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Rio'd made mistakes, those are on him.
He'd thought he could still salvage the situation, maintain control, not realizing how far down the rabbit hole he'd already gone. He can't remember the last time he let his vision get clouded like that. And by some pretty little housewife with a killer instinct smothering herself under a metric fuckton of buttercream frosting and paper mache no less.
It was some amateur hour bullshit, and if he caught one of his boys making the same mistake, he'd have strung 'em up from a telephone pole and let the crows have 'em.
And that, that right there, was his biggest mistake. He'd let himself break his own rules.
You don't get to the top by givin' people second chances to fuck you over. You draw a line, and you handle any motherfucker that steps over it to ensure it's not the start of a trend.
So what the fuck had he been doin' with Elizabeth fuckin' Boland, giving her chance after chance to cross the line? What the fuck was the point of a line if it might as well not be there at all? All because he liked her big blue eyes and the way she worked a tight sweater? Nah, that ain't him. That can't be him. That's the kind of shit that'll get you killed, and he's got three spent bullets in his pocket and a scar next to his heart if he ever needs the reminder again.
He shifts in the driver's seat, reaching into his pocket and fishing the bullets out. Lining them up on the dashboard with a definitive click, click, click . He looks past them to the brightly lit valet station. He's been parked in the back of the lot for ten minutes now, waiting for Rhea to give him the go sign. He ain't hiding, doesn't need to, Elizabeth ain't lookin' for him, he just wants to make sure he sees her before she sees him. Get a good look first, so he can size up the situation.
He's done lettin' that bitch sneak up on him.
The thing about Elizabeth is that she surprised him and it'd been a long time since anyone managed to pull that off. It wasn't the housewife thing, he'd crossed paths with plenty of suburban bitches and knew their flavors of desperate inside and out. In his line of work, he's seen people at every version of their worst.
Elizabeth, though, she was somethin' else. She'd sat there that afternoon way back when with her shoulders straight, hands folded, all prim and proper, and a gun to her forehead for the first time in her life, callin' Rio out on his shit. The way her voice had been shaking, he'd looked up expecting tears, preemptively exhausted at the thought of them. But underneath that flush, she'd been mad as hell, and it stopped him up short because her mad had an edge he'd recognized.
He hadn't been expecting that.
So, he fucked up.
He'd let her short him, making her the first person to get away with that kind of shit since he started his climb. She had a point, twenty grand ain't worth makin' that kind of mess in that kind of neighborhood, but that didn't address the bigger picture. And wasn't that half of Elizabeth's problem? She couldn't- Nah, didn't let herself see the bigger picture behind the thing itself. Not when it was something she didn't want to see, anyway. When it was some shit she wanted, she was all over it like Hannibal motherfuckin' Barca.
It's like he told her: one rotten egg will stink up the whole bunch. You can't build an empire on a weak foundation. You can't maintain an empire lettin' people sashay all over you in four-inch heels.
The thing that really pissed him the fuck off is that he knew all of this. He'd clawed his way up from the bottom step by bloody step. He'd seen the kind of bullshit fuck ups that brought people in his position down, and he'd made a point to not make them. Prided himself on his meticulous, unshakeable self-control.
He'd sworn to himself he'd never be brought down by something so stupid, so weak as sentiment. It's why he'd disappear on Marcus for weeks at a time. He loved his son more than life itself, but he wouldn't let himself get complacent, be predictable, broadcast a vulnerability.
He never would've gone into a crack house for something Marcus left behind- and that was another thing, before Elizabeth and those fuckin' playground meets, he never let Marcus anywhere near his business if he could help it. So why the fuck had he let her get away with that shit? Why the fuck did he back her play and burn a distributor over her fuck up. Forget bad business, that kind of shit is flat out get-yourself-gone stupid.
His phone lights up. He sees she's there and throws his phone across the car, where it bounces off the passenger side window, landing screen up on the seat. Proof that Elizabeth had sidestepped his plans again glowing up at him.
Fuck.
He grabs the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the force of his grip. His breathing speeds up, and it makes his chest ache. Where she shot him.
His lung isn't the only thing that aches, he can admit that. He'd felt something for that bitch, and lyin' to yourself never did anybody any type of good. Yet another thing he's tried to teach her that she hadn't wanted to learn.
He understands why. Her whole life was lie stacked up on lie stacked up on lie. Start unraveling one, and the whole thing comes apart. He'd been patient, more patient than she'd deserved, that's for fuckin' sure. He'd remembered the messy beginning of his own evolution and tried to give her the space to learn how to stand on her own.
She'd never realized how easy he'd gone on her, that he'd pushed her so hard because the road she was determined to walk down got bloodier the further you went and the people it led to were a fuck of a lot less understanding than him.
Look where that got him.
For her to say she didn't want it? That he put it on her? Like she hadn't come to him every step of the way asking for more? Nah, that ain't it. He's not gonna let her put that on him. He's gonna strip every one of her pretty little lies away one by one until there's nothing left but the truth of who she is and what she's done.
And then he'll kill her.
The steering wheel creaks more instantly, and he lets go, clenching and unclenching his fists to loosen them up.
He'll kill her. He has to kill her. She'd earned that. She'd asked him for help and then shot him up, left him for dead. The only reason he'd survived is 'cause she'd cornered him into turning to a fuckin' fed. Yeah, he'd flipped his game and took the opportunity to clear up some competition, but that didn't change the fact that he wouldn't- couldn't- let that shit slide.
He swipes the bullets off the dash and rolls them around in his palm. Killin' her ain't personal, it's business.
Tearin' her apart before he kills her? Yeah, okay, that part's a little personal.
Trusting her was on him, but she'd betrayed him, and she'd pay for it. It's that simple.
Rio pops open the glovebox and grabs his gun, checking the clip and the chamber, the finish glinting dull gold in the parking lot fluorescents. It's not like he's gonna do her in the middle of the bar, but he didn't get where he is by being unprepared for an opportunity to knock.
He tucks it into the waistband of his pants as he slides out of the Mercedes, tugging his jacket over the grip and heading across the lot. The bar he'd had Rhea suggest was off of a hotel lobby, giving him room to scope out the lay of the land before he walks in.
He sits down in the lobby chair with a view of nearly the whole bar and scans for that telltale strawberry blonde. His skin buzzes with anticipation as his eyes catch and discard: too blonde, too skinny, too young, too old.
He scans the room twice, three times, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter with each pass that doesn't turn her up.
If he missed her, if she got by him, he'd-
There.
It hits him in his gut, in his chest, and it aches - just the bullet wounds, nothing else- and he slides a hand in his pocket, tightly gripping the shells in there to keep himself focused.
She's comin' down the hall off the side of the bar, probably from the bathroom. His lip curls as he remembers following her into one. He wonders if she was thinking about it too and shakes it off. He ain't goin' there.
His seat is perfectly angled so she's coming towards him, and his eyes fix on her face, studying it in minute detail.
Turner had liked to show him pictures, tellin' him how good she was doin', how happy she looked. Oh, look here's one of her and Dean. That kinda thing.
Tryin' to keep Rio riled like it'd make him slip up. Like Turner was gonna develop a bond or some shit straight out of a Langley 101 grooming your witness course, talkin' bout how she'd played Rio, thinkin' Rio didn't know exactly who she was.
Turner's problem had been that he thought he was the smartest person in the room. He'd talked a lot of shit he knew less than nothin' about.
Rio'd seen her, seen what was in her. What she could be. It was like thinking you'd brought home a kitten only to see it was really a tiger cub. Elizabeth was all banked and simmering rage with the tactile mind of a general coiled up underneath some rockin' mama curves and a butter-wouldn't-melt smile. It was a hell of a package, and somewhere along the way, he realized he wanted to set her free. See what she could be when she grew into her teeth and her claws.
The part he really, truly didn't see coming was where they'd ended up in his throat. He didn't think she'd had it in her. He'd seen how ride or die she was for her people. Hell, they'd fought about it. He thought- he didn't even know what he'd thought. That it applied to him? That partners meant something more than 50/50? He'd told her they were just business, can't fault her for finally listening. He'd almost be proud if he weren't so fuckin' pissed.
It's all tucked away now. Her face is settled and blank, an empty, polite society smile spread across it out of habit. Her makeup's minimal but fresh, and he wonders if she was in there touching it up. Paintin' on her pretty little lipstick while she spins up some manufactured bestie bullshit to serve to the mother of Rio's kid.
He laughs a little to himself, a short, bitter huff. The sheer balls to the wall audacity was one of the things he'd admired about her.
Enough.
As she settles in at the bar, he's up and moving towards her, loosening his jaw and rolling his shoulders back. The bar's crowded enough that he's not worried she'll hear him coming.
He can feel his pulse pounding in his fingertips. He's had four months to think about this moment, and he's nearly dizzy with anticipation on the cusp of fruition.
He's close enough now that when he takes a deep breath, he catches a faint whiff of her shampoo- floral but with something darker, richer, layered underneath- and something in him tightens, brittle nearly to the breaking point.
The bartender asks her if she wants a drink, and she turns him down, saying she's waitin' on Rhea.
It's as good an opening as any.
"She ain't comin'."
The way she freezes up is gratifying as fuck.
He slides into the chair on her right, tracking ever microexpression that crosses her face as she turns those big blue eyes to him.
Up close, he can see she's pale under her face powder, the fine lines around her mouth and her eyes are carved a little deeper than they'd been. And those eyes- there's a storm in there, a maelstrom of shock and fear and disbelief and underneath all that there's that tiger, throwing herself at him against the bars of her cage.
"I think you could use that drink, huh?"
"I- I- I-"
"You, you, you what? You shot me?" He looks her up and down, reaching into his pocket for the bullets. "Yeah, darlin', you did."
Rio leans in close, close enough that he can hear the shallow panicked little rabbit breaths she's taking, close enough that he can see her pulse thrumming hummingbird fast in her throat, close enough that the smell of her washes over him, surrounds him, and god damn if he isn't half hard in an instant.
Doesn't matter.
"Lung." He holds the casing up, letting her get a good look before he places it on the bar in front of her.
"Spleen." He's thought it before: it's wild how much damage something so small can do when you apply the right amount of force.
"Shoulder." He doesn't think she's breathing anymore as he sets the third shell down with a decisive click.
"I owe you one, ma." Now she's breathing, a quiet, shaky inhale with the smallest hint of a sob, and he can see her start to tremble a little. She's scared. That's good, she should be.
He's done fuckin' around.
He leans in closer, force of habit, nothin' more, making his fingers twitch to push her hair out of her face, but he's done with that. He ain't touchin' her at all if he can help it.
"You're my girl." Elizabeth tears her eyes away from the bullets lined up neatly on the bar to meet his.
"Imma take it easy on you." He says it soft, mockingly gentle, a parody of a lover's words whispered in her ear, and her lips part just a little, tiny breaths panting out. He smiles. "I'll do it myself."
Rio gives it a minute to sink in, watchin' her eyes go wide, wider, and the blood leaves her face as she reads his. Yeah, sweetheart, you did it. You got your hands dirty. Here come the consequences.
Then he's leaning back, scooping the bullets off the bar and pushing off the chair. Before she can do anything but gape at him, he's across the room and gone. He knows where she lives, where she shops, where she goes. He can find her whenever he wants and he knows she knows it. Let her fuckin' wonder when it's gonna be, how he's gonna do it.
No more lessons, no more exceptions, no more takin' it easy. She wants to play in the big leagues now? Works for him. He's gonna do what he should've done in the first place.
He's gonna fuckin' handle it.