Page 117 of My Daddy Is An Ex-Con

There’s nothing to defend us—no way to keep ourselves safe.

Pain rips through my heart when I realize what I must do.

If I don't defend my boy, the bullets will tear him to shreds.

I must do it.

Step in front of him.

Guard him.

Become his human shield.

"Daddy’s got you, boy." I push out a growl as I tick his head up. "Be brave for me. Honor my memory. Put fresh sunflowers on my grave."

Mattie’s eyes bulge. "No, Daddy!"

The first of the bullets rams into my back.

I roar, fighting like hell to stay standing, not daring to move, pledging my heart and soul to Mattie, giving my life for his.

Or at least that’s what I want the Riccardis to think.

My lips lock on Mattie’s as the bullets slam into my bulletproof vest. "On the count of three, escape through the window."

Tears flood his cheeks. "I won’t let you die!"

"Daddy won’t die," I growl into his mouth. "Tug the grenades out of my pocket."

I’m so fucking glad I rammed my bulletproof vest on in the car and tucked it under my suit coat so no one could see it.

It allows me to take an ungodly number of bullets without missing a beat.

Mattie fumbles in my pocket. "I can’t find them!"

"You’d better," I groan, thirty bullets slamming into my shoulder, making me shake. "Daddy’s bulletproof vest is strong, but it won’t last forever."

"I’m trying!" He reaches into another pocket.

"Try harder."

"What pocket are they in?"

"The left one, goddamnit."

"I’m still not finding them!"

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

With a roar, I heave Mattie up—then toss him out the broken window.

Spinning around, I tug the grenades out—and throw them at the Riccardis.

Three.

Two.

One.

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