"You know I hate being provoked," she said. "Especially by your dogs—one of them was a pregnant dog." She shrugged. "Consider it an appetizer. If you can't control your dogs, I don't mind roasting one for dinner."
Red flared in my father's eyes and his grip tightened.
"You think I won't put you in front of the police?" he snapped.
"You'd need proof to have them take me away." Mom shrugged.
Before the fire, Mom had people wipe every surveillance tape. My father raged; he slammed her down onto the coffee table. The crash of broken glass echoed like the breaking of the life I'd always known.
Then he pulled something out—what everyone else called a gun—and pressed it on to her temple. His voice was vicious.
"Gianna," he said, "men are like this. After being together for too long, they cheat. Compared to those surrounded by women every day, I’ve already been pretty good. And didn’t I promise you? The title of Mrs. Pearson will always belong to you." He stared at my mother. "Bella couldn't threaten you—so why do you keep pushing her?"
I'd seen what a gun could do. I bit my protector's hand hard enough to draw blood, wrenched free, and barreled between them to stand in front of Mom.