Scorpion

Mathijs

Two years later

“I suggest you let me go. Not many people can piss my wife off and live to tell the tale. She has a bit of a protective streak.”

I stare down the barrel pointed at my forehead, then nod toward the bindings tying my wrists to the disgustingly tacky foldout chair.

Props to him, though. He chose a lovely location with a stunning view of the city.

Zalak’s brother must share the sentiment since his latest investment involved building this complex from the ground up. Maybe I’ll force the council to refuse to grant him any permits for this building, and I’ll buy it right from him as a nice little present for my beautiful wife.

“On a separate note, do you mind loosening the ropes? It’s a tad tight and I’m not too fond of the burn.”

Plus, Zalak was in a good mood when she left to go ax throwing with Sergei this afternoon. I can’t imagine she’s all too happy about tonight’s unfortunate turn of events.

My head whips to the side when the butt of his gun collides with my cheek. “Shut the fuck up. You killed my father.”

Ah. Yes. Goldchild’s offspring.

At least I think he’s Goldchild’s. They both have the same sleepy eyes and bad teeth. I honestly didn’t care to ask for specifics on whose DNA he shares. I mean, whoever his father is—was—he clearly wasn’t meant to belong on Earth.

Really, he might not even be Goldchild’s son since he hasn’t asked for the operation that I inherited from the dearly departed cunt of a man. Although, I have to thank him. With the higher quality counterfeits that he designed, I’m now richer than I could have ever dreamed.

I spit out the crimson liquid to the side, careful not to get it on my clothes.

He shifts his weight and rolls his shoulders before squaring them. I narrowly stop myself from grimacing when he presses the murder machine against my forehead.

“Have you ever heard of the saying, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’?” I ask, crossing my legs and leaning back into the fucking uncomfortable chair. “My wife can have a bit of a temper. Unfortunately for you, she also has a phenomenal aim.”

“Any last words?”

My lips twist with a frown. “Yes, actually. How about duck?”

“What—”

I flinch, curling into myself to escape the rain of shattering glass. Warm liquid splatters across my face and stains my brand-new top that I just got tailored.

Goldchild Jr. drops unceremoniously to the floor of the abandoned office, and I squint out of the now-shattered window to the adjacent building a little under a mile away.

I scramble back but end up tipping over with the chair when four more panes of glass explode.

Someone’s in a bad mood.

No amount of wiggling and pulling frees my hands from the ropes. So after a minute, I give up. Which is all in good time, really, since Sergei walks in.

“Lovely to see you, old friend.”

He grunts in response. Ever the conversationalist.

The bindings loosen around my wrists, and he helps me to my feet, leaving me to rub the tenderness away.

“Mrs. Halenbeek is waiting downstairs,” Sergei says before I get a chance to ask.

Mrs. Halenbeek. The sound of that will never get old.

See? This is what I like about him. He’s a true go-getter who takes his initiative.

Note to self: get him and his wife tickets to the Bahamas for their anniversary.

I trot up to the newly installed elevators. The doors open quickly, and I use the mirrors to right my clothing. My lips curl in disgust at the four red droplets on my pristine white button-down.

“Do you mind lending me your knife?” I ask once we reach the bottom and the metal doors reopen.

Sergei hands it over without question, and I stab the elevator control panels a few times, then do the same to the outdoor ones so there’s no way anyone can use the lifts from the bottom floor. “That’s for being an asshole to my wife,” I mutter.

A couple thousand dollars of damage won’t do much to a tycoon. But word on the street is that he’s stretched himself thin on this build. So what’s a couple extra expenses?

Zalak waits in the middle of the half-built foyer, sniper strapped to her back while her arms are crossed above her pregnant belly. She’s still in the green dress she wore for our dinner date where we had a stellar private dining experience. Which ended with her complaining that the baby was pushing against her bladder and that she wanted a foot massage.

I smile at her, but she doesn’t return the sentiment.

A shiver runs down my spine at the death glare she shoots my way. If looks could kill, I would have several bullet holes in my body so I’m forced to die slowly and painfully from blood loss.

Sergei, knowing the lashing I’m about to receive, hightails it out to the waiting convoy. Traitor.

“Lieverd, fancy seeing you here.” I plant a kiss on her cheek that does nothing to quell the darkness inside of her.

“I told you not to get out of the car,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Have I told you that you look absolutely radiant tonight?” I sidle up to her side and place my hand on her stomach, hoping our daughter will kick and distract her from the fact that I’m—and I’m using Zalak’s words here—incapable of keeping myself safe.

“Don’t even start this shit with me, Halenbeek. My ankles are swollen, my back hurts, and I really need to pee.”

In our relationship, there’s no question of who wears the pants. No. Ours is a question of who’s carrying the bigger gun.

After all, I’m here to look pretty next to my wife.

“And despite those things—mistake me if I’m wrong—you still shot at your brother’s building five times.” I wrap my arm around her waist and direct her to the exit.

“My finger slipped.” Then she tacks on, “Nine times.”

There are many benefits to having your wife as your unemployed-employed self-appointed bodyguard. The main one being that no matter what happens, or how far I go, she’ll kill anyone who attempts to harm me.

And what is that if it isn’t true love?

The End.