Chapter 93: Shot in the shoulder

"I’ll fuck whoever I want to fuck, Nerissa. Or, in this case, I’ll let whoever I want suck my dick. This marriage isn’t real, and I’m not in any way committed to you."

Did he seriously just say that to me?

My fingers tighten around the gun, and I can feel my pulse pounding against my temples. I knew Lysander was an arrogant bastard, but even I didn’t think he could be this fucking stupid.

"I don’t give a flying fuck if this marriage isn’t real."

I step toward him.

"You will not, in any way, disrespect me, Lysander."

He looks at me for a moment before chuckling.

Actually chuckling.

The sound makes something ugly twist inside my stomach.

"What is it, wife?" His lips curl into that infuriating smirk. "Jealous?"

I scoff.

"Of you? Please. I couldn’t care less who you fuck. You can stick your dick in every woman in this damn city for all I care."

"That’s reassuring."

"What I won’t accept is you bringing your prostitutes into the house where I live. If you want to behave like an animal, fine. Go do it somewhere else."

He tilts his head, studying me with an expression that makes me want to throw something at his face.

"No, that’s not it."

I narrow my eyes.

"What’s not it?"

"I think you’re jealous."

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Have you suffered some sort of head injury? Because that’s the only explanation I can come up with for the absolute rubbish coming out of your mouth."

His smirk widens.

"Jealous because it wasn’t your mouth wrapped around my dick."

My mouth falls open.

For several seconds, I can only stare at him.

Did he just say that? Did this man, standing in front of me with absolutely no shame, actually suggest that I’m jealous because I wasn’t the one sucking his dick?

Oh, I am going to kill him. I am going to kill this arrogant, insufferable, unbelievably stupid bastard.

"Too bad it can never be you," he adds.

Something inside me snaps. Im no longer thinking about the consequences. I’m not thinking about the fact that we’re married, that we live under the same roof, or that shooting the Don of the Sanchez family might cause a war.

All I can think about is the smug expression on his face and I see red.

Bloody, fucking bright red.

I raise the gun, aim at him, and pull the trigger.

The shot explodes through the office and Lysander jerks backward with a sharp cry, his hand flying to his shoulder. His expression loses every trace of arrogance as shock flashes across his face, followed by pain.

A strangled whimper escapes him as blood begins seeping between his fingers, staining the fabric of his shirt.

I stare at him.

I actually fucking shot my husband.

And the worst part?

I don’t care, not even a little.

He should have known better than to mess with me. I warned him. I told him I wouldn’t tolerate being humiliated in my own home, and instead of listening, he decided to push me until I snapped.

Well, congratulations, husband.

You pushed too far.

"Fuck!" he hisses, pressing his palm harder against his shoulder.

I watch him stagger, his jaw clenched as he tries to control his breathing.

I wonder whether I should call someone but then I remember what he said to me.

Too bad it can never be you.

My anger returns with enough force to crush whatever tiny shred of concern might have been developing.

I straighten my arm and aim at him again.

This time, I won’t miss.... I wanr to hit him in the chest.

I squeeze the trigger.

Click.

I frown.

What?

I try again.

Click.

Nothing.

I look down at the gun, then back at Lysander.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I pull the trigger a third time.

Click.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! Who the hell puts only two bullets in a gun? What kind of cheap, useless weapon is this?

I shake it in disbelief, as though that might somehow convince another bullet to appear. Then I begin scanning the office, searching the desk, the shelves, and every available surface for another weapon.

There has to be something here.

A second gun. A knife. A letter opener. Hell, I’d settle for a particularly sharp pair of scissors.

Unfortunately, Lysander has other plans.

I barely have time to turn before he moves.

One second, he’s standing several feet away, bleeding from his shoulder. The next, he’s right in front of me, his good hand closes around my wrist, and the gun is wrenched from my grip.

I gasp, trying to pull away, but he catches my other arm before I can move.

His face is inches from mine, his eyes are dark with fury.

"Let go of me!"

He doesn’t. His other hand catches my arm, and he pins me against the edge of his desk. The movement sends several papers fluttering to the floor.

I glare at him, breathing hard.

Blood trickles down his arm from the wound in his shoulder, staining his shirt, but he seems more interested in me than in the bullet I just lodged in his flesh.

The bastard is actually looking at me as though I’m the one who has inconvenienced him.

Even though I kinda have.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" he asks.

I laugh bitterly. "You should have thought about that before running your mouth."

His jaw tightens.

Then he leans down.

I brace myself, every muscle in my body tensing. For one brief second, I think he’s going to hit me. I prepare for the impact, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

But he doesn’t strike me.

Instead, he brings the gun toward my face.

"Open your mouth."

My breath catches as i stare at him.

He looks calm. Almost bored. But there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s finished playing around.

And unlike me, he knows exactly how to use a gun and he won’t miss.