Sinful Affairs
Like he wasn't used to the cameras, the fans, and the expensive suits.
Now he was in gray clothes and tired eyes.
At breakfast, people were already talking.
Word traveled fast in prison, faster than disease. By the time we got our trays, whispers had started floating around the cafeteria.
“That’s him, ain’t it?” a guy at another table said. “The actor. The one who killed his wife.”
I froze mid-bite.
Killed his wife?
I looked at Francesco. He was sitting across from me again, calm as always, eating his oatmeal like he didn’t hear a thing. But I could tell he did. His hands were steady, too steady.