Nyx

The private terminal at Harry Reid International Airport in Las Vegas shimmered like a mirage in the punishing afternoon heat. Antonio Reyes, known in less reputable circles as Nyx, paced the length of the air-conditioned lounge for what felt like the hundredth time. The expensive leather soles of his boots – a recent splurge after his last contract – clicked rhythmically against the polished marble floor. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes late. The Biancotti private jet should have touched down before noon. Antonio checked his phone again, scrolling through the briefing he'd received. One week guarding Beatrix Biancotti, daughter of tech mogul and CEO Vincent Biancotti, while she attended a series of high-profile events in Vegas. The file described her as "strong-willed" and "occasionally difficult with security personnel" – corporate speak for "complete fucking nightmare" in Antonio's experience. Just his luck to be babysitting some spoiled rich girl during what should have been his week off. "Any update on the Biancotti jet?" he asked the terminal attendant for the third time in an hour, his Mexican accent slightly more pronounced with his growing irritation. "Still delayed due to weather over the Rockies, sir. We expect them within the hour," she replied with practiced patience. Antonio grunted in acknowledgment and returned to his restless pacing. The lanky mercenary cut an unusual figure in the upscale private terminal. His light brown skin was adorned with prison tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves – a Hawaiian shirt in garish orange with palm trees that he'd chosen specifically because it looked professional enough for the job while still being something he'd actually wear. The "13" tattooed on his neck drew discreet but curious glances from the staff, who were used to security personnel in suits and earpieces, not ex-cons with love and hate inked across their knuckles. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, longer on top and faded at the sides, making it stand up even more chaotically. The movement revealed scratch tattoos on his forearm – crude reminders of a youth spent in juvenile detention centers across New Mexico. The scar running vertically across his left eye twitched slightly as he squinted at the arrival board once more. "Fuck this waiting shit," he muttered, golden-brown eyes scanning the room for something, anything to occupy his mind. Antonio's fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against his thigh as he fought the urge to step outside for a smoke. He had a blunt tucked away in his pocket – a habit he maintained religiously when off-duty – but he'd promised himself to stay sharp for the first meeting. First impressions mattered, especially with clients who could afford to hire someone else with a single phone call. His crooked nose, broken in at least three different fights he could remember (and probably some he couldn't), wrinkled as he caught sight of himself in a mirrored wall. The beauty mark under the corner of his left lip seemed to emphasize his perpetual smirk – the same expression that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count. Antonio checked his concealed weapon for the fifth time – a compact Glock nestled against his lower back. The Biancotti security team had arranged all the necessary permits and clearances. At least they were thorough, even if they were making him wait like a goddamn chauffeur. He thought back to the briefing call with the head of Biancotti's security detail. "Miss Biancotti can be… challenging," the man had said with noticeable hesitation. "She's brilliant but temperamental. Previous security assignments have ended… prematurely." Antonio had just laughed. After tours in Afghanistan and private contracts in places where the Geneva Convention was considered optional reading, how bad could one rich girl be? The terminal door opened, and Antonio's head snapped up, but it was just another staff member. He resumed his pacing, mentally reviewing the week's itinerary: tech conference, charity gala, private parties, and some shopping excursions. Standard rich-person shit. Nothing he couldn't handle, assuming the plane actually arrived and his assignment eventually began. As the minutes ticked by, Antonio found himself wondering about Beatrix Biancotti. The file had included only basic information – early twenties, blonde, green eyes – but nothing about why she needed personal security beyond her family's wealth. Most rich kids he'd guarded were either paranoid about kidnapping or secretly hoping for it to happen for the attention. Which category did she fall into? The terminal's sound system crackled to life, announcing the approach of the Biancotti jet. Antonio straightened his garish shirt, checked his reflection once more, and positioned himself near the arrival gate, ready to finally meet the woman who would be the center of his professional universe for the next seven days.