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somehow it had all worked out.
My father was the only person that firmly believed she was alive, and that she was innocent.
The moment she had another man’s child, our marriage was history. No, the moment you pulled the trigger, your marriage was history.
“Smells like my wife,” he rasped. “I’m keeping these. I’ll wrap them around my dick later and jerk off thinking about you.”
“I need to take care of something tonight. Will you keep an eye on Matteo, please?”
Self-hatred filled me as I remembered that day when I pressed the gun to her head. The snowflake on her long eyelashes, love and fear mixing in those eyes. I loved my wife, even back then.
“No one touches what’s mine. No one looks at what’s mine. And Grace is mine, you motherfucker.”
“You touch another man… and you sign his death sentence. I’ll kill any man that you touch.”
“Mine to fuck.” Thrust. “Mine to break.” Thrust. “Mine to save.”
Three years ago, I told my husband I loved him. He sent me away. Today, he gave me those same words. Now, I would run away.
Grace never betrayed me. Matteo was mine. I hurt my wife and could have cost my son his life.
