On Zhijiang's hundredth-day celebration, gunfire cracked in the back garden of the Tai Ping Lake villa.
A bullet grazed Fu Juanzhou's temple and took a chunk of his left ear clean off.
I ran out clutching the baby; blood was already streaming down his neck, but he shoved us into the safe room first.
Before the steel door slammed, he flashed me that half-smile I fell for years ago and whispered:
"Wife, keep our son safe. The rest is mine."
Seven men died in Shanghai that night.
Three belonged to Gu Xinghe.
Tang Shi put two in the ground himself.
Fu Juanzhou finished the rest.
At dawn he sat in a lake of blood holding me, ear wrapped in thick gauze, rocking the baby like nothing had happened.
"Daddy's here, little man."
I stared at him and started crying, ugly, angry tears.
Not because I was scared.
Because my back still ached from childbirth and my hands shook too hard to even hold a gun anymore.
He pulled me close, voice raw:
"Lin Zhi, listen to me.
You never have to pull a trigger again.
I'll carry the blade. I'll spill the blood.
Your only job is to raise Fu Zhijiang
to be crueler than both of us combined."