He was holding a small blue toy car, dangling it loosely from his fingers. His pajamas were neat, hair perfectly brushed, face bright and rested like he’d slept peacefully through everything.
He crouched down beside me, smirking slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as if he was inspecting something interesting on the floor.
“My mom’s really good at acting, huh, puta?” he whispered, amused.
The word hit like a blade.
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
He rolled the toy car across the tiles. It clicked softly as it moved.
“Dad always believes her,” he added casually. “Every single time.”
Then he stood up like nothing had happened and walked away, humming under his breath—like he hadn’t stomped on my son just hours ago.
I lowered my head slowly. My voice barely came out, broken and thin.
Soon.
This would all end soon.
The divorce papers were already with the lawyer. I just had to wait.
And when it was done… I would finally be free.
And they would finally understand what it meant to lose everything.
**
Vincenzo returned before sunrise.
He dropped a bottle onto the floor in front of me. It rolled slightly before stopping—painkillers, no label, no explanation.