A/N: I SO love my reviewers. You all are the reason I write, so your kind words mean the world to me. Here's Chapter 3 from Daniel's POV. Hope you like!

Flashback

It was Betty's 25th birthday, and she was joking that Daniel made a good accessory, since the pink of his tie matched the pink of her dress. They matched, she said, and he wasn't surprised. They had always matched somehow. Now she was practically wearing Daniel like a feather-boa, wrapped in his arms from behind as she was and swaying to the music of the band.

Daniel had known them once, partied with them, probably shared some groupies. So, he'd called in a favor (or blackmail, as it was, something to do with a groupie named Trixie) and here they were. Betty had informed Daniel that he led a charmed life. Daniel had given her his deep, chill-inducing drunk-chuckle, and murmured into her goose bumped shoulder, buzzed as they both were, that he wished he remembered most of it.

Every birthday since they'd met, Daniel tried his damnedest to spoil his girl, but she refused to take the bait and actually be spoiled. He loved teasing her, tempting her, though, with promises of pink private jets, Hummers, ponies, islands, loved to feel her playful smack of protest and then the queer trip-hammer beat of his heart after her post-smack kiss on the cheek. Both of them knew, disconcertingly, that he was only half-joking when he promised her these extravagances. If she would ever let him, she would have every need or want or whim or tickle of fancy met, (poof!) granted, signed, sealed and delivered before she could even dream it up. But she would never allow it, and Daniel remained in awe and admiration of the fact that she was wholly unimpressed by material things.

Tonight, even Times Square itself, with its constant vibrating sensory assaults, couldn't compare with the music as it rolled over them both, directly in front of the stage, smelling the lead singer's sweat and feeling like they were standing on nothing but black, thick, inky atmosphere.

The music, the waves of sound, served to amplify every touch between them, Daniel's big hands splayed possessively over Betty's stomach in the ancient masculine gesture of ownership; two of Betty's small hands barely covered one of his as she acknowledged that ownership, as well as asserting her own.

Sure, malt-liquor was putting extra touchy into an already touchy-feely situation, but Daniel and Betty both knew that he was to be forever and ever straight-up, ecstatically whipped by her velvet-soft olive skin and jet-black locks that curled into wild ringlets after a dip in ocean water and puddle-brown eyes that looked at him out of the face of an earthy little goddess and amazing breasts that, tonight, happened to be wrapped in baby-pink chenille.

The baby-pink chenille dress in question was, no doubt, a gift from Christina. It was infested with layers of gauzy toile and came complete with a fuchsia "pimp" hat. In short, she looked, in Daniel's opinion, adorable as all hell. It seemed to suit her, strangely enough, like she was dressed for some sort of whimsical ball. It was beautiful in its own way but completely out of place, like its wearer.

If Daniel had seen anyone else of his acquaintance bopping around in such a contraption, they'd be sitting in the loony bin next to the rest of his family. But for Betty, to whom life was ever the whimsical ball, it fit.

Her joyful face tilted backwards up to his and he gave her an upside-down kiss that could've been friendly or boyfriendly or golden-anniversary husbandly, it really didn't matter.

The thought delicately flitted across the forefront of his mind, having squirmed its way out of his roiling subconscious were it had been since he met her—

We're going to be together; we're going to be

And he saw that her knowledge of this unspoken, ever-shown fact mirrored his own.

/flashback

The "B" was cutting an indentation into his palm. He let it. The pain still didn't quell the belief that he was dying right along with Betty, his red life seeping out of him just like Betty's had been that morning, when they found her partially underneath the e-train seat.

Dying without making a sound.

He couldn't cry, he didn't think he knew how. He clasped the "B" tighter, the pearls in the necklace wound around his fingers, cutting off the circulation.

Killer instinct.

He had it. Oh, yes, he had it. Hadn't shown it, wouldn't show it for his father or the sake of his thrice cursed publishing empire. Hadn't shown it for Alexis—she claimed it wasn't in him. But one thing was absolutely for certain: Alexis would positively piss her pants if she knew, caught even the vaguest whiff, of what was banging around inside him now. It was probably why she was keeping her distance tonight.

Smell the blood in the water, son—he wouldn't smell it, but he could cause his fair share. He knew where to start, who he wanted to methodically bleed, to systematically destroy.

He pulled out his cell and dialed.

"N.Y.P.D.—Detective Bowen speaking."

"This is Daniel Meade. So, who the fuck was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"The mugging on the e-train at 7 am this morning, who the fuck was it?" Daniel's voice was bland, almost pleasant, even. All the rage was too busy accumulating elsewhere to come out in his voice, to come out yet in any form. There was time for that later.

"That's confidential, Mr. Meade, I can't just…"

"Tell me or, I swear to God, by the time I get done blacklisting you, you won't be able to score a job as a busboy. I'm not inclined to dick around with you like my father was. Now I'm asking One. More. Time."

Daniel briefly heard the detective stutter over his shoulder "…Jesus H. Christ, he makes his father look like Mary fucking Poppins…" before the cell was snatched away. In its place, a pungent cup of coffee was thrust under his nose, clutched by French manicured nails on a warm, earthy, elegant hand despite its being rigid with strain. Hilda.

Anyone else that had thrown themselves on his particular landmine of blood thirst, his own family included, would've probably been carrying their teeth around in a baggie from that point out. But, as happened when he was in the presence of any Suarez, any thoughts of violence or greed or abuse of power seemed a sacrilege somehow.

His anger didn't actually dissipate, just retreated into a slow, dull, potentially volatile ache that coated his insides and stuck to his ribs like tar. Hilda herself seemed oddly, creepily calm. Like Betty, she was unimpressed by his moods, but this was more of a loaded calm.

As if in answer to his unspoken question, she said, her voice smooth and brisk, "Trust me, when I fucking flip out over this, they'll be able to see and hear the explosion from the South Pole up." She added, unnecessarily and by way of explanation, "It just hasn't sunk in good yet. Come on." She held out her hands.

Daniel obeyed, setting his coffee aside, slapped his palms to hers, let her pull him up, or at least pretend to, like they were playing around at the Casa de Suarez. Once he was vertical, she slung his forearm over her shoulder and led him out into the corridor.

They linked arms and began pacing side-by-side, back and forth. There had almost been something between them once, in what seemed to be another lifetime. Now that vague something had morphed into a much stronger sibling-affection. Hilda gently, in a tragically playful way, bumped her hip against his. It was both a challenge and an inquiry. Daniel bumped back. Hilda seemed satisfied.

"Glad to see you're still in there, Daniel."

He spoke, and his tongue felt clammy, heavy, and unwieldy. "That's up for debate. Most of me is back there." He nodded toward Betty's still form.

Hilda followed the gesture, and for a moment seemed to retreat into her mind. "You know, Betty was seven when Justin was born. Changed his diapers while my flighty teenage ass refused to deal, went out partying…" She shook herself and looked back up at him. Her voice regained its strength, lost its wispy quality. "Betty has a lot to tether her here. For one thing, the bossy little broad is probably ordering the rest of her body to do what she wants as we speak. She's got friends, family, boyfriend…" She put no particular emphasis on this last item, but looked at him sideways from underneath her long, mascara-coated lashes.

Off Daniel's mildly surprised look, Hilda rolled her eyes, more to stave off the sudden moisture there than a gesture of derision. "Oh, yes, everyone knows all about you two. What with you howling under her window like a horny tomcat every night when she's not already at your loft."

Seeing that Daniel was about to withdraw into himself once again, Hilda said, "Papi went to the restroom about twenty minutes ago. Gotta make sure he hasn't fallen into the toilet." She shrugged. "It's happened before. Watch Justin for me, will you?"

Daniel picked up her hand and kissed it. "At your service. Always."

They parted, Hilda restroom-bound, boot heels mournfully clicking on the mint green linoleum, and Daniel walked off to watch the boy.

I knew I wanted this chapter to be from our boy's POV, but there couldn't be much actual D/B interaction because our leading lady's still asleep. Have no fear, though, there are at least two more chapters to go, and they are both D/B-licious.

Reviews will always and forever thrill me!