth, quick as a bright thing. “You’re a tyrant, but you’re my tyrant.”

Nico strolled in at the exact wrong moment to hear that. He paused, taking them in, then deadpanned, “If this is about me carrying shopping bags, I’m faking my death.”

“You would never,” Lola said, rolling off Enzo and onto her feet in one spring. “You live to suffer beautifully.” She pointed at him like a ringmaster. “Also, fries. The food court calls to you.”

One corner of Nico’s mouth tipped. “You think I can be bribed with fries.”

“Everyone can be bribed with fries,” she said solemnly. “God made them that way so the world could have peace.”

Enzo muttered—santa pazienza \[holy patience\]—and finally set the tablet aside to look at her properly. His gaze snagged on the half-finished braid, the hoodie she hadn’t decided to zip or not, the way she was practically vibrating. The briefest smile, a ghost passing through. “Text me when you arrive. When you move. When you so much as look at a dressing room.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she saluted, then stole one more kiss he caught and deepened until she forgot she was supposed to be sassy. He let her go reluctantly, like the word hurt in his mouth.

I’ll bring you back something stupid, she thought at him—a little prayer, a little promise. Maybe a ridiculous shirt he’ll pretend to hate and wear in secret.

“Let’s go, trouble,” Nico said, keys already in hand.

Trouble. She pretended not to love that.

—

The motorcade slid into daylight with professional indifference. Two black SUVs bracketing theirs, another in front, one more at the rear. Four men already ahead on foot in the mall’s outer ring, earpieces tucked, caps low—spotters disguised as morning joggers and bored tourists. Two pairs drifted the parking levels like lazy sharks. The last two rode shotgun in the flanking cars, eyes up, rifles cased but ready. Twelve, as promised. Overkill to anyone else. Baseline to Enzo.

Lola cracked her window and let Vegas air swirl in—hot concrete and cheap perfume, somebody’s cigarettes a lane over. She tucked her half-done braid under her hoodie and propped her chin in her palm, watching the Strip roll by like the world’s gaudiest conveyor belt.

“You ever notice,” she said, “how malls are basically people zoos? Like enclosures. Teens in their natural habitat, moms with strollers doing migration patterns, dads sedated on benches holding shopping bags like ceremonial offerings.”

From the driver’s seat, Nico snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right,” she argued happily. “The food court is the watering hole. You can tell the strongest species by who secures the last slice of pizza without bloodshed.”

“Do you always build ecosystems out of errands?”

“Yes,” she said promptly. “It’s called enrichment. For my handlers.” She shot him a sideways grin. “You’d be bored without me.”

“I was bored before you,” he said, deadpan. “Now I’m tired.”

“Wow.” She clutched her chest. “Rude. I hope your sauce burns tonight.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. He was beautiful when he forgot to guard his mouth like that. Dangerous, sure—everything about the way he watched the mirrors said predator—but soft for her in ways she hadn’t known she was starved for.

Don’t get mushy. Buy bikinis. Focus.

She flicked the radio to something with a ridiculous beat, jabbed a finger at the dashboard like she’d discovered fire. “Pre-game. We will acquire: two bikinis that say ‘island goddess’ and none that say ‘warden please arrest me.’”

“Is there a difference?” he asked.

“Subtle,” she said. “Vibes.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Science.”

“I’m going to make you carry everything,” she warned.

“You’re not carrying anything,” he said at once.

Her heart did that ugly-hopeful pull it always did when the men in her life said you don’t have to be strong right now. “Fine,” she said lightly. “You can be the mall mule.”

“Romantic,” he muttered.

“You love me,” she sing-songed, because it was true and because teasing it into the air made truth feel less like a blade and more like a ribbon.

His hands tightened infinitesimally on the wheel. “Yeah,” he said simply.

She swallowed and turned her face to the window so he wouldn’t see all of it. The Strip gave way to parking lots and palms, white heat wobbling over asphalt. She opened and closed her hand once, twice.

You’re safe. You’re allowed to be excited about dumb things like swimsuits and sunscreen. You can want a future without listening for footsteps.

Nico took them toward the back of the lot, away from the clustered cars and the choke of the main entrance. Their lead SUV idled two rows over; the rear unit rolled past to take the far aisle. The four foot spotters had already posted at corners—one by the revolving doors, one by a pillar, two cutting slow arcs that overlapped. A pair in the flank vehicles scanned rooflines. Another pair drifted along the sidewalk like they had nowhere better to be. The net looked loose. It wasn’t.

Nico eased the SUV into a space by the curb, not far from the entrance. The morning crowd floated between cars and glass—teenagers bleached by Nevada sun, tourists with cameras at the wrong time, a woman tugging a sullen pug in a sweater. A security guard in a neon vest yawned like vigilance was optional.

Nico killed the engine and scanned without looking like he was scanning. Mirrors. Roof. Reflections in chrome bumpers. The way he did everything—controlled, quiet, a study in I don’t miss.

“Okay,” he said. “Rules.”

Lola groaned for sport. “Ugh.”

“You don’t go out of sight.”

“Fine.”

“You don’t disappear into dressing rooms without me clearing them first.”

“Creep,” she said, and then softened it with a smile. “Fine.”

“If I say car, we’re in the car.”

She sobered. “Fine.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and reached across her to pop the lock. Men in their periphery adjusted positions, angles shifting like birds on a wire. The radio on Nico’s vest clicked alive—two soft acknowledgments from the foot team, a third from the rear cover. Clear. Clear. Clear.

He climbed out first—habit, duty, love; she didn’t know how to rank them and maybe there wasn’t a difference—and came around, hand out, palm up, that half-smile beginning because she was probably already making trouble in her brain.

“C’mon, trouble. Let’s—”

The sound cracked the morning clean in half.

Not a backfiring car. Not a dropped pallet. Not a two-by-four slammed by a careless worker. A shot—flat, cruel, final.

For a half-second her mind tried to file it under movie noise. Then Nico’s body jerked like something had yanked him backward by a string, and he went down hard on the asphalt. The outstretched hand that had been for her curled as if it could catch his life. A red bloom spread under his ribs, darker than any red had a right to be.

Sound did something strange—rushed away and then back like the ocean. Someone screamed. Later she would know it was her.

No. No, no, no—get up.

Their men erupted—shouts snapped to positions, weapons drawn behind cover, angles taken on rooflines and sight lines. “Source?” “North-northwest—no second flash.” “Hold fire—crowd!” “Call it!” Radios burred, bodies moved, and there was still no second shot. One and done. Surgical.

Lola didn’t feel her legs move. One moment she was upright. The next her knees hit hot pavement and her palms were on Nico’s chest like instinct could stuff the bullet back in. Her fingers came away slick. He was trying to breathe around the ruin in his chest, lips parted, eyes blown wide and fixed on nothing and on her, both at once.

“Hey, hey—Nic, look at me. Look at me.” Her voice was shredded, and she didn’t care. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Liar. You don’t get to lie to him.

People were shouting—security roaring useless instructions, a tourist crying into a phone, tires screeching, doors slamming, somewhere a child wailing like the world had tilted. One of their guards slid into a low crouch at her flank and covered her body with his, sighting over her shoulder, murmuring “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” like a litany. Another tore his belt free for pressure. “EMS en route!” “Three out—two if they run!” “Hold perimeter!”

“Pressure!” someone barked.

“I’ve got it,” she heard, and only later realized the voice was hers. Both of her hands were on him—one clamped over the wound, the other cupping his cheek—because if she held him in two places maybe he’d have to stay in them.

Nico’s lashes fluttered. His eyes found her properly for a breath—like surfacing once when you know the next wave will take you under.

She bent her forehead to his, breath shaking, the world too bright for ruin. “I’m here,” she whispered, a promise and a prayer. “I’m right here.”