The woman waves her hand twice to the quieter goon and he hands her a gun. She points the modified Springfield Hellcat at me with focused intent. This woman is dead-ass serious, she hasn’t come to play.
“I am not in the habit of torture or long conversations. You are either useful to me or you aren’t. As far as I can tell you’re just muscle for someone else. I want the person who hired you and maybe you’ll live, but if you’re not willing to share that information, there are other ways I can get it. Ways that don’t involve you still breathing.”
I’ve learned over the years that women in power are often more calculated and much more ruthless than men. On top of all of that, they take shit personally. Did I break her son’s arm? Yes, but only in self-defense. That asswipe tried to sneak a punch so he deserved it.
I say nothing more in response to my captor’s threat because there is nothing left to say. At this point, I need to think about how I’m going to buy myself some more time until the Kings get here. Elizabeth must be out of her mind, worried about me.
“Give me his wallet and his phone,” she commands them.
Dammit, I forgot about that. When they tased me at my car, they caught me completely off guard. I own two wallets and two phones. One set contains my official identification and the other is a burner phone and fake ID for work. I usually keep my genuine stuff in my glove compartment and not on me, but I didn’t have time to switch them out after leaving the store, so now these assholes have my actual information.
“So… we have a license with an address. A prestigious address. Right around the corner from where my friends picked you up. Interesting. You’re not only good-looking but you must make good money as well, Roman Masterson. Very impressive for someone your age.”
This is going to shit really quickly. What is taking those fuckers so long to find me?
“His phone is unlocked,” the boot kicker offers excitedly.
“Not very smart, Mr. Masterson. I see you have a picture of the wife and kid on the home screen. How quaint. She’s not what I was expecting, though. A man like you could do a lot better.”
This walking piece of plastic is dead when I get out of these restraints.
“Fuck you.”
Her eyes deaden after the insult.
“You’re sensitive about the family, huh? Well, I totally understand that because guess what? I’m the same way.”
Within seconds she lifts her arm, points and shoots with pinpoint accuracy at my right shoulder. It’s as if I’m watching in slow motion as the bullet releases from the chamber and plunges into my flesh through what feels like bone. Since they bound my hands behind my back, all I can do is bend over and grimace from the intense pain as blood oozes from the wound and trickles down my arm.
I can’t believe the bitch actually shot me.
1
ROMAN
Six Weeks Earlier
Two of the most important people in my life are fast asleep on their sides in the middle of the bed. One is snoring louder than a truck driver, but for me no woman has ever looked sexier. The other has his mouth slightly parted, drunk off of his mother’s breastmilk, and no baby in this world has ever looked more angelic.
I pull out my cell phone and snap a picture for posterity. I want to always remember the two loves of my life just like this—unfiltered and unbothered by the world. Afterward, I gently scoop my boy in my arms and take him to the nursery so they both can have a little uninterrupted rest.
Although falling asleep is a pretty common thing after Elizabeth nurses our rambunctious eight-month-son, Knox, I know that part of the reason she is dead to the world is that she is completely exhausted. No matter how much I try to help with Knox, I am no substitute for him wanting his mother’s tit. He is wiping her out in a way that I never could.
I’ve been encouraging her for three weeks now to finally wean my boy off of her breastmilk, but as usual I’ve been outvoted. Elizabeth wants him to receive all the nutritional benefits from breastmilk for at least a year, and just like a Masterson man, my son is taking full advantage of a good thing.
But something has to give.
It wasn’t that long ago that Elizabeth was bruised and battered in a horrific accident when she was pregnant with Knox that damn near took a year off of my life; yet she feeds him every couple of hours, plays many development games with him, does a full day’s work, and if she has a smidgeon of energy left, she may take pity on me and give me a lazy fuck.
But that’s the thing.
She rarely has any energy left after a day of being a wonderful mother and a responsible business owner, so lazy fucks are far and few between. Needless to say, something’s going to have to change soon, because I need to be inside of Elizabeth like I need oxygen to breathe.
A weird sounding chime goes off from the smart device on the nightstand. Even our dog, Mr. Tibbs, raises and tilts his head in question of the odd ring. I suspect it’s some sort of alarm Elizabeth has set to wake herself up from her impromptu nap.
I try turning it off quickly, but it’s too late as she reluctantly stirs from her sleep. I brush a finger down the side of her face, adjusting some stray curls behind her ear.
“Why don’t you sleep another twenty,” I whisper.
