They’re cut down like nothing. Two seconds. Three at most.
My men, slaughtered on my own fucking lawn.
Then Maria appears.
Maria, young and smiling.
Maria, who made Cecilia tea and brought her pastries.
Maria, who brought her toiletries while they talked about dresses and childhood memories.
Maria, who answers the door with trembling hands and a guilty look that turns my stomach into ice.
Was she part of this?
Did she sell us out?
Before I can process the betrayal, before I can even contemplate the punishment she should have suffered—one of the men smirks and then shoots her.
Point-blank.
No hesitation.
She drops like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
My gut hollows out, leaving nothing but fire and knives.
Then—there.
My Cecilia.
Struggling.
Barely conscious.
Her head lolling, her body limp.
Draped over a bastard’s shoulder like she’s an inconvenience.
Like she’s not the woman I would raze continents for.
Like she’s not the center of my sanity, the axis of my world.
Like she’s not mine.
My wife.
My fierce, brilliant, beautiful wife.
My woman.
My reason.
My fucking everything.
They carry her out the door, her limbs swinging helplessly.
Her hair falling over her face.
