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She was always wanting to leave. When was the case resolved? Was the spy found? Now my mother had given her another excuse.
I thrust as deep as I could. I wanted to imprint myself on her. She was mine. I was a killer. But she was a killer’s wife.
I watched her face contort, trying to fight her orgasm. Another deep thrust and I watched her spiral out, clenching around me, body shuddering, grabbing hold of me, and milking me dry.
A guttural groan escaped me as I pumped harder. This woman was the death of me. My dick jerked inside her as my seed emptied inside her.
I dropped my weight on her, heavy and sweaty, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. At least this way, she couldn’t move. I bit her neck, leaving bite marks on her skin. The energy in my body was drained right out of me, but the anger boiling inside remained like smouldering coal.
“For you, I will kill anyone,” I whispered in Italian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DIVYA
Iwoke up to an empty bed, the sheets ruffled, the smell of sex heavy in the silent room.
Running my hands on the sheets, I found them cold, telling me he had left bed early or I had overslept.
The clock on the bedside table told me it could be both.
The picture frame on the dressing table caught my eye. My throat tightened. He had probably put it there. I didn’t know how to read that.
Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I sat up, ashamed to look at my body. Treacherous but satisfied. Marks on it told a story of a possessive lover. He had taken me like he was on death row, and I had allowed him to.
My thighs clenched at the memory of him between my legs.
The respect I had for myself, which I had gained over years of self-love, slowly slid off me like a second skin. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not the woman who was brought up by proud and ethical parents, for sure.
The smell of him on me should have disgusted me. Yet all it did was leave me longing. For more.
I didn’t recognise the woman that I was with him. There was a static vibe between us, cracking with invisible sparks that pulled me constantly to him. The more he turned dark, the more I yearned for him. I wanted it gone.
Getting up, I walked to the bathroom. I had to wash him off me, first with water, then in real life. Only then would I be able to survive.
Cora lit up when I picked her up from her cot. There were no dark days around her, yet I had a hard time banishing it entirely from my thoughts. She whimpered in my arms as if she could feel my sadness. The last thing I wanted was for it to soak into her, so I made an effort at fake playfulness while I washed and dressed her.
The house greeted me quietly like the aftermath of war when I came down with Cora in my arms. Rosa’s smile lacked the warmth radiating off her on any other day. After a too-polite buon giorno, she rushed out of the room.
When Maria Capizzi said they were the family or something along that line, she really meant that. It seemed I was no longer in the good books of the household.
“Looks like it’s just us, Kutti,” I told Cora, fondly calling her by one of the nicknames my dad used to call me.
I put some breakfast together for her as I continued our jabbering conversation, trying not to think what Antonio was up to because then I might think he was killing someone’s child right at the moment that I was feeding his.
I blinked back my tears. The heaviness in my heart did nothing to fill that gaping wound deep inside me. A wound, which had been healing nicely ever since I arrived in this home, was now bigger. One step forward and ten backward. Just when I thought life was giving me a good deal.
Some days, I missed my parents more than others. Today it seemed to be a “more” day.
Pulling Cora’s chair closer to the table, I buckled her in and sat down to feed her. Lucky baby. No problem for this one other than grabbing hold of the flying plane of food in her mouth.
While flying my third plane to Cora’s open mouth, Rosa came in, bringing with her an embarrassed Armando.
A cloud of activity followed both of them. An agitated Rosa, Italian flying out of her mouth, to a nervous Armando muttering back.
I was tired of not understanding the language, especially Antonio’s mutterings in my ears.
Apprehension filled my stomach. “What’s going on?”
