Chapter 2 The contract

   I had cried for hours until there were no tears left to shed. Even that felt like a betrayal—to stop crying when my husband was dead.

I shouldn’t be able to stop.

I lay on the cold floor, staring at nothing, my head pounding and my throat raw from screaming. A soft clicking sound came from the door.

I didn’t move. I didn’t have the strength to face whoever stood on the other side. I stayed where I was, my cheek pressed against the hard floor, my body numb.

The door opened.

Slow deliberate footsteps approached. I closed my eyes.

“Get up,” came the familiar voice—the same voice that belong to the man who had taken my husband away from me.

I ignored him. My gaze stayed fixed on my hand, on the ring around my finger.

“Don’t fucking play with me,” he snapped. “Get the fuck up.”

If this were the woman I used to be—the woman who wasn’t shattered—I might have listened. He sounded dangerous. But I was already broken. What more could he take?

There was a sudden shuffle of movement, and before I could react, strong arms scooped me up.

I gasped.

“How dare you!” I screamed, struggling weakly against his hold. His grip didn’t falter.

“Put me down!”

He didn’t answer.

The next thing I knew, I was dropped onto the bed.

The impact knocked the breath from my chest.

I scrambled to my feet, rage burning through the grief, and before I could stop myself, I slapped him.

His head snapped to the side.

“How dare you touch me!” I shouted, my voice shaking with hatred and heartbreak.

When he turned back to me, I nearly shrank under his gaze. His expression was dark, furious—like I had pushed something dangerous awake.

In a blur of motion, he shoved me backward onto the bed, his hand gripping my shoulder, pinning me down.

“Do that again,” he said quietly, his voice low and cold, “and I will kill you.”

A chill ran down my spine, but I refused to look away.

“You already killed me when you killed my husband,” I sobbed. “You bastard.”

Tears blurred my vision. For just a second—just one—I thought I saw something pity flicker across his face.

Then it was gone.

“Why,” I cried, my voice breaking completely. “Why did you have to take my Alberto?”

He released me and stepped back, turning away.

“It was for a cause,” he said flatly, as if that explained anything.

He paused at the door. “Get yourself together,” he added. “The door will stay open. Meet me downstairs.”

Then he left, leaving me alone with my grief, my anger, and a truth I wasn’t ready to face.

I didn’t want to leave the room like he instructed. I wanted to stay there and drown in my grief, but I needed answers. So I stood up and opened the door.

A maid stood just beside the doorframe.

“Sir Luciano instructed you to come with me,” she said.

I nodded and quietly followed her as she led me through the hallways and into an elevator that took us downstairs.

She stopped in front of what looked like an office.

“This is Sir Luciano's office,” she said.

I didn’t reply.

She knocked. “Come in,” his familiar voice called from inside.

The maid pushed the door open and gestured for me to enter. I did—though every part of me resisted.

I froze in place.

His office looked just like my husband's, and tears immediately gathered in my eyes.

I looked at the man who did this to me, and I wanted to slap him again and again. He wore the same calm expression he had when he shot my husband.

“Sit,” he said after assessing me from where he sat.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, forcing myself to obey. I walked toward him, even though the last thing I wanted was to listen to this killer.

“I’m sorry for killing your husband,” he said suddenly as I sat tensely in the chair opposite him. 

“But it had to be done.” He added.

I glared at him.

“I pray someone takes something precious from you the way you took mine, and then offers you a bullshit apology,” I said calmly.

It pained me that my words didn’t affect him. His face remained expressionless.

“Alberto wanted you to marry me after his death,” he said calmly.

I broke into a humorless laugh, and he watched me passively. I waited for him to say it was a cruel joke.

But he didn’t.

“It’s not a joke?” I asked.

I waited for the words that would deliver the final blow.

“It’s not,” he replied.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whispered, unable to comprehend how someone could be so heartless.

“Because this is what your husband wanted,” he said calmly.

I hated how easily he spoke, as if his words weren’t killing me all over again.

“You’re lying,” I said, standing up and shaking my head.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

I shook my head instead.

“How much of a psychopath can you be?” I screamed.

“You just made me a widow, and now you want to marry me!”

He closed his eyes for a brief second, as if his patience were wearing thin.

“Think what you want,” he said when he opened them again.

My chest hurt so badly I wished the ground would open and swallow me whole.

“Just kill me like you did him,” I whispered. “Anything but this.”

“Please,” I added.

I hated that I was begging my husband’s killer—but if it meant not wearing Alberto’s ring forever, I would beg.

He stood from his chair and walked toward me. I almost stepped back as he leaned close and whispered.

“The wedding is in two days.”

Then he walked past me and out of the office.

Wedding?

Two days?

I can’t marry my husband’s killer.

I won’t.