Keeping my Mafia Husband
he shouts.
I walk toward him, gun at my thigh.
“Zver, please,” he begs, voice shaking, real fear contorting his face.
“What did I say?”
“Don’t touch her,” he gasps, crying now, breath ragged from pain. A weak man, happy to dish it out but can't take it.
“Don’t touch who?”
“Don’t touch your wife.”
I raised the gun again.
“Don’t touch Claire!” he screams,
Too late. I fire into his leg.