Brayden announced the outing at breakfast. His voice was light. Casual.
"We're going to Coney Island," he said. "As a family."
I looked up from my coffee. Daniella sat across from me, her hand resting on her rounded belly. Six months pregnant. She glowed in the morning light streaming through the windows.
The boy—my son, the child I'd raised, the child who wasn't mine—looked up from his cereal. "Can I ride the Cyclone?"
"We'll see," Brayden said. He smiled at Daniella. Then at me. "Scarlet needs some air. She's been cooped up too long."
I set down my cup. "I have calls this afternoon."
"Cancel them," he said. Still smiling.
I nodded. "Of course."
Two hours later we were in the car. Brayden drove. Daniella sat in the passenger seat. I sat in the back with the boy. He played a game on his tablet and didn't look at me.
The carnival was crowded. Families everywhere. Cotton candy and popcorn and the smell of salt water. The Cyclone roared overhead. People screamed.
Brayden bought tickets. He put his arm around Daniella's shoulders. Protective. Tender.
We walked through the midway. Brayden won a stuffed bear at the ring toss and gave it to the boy. The boy hugged it and said thank you.
Daniella laughed at something Brayden whispered in her ear.
I walked three steps behind them. Close enough to be part of the picture. Far enough to not exist.
Garrett and two other enforcers trailed us at a distance. Security. Always security.
We stopped at the carousel. The boy wanted to ride. Brayden lifted him onto a painted horse and stood beside him, one hand on the boy's back.
Daniella leaned against the railing and watched them. Her face was soft. Content.
I stood beside her and said nothing.
The music started. The carousel turned. Lights flashed.
Then I heard the crack.
Gunfire.
People screamed. The crowd scattered. I saw a man in a black jacket twenty feet away, raising a pistol.
Garrett was already moving. He shoved through the crowd toward the shooter.
More shots. Rapid. Close.
Brayden grabbed the boy off the horse and dropped to the ground behind the carousel platform. Daniella stumbled. Her hand went to her stomach.
Brayden lunged for her. He pulled her down, covered her body with his. His back to the gunfire. Shielding her.
I was still standing.
A bullet hit the railing beside me. Splinters exploded. Something sharp tore into my forearm. Hot. Burning.
I looked down. Blood ran down my wrist. Shrapnel. Metal and wood embedded in my skin.
One of the enforcers grabbed me and dragged me behind a ticket booth. I hit the ground hard. My knees scraped concrete.
The shooting stopped. Garrett had the man on the ground. Two more enforcers appeared from the crowd and hauled him away.
I sat there. Blood dripped from my arm onto the pavement.
Brayden stood up slowly. He checked Daniella first. His hands on her face. Her shoulders. Her belly. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks. "I'm okay. The baby—"
"The baby's fine," he said. Firm. Certain. He kissed her forehead.
Then he looked at me.
He walked over. Slowly. The boy stayed with Daniella.
Brayden crouched in front of me. His eyes were flat. Cold.
"You forced my hand," he said quietly.
I stared at him. "What?"
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folding knife. He opened it with a soft click.
"You made me choose," he said. "In front of everyone."
I looked at the blade. Then at his face.
He grabbed my bleeding forearm. His grip was iron. He pressed the blade against my skin, just below the shrapnel wound.
"Don't," I said.
He dragged the knife down. Slow. Deliberate.
Pain exploded white-hot through my arm. I bit down on my scream. Blood poured.
He let go. I pulled my arm against my chest. My hand shook.
Brayden wiped the blade on his pants and folded it closed.
"That's for making me look weak," he said.
Something snapped inside me. Something that had been bending for months.
I reached down to my boot. My fingers found the small knife I'd started carrying three weeks ago. The one I'd bought with cash at a pawn shop in Brooklyn.
I pulled it out and drove it into his shoulder.
The blade sank deep. Through fabric. Through muscle.
Brayden's eyes went wide. He looked down at the knife. Then at me.
I let go. The handle stuck out from his shoulder.
He didn't scream. Didn't move.
He stared at me. His mouth opened slightly.
Then he smiled.
"There she is," he whispered.
He reached up and pulled the knife out. Blood soaked through his shirt. He dropped the blade on the ground between us.
Garrett appeared. He looked at Brayden's shoulder. Then at me.
"Get her out of here," Brayden said. His voice was steady. Calm.
Garrett grabbed my good arm and hauled me to my feet.
I looked back. Brayden was walking toward Daniella and the boy. His hand pressed against his bleeding shoulder.
Daniella reached for him. He pulled her close.
Garrett shoved me toward the parking lot.
I didn't resist.
My arm throbbed. Blood ran down to my fingertips.
I'd stabbed him.
And he'd smiled.
