I crouch over the cell-phone in the back of the van as our driver takes me and the crew through the seedier parts of L.A. Blood crusts on my t-shirt in patches, a reminder of the price of failure. I pull the stiffened cotton away from my body, scratch my skin, bite the inside of my cheek.

If someone in the Tangorello family is unhappy about my advancement, Bryn's in danger too.

Not only does she know everything I know, our marriage seals my status as captain aiming for a don's place. The bratva doesn't like married men among its ranks, wanting their loyalty to be undivided.

Coza nostra and its offshoots take a different outlook, though times have changed since the golden era of the Five Families. Family is sacred however. A family man has more on the line, contributes more to the greater la famiglia.

If I can't protect my future wife, I'm unworthy of respect owed to a man.

Baby, pick up the phone. Pick up the damn phone!

Click.

"Hey, Matteo."

The best sound in the world, I swear. Wish I could shout, but not in front of the crew. "Babe."

"My phone's run out of battery, sorry." She trills and someone else picks up on the neurotic edge in her merriment. They giggle in the background. A higher voice than Bryn's. A woman.

"Everything else is under control," Bryn says.

My breath steadies as I'm counting to ten in my head, waiting for a hidden signal from her. We have a code if she's under duress.

"I'm sorry for my earlier text, I didn't mean to worry you. I feel super-silly now for getting all worked up over a road kill."

No code word in these two sentences. It could just be the road kill.

"Did you hit something?" Wait! Those giggles in the background. "Or... someone?" Because we can deal with that too.

"Nah, Matteo. It was a deer, already dead. I'll explain later. I'm less than three miles out from the manor and pooped."

"You don't sound tired," I argue. She sounds jittery.

"Wound up, but wiped out, you know? Sweetie, I'm really fine and I just want to get going. Don't want to keep Steff up too late."

"Steff is at the house? Then who's with you?"

She pauses slightly. "It's Nina, one of Steff's staff. Stop worrying, okay?"

Nina reacts to her name with more giggles. Why does our conversation amuse her? I hate this interloper already for having fun with Bryn, while I'm stuck in L.A. Like I said, with Bryn, I don't act rationally.

"Wait, babe, don't hang up yet. I miss you."

A low rumble of the engine answers me, as she starts her car. "Already?"

"I always do." I force myself to lean back against the gray felt of the car seat, and close my eyes. Listen to the purr of the engine. Listen to her soft laughter. "How do you like the place so far?"

"Well, the hills look dreamy in the moonlight. It's quiet here. Rustic."

"Makes sense. It's remote."

"Maybe that's what's making me sleepy? Or is it because you aren't here to keep me up?" She's smiling, I can hear that in her voice. I would give anything to see it.

"L.A. is never quiet."

As if to attest to the truthfulness of my last statement, a cop car races past our van. It's going in the direction we've come from with its siren blaring. With the pulsating sound disappearing in the distance, I keep my eyes shut, my breathing even. The shooting in the warehouse was significant, but hardly the only one tonight in the city the size of L.A. No good comes from worrying about things before they happen.

"Are you still there, Matteo?" Bryn asks.

"Of course. I'm trying to imagine the moonlit vineyards and I'm growing more envious by the minute."

"Aww." She cuts herself in the middle of the caressing drawl of that 'aww'. "Gosh!"

"What?" I sit up, expecting the code word.

"I can see the manor from here!" There is naught but bubbly excitement in her voice. "It's on the hill and it looks like Steff has outdone herself. Lit up like a Christmas tree and it has so many glass windows, the whole building glows from up high. I wish you could see it!"

"Yeah. Yeah. Me too."

Maybe I will and sooner than she suspects. I dip my head, hiding a smile. There's no reason I should sleep alone in L.A., when I can drive to the Napa Valley.

Really, it's so fucking simple, I'm surprised I haven't thought of it sooner. I'll surprise Bryn, wake her up in the middle of the night. We'll watch a stupid sunrise together, tour the venue, stop for some wine and make the most of this weekend. "Hey, we're pulling to the house. I'm going to let you enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Good night," she says, oblivious to my plan.

"Say 'hi' to Steff." Am I devious or am I devious?

I didn't lie to Bryn about pulling up to the house. It's nothing as fancy as she was describing. Our safe house is a large box, in a spread-out low-middle-class neighborhood. Palms and cactuses grace the front yards here, amidst the artistically swept gravel. If an owner is lucky enough to be higher on the hills these burbs spread over, they have a mountain view.

Honestly, I wouldn't mind buying a house like that at some point. I'd probably rake the gravel more often than the gang does, but whatever. Quiet and inconspicuous is the main thing the family is going for.

One perk of being a boss is that I don't have to call the dibs on the shower as the crew disembarks from the van. I also sport more blood splatters on me after the raid, so fair is fair.

Despite my mind bubbling in anticipation of a fun night drive and visions of Bryn curled up in a warm bed, I take my time in the shower. I scrub every inch of myself: hair, skin, nails. Begone, gun residue. Begone, blood. Begone the stench of the dump.

Apart from that CSI bullshit, it's also plain nice to feel the muscles unwind after a tense afternoon. The steaming water washes shampoo down my back. I roll my shoulders, daydreaming of the two things the night has in store for me. Driving on a night road and cuddling with Bryn. Two of my favorite things. My favorite things...

I hum, then sing in the shower, making up the words as I go, pitching my voice as high as I can. "These are some..."

The guys bang on the thin partition.

"Get lost!" I yell at them and chuckle. So what if not every Italian is born with the vocal cords for the opera stage? Weekend is finally here, and I figured out how to fix it.

I hop out of the shower, pull the towel from the rack to dry my hair. Digital age being digital age, my phones rest on the top of the fresh fatigues, both of them. When notification pings on the private one, I grab it right away. The towel slips out of my hands to the tiled floor.

Road kill, Bryn said. Road fucking kill!

Someone with a handle DAMA has just sent me a picture of Bryn's so-called road kill, framed as a meme. A picture is worth a thousand code words, so I ignore the cursive line of text on the meme. The butchered animal explains why Bryn sounded jittery, why she wanted to put the sight behind her and go to bed. Except, going to bed is the last thing she should be doing. Dammit!

Every red flag goes up with alarm bells ringing in my head as I fast-dial.

Of course, Bryn doesn't know yet that someone has hacked my private number. That they're texting me a meme with a Satanist altar and some stupid shit. I've never been great at reading, but I don't need to read DAMA's warning. My gut tells me this is not a prank. This is a threat.

As if in response to my prayers, the phone buzzes and Bryn's number pops next to the green receiver. Amen!

If she's calling me, maybe it's not too late.

"Bryn, get out of there. Pronto!"

There's silence in response. Please, let it be her pissed at me for barking commands. "Bryn. Talk to me."

Someone bursts into giggles. I growl low in my throat.

"Nina. Listen to me. Put Bryn on the phone. Now."

She does, though not in the way I hoped she would.

Bryn's blood-curdling scream hits me from the speaker. Hits me right into the solar plexus. I only have time to swallow, not to regain my ability to speak, before the phone serves up a sound worse than Bryn's scream. The worst sound of them all: the line goes dead.

I also want to howl as I pull the fatigues over my wet skin. Inside-out, back-to-front... it doesn't matter. Then, I check that I'm properly dressed, school my face in the foggy mirror to blank. I can't lose it in front of the men. Someone hacked my private line. Someone knew the intimate details of my life, our wedding plans, our hopes. Which means this house is far from safe for me.

I walk out of the shower with a phony smile plastered to my face and head for my Lam in the garage. I have a driving night ahead of me, alright, though not as pleasant as the one I fantasized about a minute ago.

The words from that meme, the ones I've dismissed as nonsense, dance in front of my eyes as I press on the gas.

Deer cannot outrun this Hunter.

We'll see about that.