I continued to stand overhead focusing the gun down at the wounded teenager graveling in pain and sorrow on my bare feet. The pool of dark-crimson blood oozing slowly from his shoulder mixed with that of his father's, on the floor, that dripped from my naked skin.

"Please," he begged with tears. 

Begging not to die, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Similar skin tone and eye color to the previous assailant, his actions were only those of an innocent follower. His intentions were of harm, yes; but he was pushed by the ideological mentorship of his father. Nothing manipulates people more than the desire to please.

Something I can relate with.

It was quite ironic to see, firsthand, how nurturing established an adverse effect on our entire upbringing. Would I be where I am today if my father weren't initially a cop? I carefully glanced up at Marco who was standing in the hallway, scouring, and analyzing my bloody confrontation. In an odd theological way, it was because of my father that Macro and I were together.

Marco's hand slowly reached out, waving his fingers inward. "Give me the gun," his lips mouthed quaintly, without sound.

I was particularly glad Marco wanted to take hold of the situation. I continued to feel the adverse effects of the adrenaline flowing through me from the shots I fired earlier. Like butterflies flapping their wings to stay afloat, my body temperature and thoughts were going at a rate faster than I was used to within the past six months. I had to stop myself before I did something I would regret.

I gave Marco a slight nod before looking back down at the intruder. The teenager was young, and yet too naive, to realize the repercussions of his actions. I never had the intention to kill—even as an officer we were trained to disengage and strictly aim for non-vitals, but in this case, his father was a threat.

Like the two others before him, I did what had to be done, even though I felt every second thereafter. At least this teen had a chance—still being able to change for the better, to make his own decisions, embrace his own leadership.

I squatted down to his level. We needed to start somewhere...

"C'mon kid, just tell me who sent you?" I paused for a moment, giving him the chance to blink his tears away while I slid the gun across the hardwood floor to Marco. "I know you don't want to die. You still got your whole life ahead."

He quickly peered back at Marco, who took the gun off the floor and kept it pointed down at the teen as a precaution. Looking back at me he spoke, "Mi queridísima Santa Muerte, gracias por todo lo que has hecho, has hecho y sigue haciendo por mí, te pido que me ilumines el camino-"

"What's he saying," Marco questioned as he took a few steps forward into the bedroom.

"A prayer..." I continued to focus, listen, and internally translate as the teenager welcomed and thanked the goddess of death, Santa Muerte, for his life on earth. It didn't occur to me why he was praying to such a god until I looked up and saw the immediate shift in Marco's posture.

"Good enough." Even closer now with his right foot pointed forward, Marco's left hand gripped the pistol's trigger tightly as his other hand supported the base. Focusing his aim downward at the teenager's head, he took the direct shot.

The immediate sound of the now-dead body hitting the ground caught me off guard as I fell back, from the squatting position, onto my bare butt. I looked up at Marco, whose facial qualities now displayed a combination of aggression and thrill—this was the first time I'd seen him fire a weapon to kill. Shockingly enough, it didn't look to be his first time doing so. He squatted down and laid the gun gently on the floor. Marco first looked at the body of the teenager, assuring his death, before meeting his brown eyes with my own.

"You al' right?" He asked with a switched tone of sentiment.

I helped myself upward. "Umm," were the only two syllables I could say.

"Ten minutes," Marco nagged at the situation as he stood up from the ground. "I was gone for ten fucking minutes." He kept on placing the blame on himself. With haste, he nonchalantly walked over the teen's body and immediately wrapped his arms tight around me.

"I'm sorry, Kitten," he pleaded as he rubbed my back. "Did they hurt you?"

"Hurt, me?" I pushed out of his grip. "How many?" I promptly questioned staring at the blood that transferred from my naked body onto his shirt and sweatpants.

"How many, what?"

Marco's repurposed answer annoyed me as I leaned my body weight down onto my right foot, giving him a stern look.

"The paint job in the hallway," I pointed out, "the new door locks, the updated unit, and your high-tech toys." The little things that caught my immediate attention made sense now. "How many attempts on your life have there been?"

Marco's mouth almost formed a 'how' formation before stopping and realizing my previous profession as a police officer.

"In all honesty," he said. "I thought they would follow me, instead of attacking you."

They didn't. They didn't even know who I was. "How many?" I repeated once again.

He let out a loud sigh, "including this...five."

Five? Seems a lot for the son of a notorious crime lord. Unless... "So, when you said you were handling management?"

His eyebrows rose as he held his silence.

"Yeah, I figured that much," I replied to my question. No one kills without a purpose. Certainly not five times. Marco wasn't handling management—he was management. "And your dad," I continued, "what happened to him?"

We stood there across from one another, the metallic smell of gunpowder and spilled blood in the air. Marco's constant silence displeased me as he tried hard to find the proper way to disperse his current reality.

"Dad suffered a stroke, not soon after your conviction" he hesitantly spoke out. "He can barely speak, he can't eat. The doctors had to replace his bladder with a urine bag because he couldn't fucking take a piss anymore. On top of that, he has another goddamn tube in his stomach for pureed food-looking crap." He took a minute to regain his composure.

"I didn't mean to...hide the truth from you," he paused looking for the right words to use. "There's just been a ton of shit going on, one thing after another—stuff's already not going according to plan, and now this." He pointed to the two dead bodies on the floor. "I just. Fuck, I just wanted you to come back happy; like the way things were when we first met."

Now I felt guilty. "Explains Mr. Touchy-Feely," I noted in hopes to shift the dreary tone of the conversation.

"Yeah," he continued, "that was...um, unexpected, sorry. It was just, well...I missed you and, um... when I saw you earlier, walking down that road, it kinda reminded me of our time together, ya know."

Poor guy has been living in hell for six months. One day he thought he would get a sliver of happiness-the devil spat hellfire at his face. True, a lot did occur today-that much I'll give him.

"You're lucky I love you," I said in hopes to ease some sort of tension. "But if you 'hide the truth' from me again, I swear I will blow your fucking dick off."

"Like you did to this poor piece of shit."

"In all fairness," He looked up as I got closer, wrapping my arms around his neck, giving a kiss on his beard-pricked cheek. "Neither of them knew me."

"Oh," he sarcastically chuckled as his hands glided down my waist.

"But, because you know me on a more personal level," I gave a one-sided smirk before whispering in his left ear. "I'd fuck you up much worse than that."

"Would you now?" He commented as I pressed my body against his. Marco held my waist closer and tighter, locking me in with his arms. He firmly pressed his warm lips against my own.

Marco's surprisingly tart, tobacco-tasting, tongue flickered with my own as I welcomed his full embrace; lips moving like smooth waves, crashing, warmly, onto my shore. I was high on lust as he quickly pulled away, slightly biting and pulling my lower lip before his departure. A quick gaze upon me became instinctive as his arms caressed tightly around my ribs, drawing me closer to his promiscuous calling. I slid my hands from his neck, grabbing his shoulders with the inner tips of my fingers.

With a catching breath, he hesitantly asks, "It's okay if we don't—I mean earlier, by the foyer, you know...it has a mind of its own."

His concern for my earlier denial was welcoming, but I didn't accept it. With everything that happened today, I thought sex would just be a silly distraction—a quick escape into our world; clearly, we both needed to leave our troubles behind and sex, no matter how much I tried denying it, is always the answer.

"Just shut up," I said, grabbing his neck forward.