Five years earlier, enemies had attacked him. I took three of the strikes meant for him. One to my chest, one to my thigh and one that went through my uterus. It took the baby I carried at one month.
The doctor said I might never bear a child again. I did not cry when I read the test results, but Matteo’s eyes had gone red with grief. He knelt before me, weeping, slapping his face until it was swollen.
"Victoria, it's my fault. I couldn't protect you!" he cried.
He held me tightly, blood from his forehead dripping onto my face. Even as he shook from pain, he refused to let my hand go.
"Victoria, I don't want the child. I don't want anything. I only want you!" he shouted.
"We will never be apart in this life. I will never let you down, even if I die!"
Each word had sounded certain. But that careless certainty broke the last piece of my dignity. I sneered, pulled out a photograph and shoved it into his face.
"Don't bother. I've already fixed your 'accident.' I had gone to the kindergarten. It was a nice place, but the security was weak."