April 28, 1944

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Genevieve Parsons, it’s that she is as devoted to writing in her journal as she is to her husband.

I have no plans to come between her and her penmanship, but the latter—that, I would love nothing more than to change.

Rain descends from the heavens steadily, blurring my view of her through the bay window. Yet I know every detail of her face—features I’ve grown intimate with over the weeks. The softness that she reserves for her daughter. Every crease around her mouth and eyes when her husband comes home drunk. The fire that ignites in her bright-blue eyes, or the way her soft lips part when she catches sight of me.

If it were up to Angelo, she would be collateral for her husband’s debts.

A means to an end.

Yet I fear she’s meant to end me.

John managed to pay off his debt to Tommy, but then just last week, he dug himself into another hole. Now, he owes Tommy a grand and hasn’t been able to claw his way out of it yet.

So yesterday, Paulie showed up at John’s business, reminding him of his debt to the Salvatores, which John promised to pay. He asked for up to three months, which Angelo has granted him.

If he knows what’s good for him, he will pay Tommy back sooner.

I slide my hands into the deep pockets of my trench coat and slowly approach the front door. My hat shields me from the worst of the storm, droplets pouring from the rim and pattering off the leather of my shoes.

If Genevieve is my end, then I open the door to death with no hesitation.

The warmth from the fireplace is instant as I enter the foyer. Above me, the chandelier’s crystals twinkle in the soft light emitting from the sconces hanging on the dark walls. Cold rain puddles on the checkered floors, leaving a trail behind me as I head toward the living room to my left.

As soon as I round the corner, I’m faced with Genevieve standing before her chair, the piece of furniture rocking behind her.

Chest heaving, she stares at me wildly, as if she’s an untamed animal that can’t decide if it wants to devour me or run away.

I can’t imagine that I stare at her any differently.

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have by now,” she breathes, almost as a placation to her own fearful thoughts.

She’s wrong.

I do want to hurt her.

I’d love nothing more than to see her bare ass reddened by my hand. Or the faintest of bruises around her neck where my fingers grip as I drive into her. And those beautiful eyes filled with tears, pleading for me not to go any deeper down her throat.

Husbands don’t hurt their wives the way I want to hurt her. They save those darker desires for their salacious nights in brothels, where those actions are considered disrespectful but acceptable.

Men are supposed to be gentle with the women they love. Take care of their fragile bodies and treat them like fine china.

I’m confident John has already loved her in such a way, and here she is—so very unsatisfied. If she weren’t, she’d never stare at me so seductively.

There’s nothing gentle about the way I plan to love Genevieve Parsons.

With slow, deliberate steps, I approach her. Her breath quickens as I near, yet she doesn’t move. Doesn’t run from me.

My hand twitches, desperate to touch her.

Even when I’m a mere foot away, she stays.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” she asks, her voice a soft whine.

Because she’s not ready.

She’s not ready to hear what I plan to do with her—to her. Most of all, she’s not ready to hear that I won’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

The thought of it has my hand twitching again, this time for the gun tucked in the back of my trousers, ready to unleash my wrath on anyone who stands in my way of keeping Genevieve.

Just like every other time I’ve visited her, I lift one finger to her soft, reddened cheek. It’s the only contact I allow myself. A small reprieve to my yearning—yet not nearly enough to abate it.

I want so much more, but her daughter will be home from school soon. I retreat and quickly leave, back out the front door, before I do something stupid like stay.