My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent
Every cut, every burn, every broken bone is a mirror of what Gavriil once inflicted in that warehouse outside Poti.
Hours pass.
The chamber reeks of blood, vomit, and burning flesh.
When Zurab finally opens Gavriil’s abdomen with the same rusted blade that once carved him, the screaming stops, there is no strength left.
He pulls the intestines out loop by loop, nails them to the wall in a perfect, obscene spiral.
Then steps back.
Gavriil hangs there, chained, gutted, still breathing in wet, shallow gasps.
Zurab turns to me, hands crimson to the elbows.
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