Protocol demanded one executive protection agent should open my door while the other positioned himself behind me at all time, so that was what we did.

I walked across the yellow, uneven lawn toward the low, gray, depressingly square building, passing metal barricades with excited students and their parents who came to see an alumni rapper who was going to perform there later that evening. The kid had more ink on his face than a Harry Potter book and some questionable scars. I waltzed toward the principal of the school, a shapely woman with a cheap suit and an ’80’s haircut. She ran toward me, her heels stubbing the dry ground beneath us.

“Senator Keaton! We’re beyond excited…” she started, just as gunfire cracked through the air. One of my bodyguards jumped over my body instinctively, throwing me to the floor. My stomach plastered to the ground, I twisted my head to the side, watching the barricaded crowd.

People started running in every direction, parents tugging their children, babies crying, and teachers yelling hysterically at the students to calm down. The principal slid down to the grass and began to scream in my face, covering her head with her hands.

Thanks for the help, lady.

Another bullet sliced through the air. Then another. Then another, each of them getting closer to me.

“Get off me,” I growled to the EPA on top of me.

“But protocol says…”

“Protocol can go fuck itself in the ass,” I snapped, the remainder of my previous, less-than-delightful life creeping into my language. “Call 911 and let me deal with this.”

He disconnected his heavy body from mine reluctantly, and I sprang up to my feet and started running for the kid with the gun. I doubted he had more bullets in that thing. Even if he had, he proved to be a shit aim. He couldn’t put a bullet in me if I literally hugged him. I raced right toward him, knowing that I wasn’t brave as much as I was vindictive and stupid but not giving much damn.

You took it too far, Arthur, I thought. Further than I gave you credit for.

He played nice and sent me an invitation to an engagement party and suggested we stay at his place. He was building an alibi. I bet he was sitting somewhere in public right now. Maybe even pouring bowls of soup in a fucking charity basement.

By the time I put a good dent on the distance between me and my pimply assassin, the crowd had evaporated, and he was exposed. He turned around and started running. I was faster. I caught the hem of his white tee from behind, yanking him back to me.

“Who sent you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted, kicking the air as I dragged him back, but not before prying the gun from his hand and kicking it to the side. Not ten seconds later, ten police vehicles were surrounding us from every direction, and armed and shielded, special unit officers came out, officially arresting him. I cursed under my breath. I needed a few more minutes with him. I knew, without a shadow of the doubt, that he wasn’t going to throw Arthur under the bus. But my EPAs and driver already escorted me to the other side of the building with two detectives and four officers tailing behind us.

“What you did today is a very admirable thing, Senator Keaton. School shootings are a real issue these days, and I…” the principal started.

God, woman, just shut up.

“Any injuries?” I cut her words.

“Not so far,” one of the officers said as we made our way to my vehicle. “But you will be the talk of the town for the next couple of days. That was heroic.”

“Thank you.” I hated compliments. They made you lax and unguarded.

“Zion says you’ll need to make some media appearances today,” my EPA—the one who shielded me from the bullets—stared at his phone.

“Fine.”

I took out my phone and texted Arthur’s number in an instant. The first text message I had ever sent my future father-in-law.

Thank you for the invitation. My fiancée and I gladly accept.

Tucking the phone back into the breast pocket of my jacket, I smirked.

Arthur Rossi tried to kill me.

He was about to find out that he was a pussy, and I was a cat.

With nine lives.

Two down, seven to go.

The next few days were all about talking to the media, raising awareness about school shootings, and milking every second of the incident. Nobody suspected it was an attempt to assassinate me. The kid—an Italian school alumni and a Marine on vacation who got cold feet and forgot how to aim—was in custody now, and insisted that it was video games that made him do it.

The day of the engagement party, Nem and I were to meet downstairs at seven o’clock. I took a shower and got dressed at the office but made it home in a timely manner. Leaving Francesca as prey for Arthur was no longer an option. Arthur was beginning to feel a lot like a loose cannon, and I didn’t want it anywhere near the smoothly operating machine called my life.

When I arrived on time, Francesca was waiting for me in a tight white gown that made my cock jump in a standing ovation. God, she was beautiful. And God, I was going to fuck her tonight. Even if I had to give her the foreplay she loved so much until my tongue fell off. The woman was delicious and ripe. And mine.

And mine.

And mine.

If I repeated these words in my head enough times, I could make it true.

I walked over to my bride-to-be, yanked her by the waist, and kissed her openly in front of Sterling, who was fretting with the hem of Francesca’s gown. The old woman nearly swooned when our lips touched. She’d known me my entire life, and had never seen me kiss a woman, in public or otherwise. Sterling twirled to the kitchen with a spring in her step, giving us privacy.

Francesca and I cocked our eyebrows in unison. Our bodies were mimicking one another, too.

“How are you feeling?”

She’d been asking me this a lot since the rally incident. I wished she wouldn’t. It served as a constant reminder that she was the spawn of the person responsible for it, yet she had no idea of her father’s indiscretions.

“Stop asking. The answer will always be the same—I’m fine.”

“To be honest, it’s not me who is worried at this point. Did you know Ms. Sterling eavesdrops on everything we do and say?” Nem scrunched her button-y nose.

I flicked her chin playfully. I found out about Sterling’s fascination with other people’s business the hard way. After masturbating in the room next door to Sterling at thirteen and a half, I found a box of Kleenex on my nightstand and a Practice Safe Sex brochure the next day. To Sterling’s credit, I would say I read the motherfucker twice and had never in my thirty years of miserable existence on this planet had sex without a condom.

“I wonder how she’d react when we do more than kissing,” my bride-to-be reddened, looking down between us.

Might want to reconsider that, darling. I have an erection the size of a salami and any audience be damned.

“I suggest we find out tonight.”

“How curious of you. You’d make a wonderful investigator.” She bit on a smile.

“The only mystery I intend to unfold is how deep I can bury myself inside you.”

“I can’t believe you’re a senator…” she mumbled to herself.

Me neither.

On that high note, we left, arm in arm.

The evening took a nosedive from the moment we set foot in Francesca’s parents’ manor. Not unexpected, but unsatisfactory all the same.

For one thing, as soon as we reached the Rossi estate, I’d noticed news vans swarming the neighborhood, barricading the main street, and causing a commotion of bystanders. Arthur had invited journalists and local news channels, and they, of course, came running to his doorstep.

A senator marrying the daughter of a mobster. It had more juice than a Big Gulp.

Determined not to allow Arthur to fuck up my life more than he already had, I opened the door for Francesca and escorted her into her former house, ignoring the catcalls from the reporters and the flash of the cameras from the photographers by their side. Once we got inside, Francesca clung to me like I was her lifeline, and I realized with dread instead of glee that, in a way, I was. Nemesis no longer saw this house as her home. I was her home now. And I was haunted beyond belief, ready to exorcise my need for her.

Her parents approached us, keeping a safe distance from one another. Her mother looked like she hadn’t slept in approximately two months, wearing too much makeup to hide the effects of her mental state, and Arthur looked an inch or two shorter. Since I had zero illusions about Sofia Rossi leaving her cheating husband, I had to deduce that I’d done just what I came here to—rocked his boat a little more and shattered another facet of his life.

We did the customary kisses and hugs charade, “Salute!” glasses of Bellini, then they introduced us to their circle of friends.

I noticed three things immediately and simultaneously:

Arthur Rossi had invited a very leggy, very blonde, very demoted, and therefore very vindictive reporter who was intimately acquainted with my cock—Kristen Rhys.

He also invited some of the most fishy and ill-reputable people in the country, including ex-cons, gang leaders, and the likes of which I normally stayed far away from. He hoped this would contaminate my reputation—which, I had no doubt it would, since Kristen was there to take notes.

Without even really needing to look, I instantly found Angelo standing there, nursing a glass of wine, making lazy conversation with other guests.

This wasn’t an attempt to appease me and show that the Rossi’s were on board with our upcoming nuptials. This was a setup.

“We have quite the audience tonight; think you can handle our flavor of guests?” Arthur swirled his drink, shooting me a menacing smile. We hadn’t spoken since I RSVPed his invitation, after which I hadn’t filled in the authorities about what really happened. More leverage for me—one more secret I could use against him. Of course, that meant this place was swarming with security, thanks to my future father-in-law.

Good thing we only had a few more weeks of pretending. Francesca and I would soon be married, and then my plan would be executed. I was going to throw him in jail and make sure he rotted there while I fucked his daughter and left his wife to accept the Keaton couple’s very charitable hospitality. I was not generous enough to pay for the grand mansion in Little Italy, though. Francesca’s mother was welcome to move to one of the multiple properties I owned across Chicago.