Twenty-Four hours before we were to be married–I offered to shoot her.
Ten hours before our wedding–I made a mockery of her dying wish.
Five hours before we were going to say our vows–I promised I’d never love her.
One hour before I said I do–I vowed I’d never shed a tear over her death.
But the minute we were pronounced man and wife–I knew.
I’d only use my gun to protect her. I’d give my life for hers. I’d cry. And I would, most definitely, lose myself, to a dying girl—a girl who by all accounts should have never been mine in the first place.
I always believed the mafia would be my end game–poisoning my heart, while it claimed my soul. I could have never imagined. It would be my redemption. Or the beginning of something beautiful.
The beginning of her.
The end of us.