My Husband Murdered Our Girls,I Made Him Pay in Blood

I slowly sat up, my body still ice-cold, my hands and feet numb. Lucia supported me as we walked out of the room, step by step, toward Salvatore's bedroom. Each step felt like treading on knife points, the pain making my whole body tremble.

Pushing open the door, I found Salvatore sitting in the old wooden chair by his bed. His hair seemed to have whitened even more, his back more hunched, his face etched with exhaustion and heartache. In his eyes lingered a deep, unmistakable guilt. His signet ring sat untouched on his finger. He did not roll it.

When he saw me enter, he slowly raised his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I walked to him and stopped, head bowed, unable to meet his gaze. I was afraid to see the pain in his eyes, afraid to see his guilt, and even more afraid that the emotions I'd barely managed to suppress would come flooding out again.

"Good child," Salvatore's voice was hoarse and weary, heavy with helplessness and remorse. He reached out and gently took my ice-cold hand in his. His fingers were still warm. "You're a good child. You've been wronged. Lucia told me everything. All these years inside the Falcone household, you've suffered far too much. I failed to raise that boy right. I've failed you, failed your grandfather, and failed those two poor children, Elena and Rosalia."

His voice caught, and tears slid down the creases of his weathered face, dropping onto the back of my hand, scalding hot.

"Tomorrow is the cremation," Salvatore took a deep breath, his tone heavy. "Once it's done, if you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you. That boy doesn't deserve you. He shouldn't hold you back any longer, shouldn't make you suffer anymore. What the Falcone Family owes you, owes those children, we can never repay it. Not in this lifetime."

I lifted my head and looked at his aged face, at the guilt and heartache in his eyes. Tears welled up again, unstoppable.

I said nothing. I only bowed deeply. As I bent at the waist, tears fell in heavy drops onto the wooden floor, each one landing with a soft sound, each one carrying my endless pain and gratitude.

I was grateful for Salvatore's twenty-some years of care, grateful for his love and protection all these years, grateful for his understanding now. But I also knew this gratitude could never outweigh the hatred in my heart. I could forgive everyone in the Falcone Family. Everyone except Maeve. I could never forgive the man who had killed my children with his own hands. Never forgive the man who had destroyed my life.

After the bow, I straightened up. Still without a word, I turned and walked out of Salvatore's bedroom.

Back in my own room, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open gently, and the moment I saw who was inside, the blood in my veins froze solid.

Maeve was sitting on the edge of my bed. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his hair combed without a strand out of place. There was no guilt on his face, no grief. Only thick contempt and mockery. A soldier stood in the hallway behind me, close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend he couldn't. When Maeve saw me enter, he slowly lifted his head, his lips curling into a cruel smile, his voice sharp and grating:

"What's this? Just came back from the Don's room? Couldn't wait to go running to him with your complaints?"

He stood and walked toward me, step by step, the disgust and derision in his eyes completely unconcealed.

"Do you actually believe that if you sweet-talk my grandfather, sweet-talk my sister, I'll suddenly see you differently? That I'll settle down and play house with you?"

The moment I saw Maeve, hatred surged through me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. I wanted to kill him right then and there. I wanted to send him straight to hell.

The hatred coiled around my heart like poisonous vines, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I stared at his hypocritical, vicious face, my nails digging so deep into my palms that blood seeped out. I didn't even feel it. My mind was filled with nothing but the urge to tear him apart.

But in the next instant, two small voices, soft and sweet, pierced through my surging hatred like a needle, gentle yet sharp, drilling into my ears as clearly as if they were right beside me.

Those were the countless nights when the girls had nestled in my arms, their little hands clinging tightly to my arm, their cheeks nuzzling against mine as they wheedled for attention.

Elena, the older one, blinking those big round eyes, her voice soft as cotton: "Mommy, I love Daddy so much. Daddy's the most handsome daddy in our whole kindergarten, even more handsome than Daisy's daddy!"

Rosalia nodding along, her little head bobbing back and forth: "Mommy, we miss Daddy so much. Is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight? We drew a picture of Daddy. We want to give it to him."

Every time Maeve's coldness cut me and I'd cry in secret, those two little ones would reach out with their chubby hands to wipe my tears away, their voices chiming together: "Mommy, you're our favorite person in the whole wide world! Daddy's second favorite. We'll be good. We won't make Daddy mad. We won't make Mommy sad."

And that last time, when I'd fought my way into that hellish compound and finally found them, their bodies covered in wounds, barely clinging to life, even then, the moment they saw me, they'd used their last shred of strength to grab the hem of my clothes, their voices faint as dying embers: "Mommy, we're sorry... Please don't fight with Daddy because of us. We weren't good. We didn't listen. We shouldn't have made Aunt Vanessa unhappy. Don't blame Daddy..."

Those voices, so gentle, so heartbreakingly understanding, sliced at my heart like dull blades, over and over, until I could barely breathe. Hatred and anguish twisted together, threatening to tear me in two.

I drew a deep breath, filling my chest with cold air, forcing down the crimson rage flooding my vision and the hatred threatening to consume me. My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and pressed against it until the metal bit into skin. I didn't look at Maeve. I didn't respond to a single word he'd said. I walked straight to the bed and sat down stiffly, my back ramrod straight, like a statue without a soul.

When he saw me ignore his mockery, when I refused to speak, the sneer on Maeve's face vanished instantly, replaced by thick irritation and impatience. He crossed the distance between us in a few strides, his eyes dark and menacing. Before I could react, he grabbed my arm with crushing force, hard enough to grind bone, and flung me onto the bed.

The mattress let out a muffled thud. My head spun from the impact. Before I could struggle, he was already pressing down on me, his hands clamping my wrists above my head, pinning them there with such force that pain shot through my arms. I couldn't move.

"What game are you playing now, Adriana?" Maeve's face hovered inches from mine, his warm breath washing over my skin, yet it carried nothing but bone-deep coldness and revulsion. "Weren't you the one who had Lucia call me? Crying and begging for me to come back? And now that I'm here, you're playing mute? Trying the hard-to-get routine with me?"