Page 70 of One Savage Union

On stage.

Spotlighted. Bound.

A gold bikini clings to her like sin. Her ankles are shackled. Her wrists were bruised. There’s a collar around her neck like she’s some fucking possession.

A guttural snarl tears from my chest.

She looks like a fucking offering.

Like prey.

Like bait for the highest bidder.

A man dares to place his hand on her thigh as she trembles.

Not my wife.

I raise my Glock and shoot him between the eyes. His blood paints the curtain behind her. Her scream chokes off, her eyes flaring wide—and they find me.

I guess he had to die first.

Even in the chaos. Even in the blood.

Lucia sees me.

Her breath stutters. Her lips part.

She sees what I’ve become for her.

What I’ve done.

What I will still do.

Every part of me is soaked in vengeance. Every heartbeat drums her name. My hands, my soul, my sins—they belong to her.

I motion sharply, and Mario breaks from my side.

“Get her,” I bark. “Now. Kill anyone who looks at her wrong.”

He nods, already moving, slicing his way through bodies like a blade through butter.

I head left, toward the cartel VIPs still seated, surrounded by my soldiers. Each one has a knife to his throat, a gun to his temple. They think we’ll negotiate.

They think wrong.

And then I see him—the bastard who spat her name with filth on his tongue. The cartel leader has too much money and not enough fear. The man who called my wife a whore.

He’s grinning.Grinning.

I cross the space in three strides, knock aside the soldier holding him, and drag the fucker to his knees by the back of his neck.

“No one calls her that,” I growl.

He tries to speak. I don’t let him.

I draw my machete from its sheath at my back and, in one smooth swing, take his head clean off.

Blood spurts high, a crimson fountain soaking the floor and the silk drapes.