Two
1377 Words
Mason
How the hell am I supposed to tell my wife that while her body lay unconscious and bleeding, I was trapped in this hospital room for a week? I fought. God, I fought. I hacked into every ounce of video footage from every camera across this city. I made calls until my voice gave out. I threatened people who never should have been on my radar.
But every lead was a f*****g dead end.
And now Esmé is awake. And those eyes I love—those green fire-lit eyes—are staring at me like she might end the world if I hesitate.
She warned me.
She told me not to let my guard down.
She felt it.
And I didn’t listen.
I married into a cartel. I married the Capo. I married the most lethal woman in Puerto Rico—and I still let myself be convinced that hospitals were safe.
She will never blame me.
But I will never forgive myself.
“We’ve found nothing,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck like a coward. “Not a trace.”
Her eyes narrow. I’m not afraid of my wife—
…I am f*****g terrified of failing her.
“Who do we have working on this?” she asks, sliding off the bed. She wobbles—pain slicing through her—but takes another step.
Pride and rage holding her upright.
“Esmé, you need to recover. You can’t go rampaging while you still have stitches.”
I say it softly, but she hears the demand beneath it.
She turns her head, and if looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead at her feet.
“You’re lucky I don’t have a gun near me,” she growls, jaw locked. “Or we’d be wearing matching wounds.”
Fair.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Javier and Jason haven’t rested. They’re the only two I trust right now.”
I step closer, reaching for her hand. She slaps it away without hesitation.
“I need to hold you,” I whisper. “If I don’t, I’m going to break.”
Her eyes flick up, and for a moment her armor cracks. “If you hold me,” she murmurs, “I will fall apart. And I can’t. We can’t.
Aaliyah and Thomas need us strong.”
She means it.
But I don’t care.
I pull her into my chest anyway, arms crushing her against me. For a heartbeat she stays stiff. Then, the dam breaks.
The tiniest sound leaves her—the kind of broken whimper that guts men like me. Her fists bunch at my shirt as her knees buckle. I catch her weight and sink with her onto the bed. Her cries turn raw—tears soaking my neck.
I had been holding my pain in a chokehold, forcing it down my throat until it was poison.
But now—I let it go.
Our daughter is not dead. But she is gone. And that absence is a slow, strangling death.
She beats her fists into my chest, hysterical and feral.
“Why? Why her?! Why?”
I have no answer.
All I can do is hold her while she screams into my skin, my soul shredding each second.
Hours pass like that. Crying. Silence. More crying.
Finally, she lifts her head.
Eyes puffy.
Nose red.
Still the most beautiful woman on the goddamn planet.
She kisses me hard — not soft and sweet — but desperate, starved. If she weren’t injured, if our daughter weren’t missing, I would bend her over that hospital bed and make her forget every shred of pain.
“I love you,” I breathe against her lips.
Her voice is a jagged whisper. “Let’s go get our daughter.”
She tries to stand—pain cuts through her body. She nearly collapses.
“If you wince again, Esmé,” I warn gently, “I will tie you to this bed until you heal.”
She grips my forearms, smirking through tears. “You wish.”
No, baby. I don’t wish. I would.
I open the door for her.
The four shadows outside straighten instantly.
These men… hardened, quiet, professional killers.
Hand-chosen. Vetted while she slept.
Men who would jump into hell if I ordered it.
She pauses. “Who the hell are they?”
“We replaced the ones we lost,” I tell her. “We needed more security.”
She raises a hand, halting me as she faces them directly. “Did you follow protocol? How do we know we can trust them?”
Her authority snaps like a whip. Even freshly injured, she is the Capo. These men answer to her blood, not my marriage.
“They’re vetted,” I assure her. “Trained by demons, I swear. They have no f*****g soft spots.”
She stares them down, unimpressed. “Forgive me if trust doesn’t come easily. My daughter was taken.”
Her gaze swings back to me, dangerous and sharp.
“Well?” she demands.
“Protocol was followed, mi reina,” I say. “Do you not see the fear they radiate?”
They’ve all subtly tightened their circle around us.
She hadn’t noticed—because they did it perfectly.
She crosses her arms. “I see the man in front of me acting like he has a death wish if he doesn’t apologize.”
I grin. “I need you angry, Esmé. Angry means unstoppable. I’ll apologize after we’re home with dark circles and a baby latched to your breasts, refusing to let you sleep. Until then, I’m going to annoy you like a fly on shit.”
She scoffs and storms down the hall.
We follow.
Outside, six black SUVs line the curb. Her eyes flick over them.
“You upgraded security?” she asks, suspicious.
I guide a hand to her back, ushering her carefully toward the open door. “I’m not taking chances anymore.”
She murmurs something under her breath—in Spanish—but climbs in.
I follow.
She buckles her seatbelt, then turns to me.
“How many men did we lose? I need names.”
“At the estate,” I say. “And they were honored properly.”
Her throat bobs. She hates that burden.
She still carries every funeral like a scar on her ribs.
“What else?”
Everything.
“We have more men. More ammo. The house is fortified. All SUVs bulletproof. And—”
I brace myself
“You’re wearing a vest.”
Her head turns slowly, like a horror movie villain coming alive.
“Mason Walker…”
Fuck.
My last name sounds like a threat now.
“…I will not be wearing a vest when I’m already surrounded by armor on wheels and killers on legs.”
Yeah. I’ll strap it on her unconscious if I have to.
But now is not the time to die on that hill.
I nod with a gulp.
She looks out the window.
“Will my mother be at the estate?”
“Yes.”
She nods. Her mother is her anchor—the iron she was forged from.
“Who knows about the kidnapping?” she asks.
“Leo and his wife. Mandy and Samuel. No one else.”
No media. No panic. No weakness.
My phone buzzes.
Javier: We have video.
My pulse spikes.
“We may have something,” I tell her.
Her whisper is a shuddered prayer. “Gracias, Dios…”
She looks back at me.
“You learned Spanish?”
I shrug. “While you were… under.”
It earns me a small smile.
A tiny win.
I’d kill for more of those.
As we pass the gates of the estate, she stares. Armed men everywhere. Motion sensors. Barbed wire. New guard towers.
“You’ve gone mad.”
There’s awe in her voice beneath the disbelief.
“I guess you could say that.”
When the SUV stops, I jump out and open her door. She tries not to wince—pride in her posture, a queen returning home from battle.
But my eyes see the pain anyway.
And I promise myself—
The next screams we hear will not be ours.
- Writer
