Through the muffled ringing in my ears, I caught Martin's low, even tone as he pulled out his phone. "Sir, there's been a shooting," he reported.
The drive to the mansion blurred by. I had dressed that morning for a job interview, thinking my biggest fear would be answering a technical accounting question wrong. This—this chaos—was the reality I had married into.
When the car finally slowed at the wrought iron gates of the Numero mansion, relief poured through me so fast it was dizzying. Guards in dark suits swarmed the driveway before the vehicle had even stopped, their faces grim, their movements practiced. I clutched my bag tighter against me.
Martin was out of the driver's side before I could blink, circling the car with his gun still discreetly holstered. When he opened the door for me, his voice was steady, almost gentle despite the edge of command lacing every syllable. "Come on, ma'am. Let's get you inside."
