The Space in Between

"So, what do you think; you got what it takes?"

The weight of the gun shakes in her hand and Beth tightens her hold on the heavy base until her knuckles shine white. Blinking rapidly to dispel the gloss of tears that continue to spill down her cheeks, she glances frantically at the mutilated flesh of Dean's face before her gaze darts wildly back to Rio; the man and the monster.

Her stomach lurches sickly and she doesn't know whether her revulsion stems from the brutal violence that that her husband has suffered or from the fact that it was perpetrated by him.

"Let him go," she repeats. The words that she had hoped to issue as a command come out chocked and pleading.

Rio laughs again, that dangerous, unhinged sound that belies his relaxed position and speaks of a fury simmering just below the surface.

"What, you afraid of havin' an audience? Ain't nobody gonna believe some white-assed, Stepford wife took me out without no witnesses."

"I never wanted to take you out," she whispers thickly, her mind abuzz with a million incoherent thoughts as she frantically tries to come to grips with the gun in her palm and the horrifying choice before her.

Bolting upright and starting around the table, Rio throws his arms wide in an exaggerated show of contrition, "Oh, I'm sorry sweetheart, I must have got you confused with that other basic bitch that tried to lock me away."

Beth chokes back a sob as he comes to a stop in front of her, the barrel of the gun resting lightly against the hard wall of his chest beneath the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

Up this close she can see in detail the bloody scrapes that mar the usually even tones of his honeyed skin; evidence that her husband does in fact have more fight in him than even she expected.

But the cuts are nothing compared to the swollen mess of Dean's face and she steels herself against any hint of pity, fighting to steady her arm as, for the first time, she slips her finger into the silky steel cradle of the trigger.

The infinitesimal shift in the tense lines of Rio's jaw tells her that he has seen the movement. Even as his hooded, black gaze continues to burn heatedly into her own. The tiniest flicker of a smile curves the corner of his beautiful lips as he raises an eyebrow and challenges again, "You think you got what it takes?"

He is the beginning and end of her focus now; all other detail of their surroundings fades into obscurity as Beth frantically considers it; does she?

Does she have what it will take to protect her family from this man?

Can she bring herself to level the gun at his head or his heart and pull the trigger?

Deep inside her something unnamed and fragile breaks, bringing with it a fresh wave of pain; surprising her in its presence and its intensity.

The tears continue to slip down her cheeks, unchecked.

"You were going to kill me," she whispers, hating the weak desperation in her voice, "You were going to kill us!"

Rio continues to watch her lazily and then, pursing his lips in quiet restraint, he asks softly, "Is that right?"

The silken caress of his voice wraps itself around her and the newly familiar intimacy of his leanly muscular body, so close to her own, distracts her from the echoes of white noise just long enough to cause the smallest kernel of doubt to blossom. Before the thought is even fully formed Beth is quashing it. Of course he was going to kill them, it had been plain to see in his unusually unguarded expression; the resolution, the finality and, yes, perhaps, even a little regret.

Despite his carefully neutral tone as he told her to go home she had known the truth; there was no walking away from this.

Hell, even if, for some insane reason Rio had experienced a crisis of conscience and was willing to give her a pass on each of her recent indiscretions (or bitch-ass drama as he so charmingly put it), he couldn't afford to let something like this slide – not if he wanted to remain king. He could be facing up to fifteen years in prison for what she had done.

So, what the hell was he playing at?

She knows it is a test, yes, but what kind of test?

To pass is she supposed to pull the trigger?

Or is she supposed to lower the gun?

What if she fires and the chamber is empty?

What if she fires and it isn't?

Rio, looking increasingly amused with every moment of indecision that passes, is rocking lightly on his feet now, so that the barrel of the gun presses more firmly into his chest.

"You hopin' the suspense is gonna take me out instead?"

Keeping the gun pointed at a quizzical Rio, Beth takes a few shaky steps backwards until her calves hit the coffee table and, at the very last moment, she twists her arm to the right so that the nozzle of the gun is level with the sofa and then she squeezes the trigger.

There is an audible click and it takes Beth a number of stunned seconds to process that there had been no deafening gunshot and her sofa stands completely bullet-hole-free.

Dizzying relief floods her and, back in the recesses of her white-ass, Stepford wife mind, she is giddily glad about the sofa too; it had cost them a fortune.

The sound of a slow clap brings her attention back to Rio who is sauntering slowly towards her, "Well played sweetheart," he takes the gun from her and continues, "But it still doesn't answer my question."

The adrenaline that had been keeping her upright begins to seep away and Beth feels as if she might faint. Exhaustion is numbing the jagged edges of her fear and she snaps tiredly, "Why don't you load it and find out?"

Dark eyes glittering dangerously, Rio pulls a loaded clip from his jeans and shoves it home. Another two seconds and the gun is cocked and pointed at Beth's head.

"Playtime's over. Let's go."

Her pulse thumps heavily at the at the base of her throat she breathes, "Where?"

Lips pealing back in a shark of a smile he gestures towards the kitchen. "Outside. I don't need no witnesses."

And just like that, the adrenaline is back; her breath freezes in her throat, her heart feels like it will explode from her chest and her stomach cramps with a sinking, sickening fear.

Through the dizzy haze that has descended on her mind she registers that Dean is beginning to stir, haltingly, painfully, from his slouched position on the table. "Beth–"

"Leave it Dean."

"Listen to Momma Dean," Rio drawls, "Else I'll come back here and finish what I started."

Knowing he means every word, Beth swallows thickly around the lump constricting her airway and casts one final look around the room. It's a complete mess but she almost doesn't see the chair lying jauntily on its side or the broken vase beneath the dining table. Instead, she sees the coffee table that Emma had used to pull herself up and take her first steps when she was just 11 months old. The beautiful sofa that she had purchased with the vision of hosting Sunday afternoon tea parties for friends and that just ended up hosting family movie nights and boozy catch ups with Ruby and Annie. And that had turned out to be so much better.

Then she looks at Dean and it's harder to ignore the damage that has been done to him, or the sharp flash of anger that rises within her as she remembers that he had lied to her about having cancer. Dick. Was it really just a few hours ago that she found that out?

But he's still the father of her children, the man that held her hand through each laborious moment of their births, and possibly the only parent that they would have after tonight was done.

"Take care of my babies."

Without waiting for a response, she chokes back the sob that is fighting for release and turns to head into the darkened kitchen. Moving through the shadows with Rio at her back she frantically casts around for a glimmer of hope – the barest outline of a plan – and there's nothing. Unlocking the backdoor with a shaking hand she asks thickly, "Where are we going?"

Silence.

She steps out onto the porch and reaches down to pet Buddy's soft head as he dances around her in excitement. Glancing back, she can see that Rio has paused to pull on a black hoody and is casting a watchful eye over her darkened backyard.

"Expecting company?" she asks tightly.

"Nah, just making sure you ain't leaving no hostages hog-tied in your treehouse," comes the sarcastic response.

She's too tightly wound to even consider how he knows about Boomer.

Waving the gun in the direction of her car he ushers her in to the driver's seat and takes the passenger side.

Knowing that her chances of making it back to her children in one piece will diminish significantly if she starts driving, Beth draws in a desperate breath and starts in a rush, "Rio, I know–"

She gasps into silence as the cold barrel of the gun comes to rest against the sensitive skin above her jugular.

"Just drive." He growls.

And, pulse hammering, she complies.

They drive in silence, save for the curt directions Rio grunts along the way. Beth thanks her lucky stars that it's late and that there aren't many cars on the road as her addled mind tries to concentrate on driving while fighting to ignore the fear gnawing at her stomach and the cold press of metal against her neck.

She wants to remind him that he had vowed not to kill anyone, just 15 minutes earlier at her own dining table, but she keeps silent. What would be the point?

Coming up to a stoplight a short time later she senses the tension in the tall frame beside her before she sees the cop car. It is waiting in the lane immediately to the right of the junction and Rio directs her to go straight ahead; a route which will bring them immediately in front of the car.

Approaching the junction, Beth scrambles to decide how to use the situation to her advantage. She could flash her lights, beep the horn, pull of an illegal turn or even crash directly into the cop car. That would definitely do it!

As she deliberates, Rio smoothly lowers the gun and leans in towards her, as if to bury his head in the curve of her neck or to whisper intimately in her ear.

Through the panicked haze that hasn't let up since she stepped through the front door to her house, to the sound of his cruelly beautiful voice taunting her, she understands logically that he is hiding his face from view. He is no less dangerous now than he was two seconds ago but her heart is suddenly hammering in her chest in a visceral response that has nothing to do with fear and everything do with the close press of his body against her own.

The warm smell of his skin, mixed with that musky cologne that is all Rio, wraps itself tightly around her. It takes Beth a moment to realise that he is actually whispering to her.

"Don't even think about it, darlin'."

The soft brush of his lips against the delicate shell of her ear as he speaks plunges her body into a heated chaos. Sensation and confusion war inside her until they're through the lights and, just as suddenly, Rio's pulling back to his side of the car.

He keeps the gun lowered. And, after a time, Beth recognises the route they're taking; it's the one that she had followed home from the warehouse a few days earlier – after she had thrown the keys in his face and he'd told her so coldly that they were done.

"What me and you had is done. Over."

And then, "You think I need you? You ain't nothin' but a damn charity case to me."

Hearing the echoes in her head she feels the spark within her, that shapeless, new-born, fragile thing, shrinking further back into the darkness, until she can almost convince herself that those words didn't slice into her like a hunting knife to the gut.

That they don't still.

Pulling into the loading bay she tries to clear her head as Rio exits the car and gestures casually with the barrel of his golden gun for Beth to follow.

Reluctantly, she forces herself to leave the relative comfort of her trusty MPV and casts a furtive look around the lot, hoping to see signs that there's someone else here; even if it is just one of his goons.

It's completely deserted. Much like the last time she was here, the length of the parking lot is encased in shadows, the only light pooling around the main entryway to the warehouse; a heavy metal door set a-top a flight of concrete steps that Rio is approaching.

He pauses now, turned towards her with one foot on the first step, hands buried deep in the pockets of his sweater, hood half raised over his head in that half-on/half-off style that drives Ruby crazy; the picture of cool composure. He watches with dark amusement as Beth locks the car remotely and forces herself forward.

Walking towards him she experiences a keen sense of déjà vu as her mind flashes once again to those cruel words that he had thrown at her, not unlike a bunch of jagged keys to the face, just two short days ago.

Steeling herself against the sharp twist insider her, against any emotion what so ever, she follows as Rio silently leads her up the stairs and through the door. There's a heavy clang of metal as it swings shut behind them, plunging them into absolute darkness, and Beth fumbles forward with outstretched hands only to jerk back as they connect with the cotton warmth of a leanly muscular torso.

There's a soft chuckle and an audible click before a flood of light into the small space they're standing in.

The hallway is narrow and bare, leading straight ahead to a set of metal stairs while an empty doorway to the right leads into the cavernous depths of the warehouse.

Too mentally and emotionally exhausted to play games, Beth fixes Rio with a wide-eyed stare and asks tiredly, "What are we doing here, Rio?"

"What, you don't like surprises? Just imagine mine when I was pulled over by some punk-assed cop before I'd even had my morning coffee."

His tone is relaxed, soft even, and he pulls off that 'couldn't give a fuck' look so well that if she didn't know him better she might have been fooled. But the dark undercurrent of anger that has been dogging him all night is there in the tight clench of his jaw and the deep groves of tension around his mouth.

Her stomach drops unexpectedly at the mental image of his arrest. Sure, she had seen him on TV – had watched the indignity of him being led to the police car in handcuffs – and he had looked as cool and composed as if he was just heading into a diner for his morning coffee. But she could only imagine what had been going on beneath the surface.

And then she remembers all of the panicked thoughts that had terrorised her over the last few days. Thoughts that had kept her up at night and are still circling now; each and every one of them about her four sweet babies growing up without their mother.

And just like that, she hardens, smiles tightly. "What's that they say about how the mighty are fallen?"

A twist of a smile in return.

"Don't know about that, darlin' – do I look fallen to you?"

Without waiting for her response, he gestures for her to start up the stairs. It's a short flight to the top which leads to a small, non-descript office. Flicking on the lights as she enters, Beth can see that the walls are painted white and there's a large window along the right-had side of the space, overlooking the darkened warehouse below. A couple of comfortable leather chairs, a solid-wood desk and a laptop are the only things in sight.

Closing the door behind him, Rio rounds the desk to lower himself into a black-leather desk chair, grimacing slightly as he does so.

Beth wonders absentmindedly if it was the cops or Dean that had done the damage as Rio removes the gun from the waist of his jeans and sets it down on the desk with a heavy thunk.

The cops, she thinks decisively.

"Have a seat, Elizabeth."

Her name on his lips has her heart leaping uncomfortably in her breast as she moves to take a seat in front of the desk and the barrel of his loaded gun.

"So, I have this problem employee," he begins, "– ex-employee – that's tryin' to take over my business."

"That's not–"

Rio raises a hand and his voice and continues, "See, this bitch is some green-as-shit intern that fancies herself a boss and she's been causing trouble since the day she showed up. Hell, I don't know what I was thinkin' hiring her ass in the first place but she's got four kinds, you know? And a self-destruct button she's just itchin' to press."

He lets that sit in the air between them briefly, uncomfortably, before continuing, "And she's got this suburban life, see; this middle-class camouflage that I thought could be useful."

There's another pause then as he leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, his bloodied hands clasped loosely below his chin, and he watches her.

Beth fights the urge to shift uncomfortably in her seat, to fill the silence with a truthful defence of her actions but she is determined not to play along with whatever charade he thinks he's orchestrating.

And then she does.

"She sounds like a model employee for a street gang."

"You think so? Cause I ain't so sure. She has this habit, see, of actin' without thinkin' things through–"

"Sure sounds like you have her all figured out," Beth interrupts and he smiles, briefly.

"And, in the end, she couldn't handle it; she freaked out and turned me in to the Feds. But it was a sloppy job – some half-assed shit that won't stick for two seconds – but now? Now I have to handle it."

Holding the dark intensity of his gaze, Beth blinks to dispel the haze of tears rising behind her eyelids. Her pulse thuds heavily in her throat and the fear gnawing at her insides has surely hollowed her out to an empty shell but still she holds his eye.

He breaks first. Laughs hollowly, eyes dropping down and away with a twisted smile and then they are pinning her once again.

"You know how somethin' like that gets handled?"

She doesn't answer, has to blink more rapidly now; the teary haze replaced by a silent trickle and then a steady stream down her the pale cream of her cheeks.

"Cause I'm not sure she does. Maybe she thinks her suburban camouflage will protect her; her white privilege. Or maybe she thinks with a face like that, a body like that – with those tits and that ass – ain't no man gonna wanna' hurt her."

Frozen in fear, Beth can't do anything but stare back at him and simply exist in this moment – waiting for what is to come.

"But see, in this line of work? It don't matter if you've got the face of an angel or a first-row seat at church on Sunday; out here it's survival of the fittest and someone that sells you out to the Feds? They're the lowest of the low – the very bottom of the food chain – and they ain't goanna survive for long."

Sensing the conversation is almost at an end, Beth tries to steel herself against the next part. She hopes it will be quick and relatively painless and that no one else will have to suffer. If she thought that there was some way that she could talk or scheme her way out of this, without her family paying the price, then she would take it. But, finally, she knows better.

"It was my idea," she lies, her voice coming out rough and choked and she has to clear her throat before continuing, "Leave Annie and Ruby out of it; it was all me."

"Oh, this ain't a negotiation, sweetheart; there's a heavy price to pay for the shit you ladies pulled."

"Please Rio," she's begging now, her cheeks slick and throat thick with tears that just won't stop. "Please, I'll do anything, just don't hurt them."

He fixes her with an intense stare that is at once deeply personal and yet achingly distant. This is it, she thinks, as he gets out of his chair and comes around the table towards her.

He hasn't picked up the gun yet but he's standing in front of her now, leaning down to grasp the back of her neck in a firm hold. His thumb brushes over the erratic flutter of her pulse as he pulls her head towards his own until there's mere inches separating them. His breath is warm on her tear-streaked face and the dark intensity of his gaze is so close to her own that she could almost count every one of his beautifully long lashes.

"This might just be the luckiest day of your life, sweetheart, because there is somethin' I need from you."

Her shattered mind has barely grasped the implication of his words before he's murmuring again, in deep and dangerous tones, "But Elizabeth? You ever pull this shit with me again and there won't be no savin' you."