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“Bass, I don’t want to mess up your business.”

I let my hand drift into her silky hair. I grip it lightly. She gasps the way I love. “Let me worry about business. Tonight, all you have to think about is taking my big dick, letting me fuck you and fill you, letting me fuck your pretty mouth and your gorgeous tits, letting me come so hard I forget my own name between your thighs.”

I kiss her hard. I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. If anyone spots us, they’ll talk, but that won’t be so bad. The Don likes his pretty young wife. Can anyone blame him? She’s beautiful, and that dress? Practically begging for it.

But I know, the only begging she’ll do is later, on her knees, for my cock in her mouth.

She whimpers into my kiss. The heat from her is intense. I move tighter, my thigh between her legs. It’s right across the line, and I love it, breaking this rule. She moans and clenches, grinding down, skirt hiking up.

“Bass, shit,” she groans. “We have to go.”

“Come on.”

I take her hand. I’m fighting back a hard dick. I don’t want to storm through the room with my cock straining my trousers. Mari holds my arm tightly, her face flushed, her lips swollen from my kiss. She looks like sex and sin and everything I need. We cross together and I wave away a couple attempts at conversation. I don’t have time for it anymore.

Out front, I pause and look around, trying to find my driver. He parked nearby but I don’t see the car. Mari eagerly tugs at my arm. “Maybe he’s down here?” She leads me away from the building down the block toward a stretch of street where the lights are out.

I look over my shoulder. Weren’t we parked the other way? But I hesitate, eyes drawn to Mari’s neck, to her slim shoulders and her long arms, to the curve of her waist and the way her dress drapes over her ass. The muscles of her back move as she walks and she glances at me, face bright and alive, beautiful, more beautiful than I’ve ever seen, and my chest aches thinking about her leaving, about losing her. And why do I keep calling her love? And why do I keep thinking of her as my wife? When she’s a business deal at best, and a heartbreak waiting to happen at worst?

Tires scream. That’s the only warning I get. A truck roars down the block, its high beams on, blinding me. I grab Mari and turn, sprinting two steps, three steps, four, throwing the pair of us toward the ground when the gunfire erupts.

It’s hellstorm. It’s nightmare. Bullets rip into the facade of the store behind us, shattering the window, raining glass all over. I land hard, rolling to cover Mari with my body. More glass breaks as the bullets hit the car we’re hiding behind, and I hold her tight, curling over her, and I can’t think of anything but keeping her safe. Please, God, please, I haven’t asked you for anything in a long time, not since Dario, but please, if you’re here—don’t let her get hurt.

The shooting goes on forever until it abruptly comes to a stop. The truck engine revs and I smell burning rubber as it careens into the night, tail end swerving, people screaming and yelling, chaos and confusion as bodies pour out from the nearby businesses.

“Mari!” I pull back, loosening my grip on her. “Mari, hey, Mari, fuck, baby, are you okay? Baby, talk to me!”

There’s blood on her dress. Red splashed across the green in ugly, matted splotches. She groans and holds up her arm, grimacing at the nasty slice, a piece of glass still trapped in the cut. “I’m okay,” she says with a grunt as she pulls the glass out. “Ow, shit, that hurts.”

I get to my feet, head pounding, and help Mari up. I take off my jacket and wrap it around the cut on her arm. People are running, a dozen phones are out, and I don’t know how I’ll explain this, how I’ll smooth it over, but I can’t care about any of that right now.

My wife’s hurt. My god, my wife got hurt, and if that truck had been even a little more subtle, she might be dead.

Because of me.

20

MARI

Ten stitches hold me together. I’ve never gotten stitches before. They weren’t pleasant and I’ll always have a scar, but at least we’re still alive.

Bass is quiet at the hospital. He’s quiet on the ride home and he’s quiet in bed after he makes sure I’m tucked in. He leaves the bathroom light on like he usually does and tosses and turns. I doubt he gets much sleep.

I want to ask questions. Who was that? Who would want to kill us? But I know the answers, or at least I know them in general.

Bass is a criminal, and criminals have enemies.

I grew up in this life. My father was on the outside though, not really central to the Escalante, so the violence of our business always felt like it was happening far away. The Mexican side of our family does most of the killing while we try to keep a lower profile. No need to alert the authorities about us. Better to be smart and quiet.

So I never felt it firsthand. What it’s like to be an outlaw.

I’m not a fan.

The dreams are bad. Guns shooting over and over, my body falling through a glass floor, and Bass trying to catch me but always missing, always reaching, fingers brushing mine, but never close enough.

I wake with a start and he’s sitting in a chair near the bed.

“Bass? What are you doing?”