My Husband Asked For A Second Wife

CHAPTER 58

Serafina

The evidence of Matteo’s financial malice toward Leonel, presented by Adrian, was insurmountable. The verdict was a certainty, but the wait was agonizing.

"We move," Adrian muttered, his eyes already sweeping the room. "Now. Before they process the loss."

The "they" was Anastasia and her lawyers, but Adrian’s deeper fear was of the chaos that followed certain defeat. We couldn't wait for the final ruling. Leonel was secured in a private room nearby, and our plan was to move him immediately to the armored sanctuary we had established miles away.

We descended through the courthouse’s private elevator bank, a silent procession of two security detail members, Adrian, and myself. My nerves were screaming, every hair on my body on edge. I wasn’t afraid of a legal loss anymore; I was bracing for the physical retaliation. A Verrelli cornered is a dangerous thing, but Anastasia cornered was poison itself.

The underground garage was dark and damp, smelling of concrete and exhaust. Our armored car, black and silent, waited near a secluded exit ramp. Adrian walked slightly ahead, his hand resting on the weapon concealed beneath his suit jacket.

"Serafina, keep your head down," he commanded softly, opening the passenger door.

I nodded, my breath catching in my throat. We retrieved Leonel, who was blissfully asleep in his high-grade car seat, oblivious to the high-stakes game being played over his head. Adrian secured the boy in the car with meticulous care, the click of the latch sounding deafening in the silence.

I was turning to get into the driver’s side—a final maneuver to shield Adrian from any attack from the rear—when I heard it. Not a sound from the engine, not the rustle of the security guards. It was a noise that didn't belong: the quick, sharp tap of high heels on the concrete floor, accelerating.

"Adrian!" I screamed, spinning around.

She was there. Anastasia, no longer the composed legal figure. Her suit jacket was gone, her face a terrifying mask of twisted, beautiful fury. She held a compact black semi-automatic pistol, aimed not at Adrian, not at me, but directly at the back window of the car, right where Leonel’s head rested.

"You took everything, Serafina!" Her voice was a cracked, vicious shriek. "You won't have him! No one will!"

I launched myself forward, but I was a step too slow. Adrian was drawing his gun. It was a split second, a blur of motion where the world stopped rotating. I saw the muzzle flash—a tiny, blinding spark of orange.

I threw myself over the hood of the car, expecting the shattering of glass, the scream of my son.

But the sound I heard was an entirely different, sickening thud.

Someone had moved.

Matteo.

He materialized out of the shadows, having followed Anastasia, perhaps intending to stop her, perhaps just to watch. But when the gun came up, he moved with the primal, instantaneous instinct of a father. He dove, shoulder-first, slamming into the side of the car, throwing his body between the bullet and the reinforced window.

The impact of the shot drove him straight into the steel frame. A spray of scarlet bloomed instantly across the front of his light gray suit, right over his chest. He gasped, a wet, rattling sound, stumbling backward, his hands grasping frantically at the wound.

The moment he fell back, the world exploded into action.

Anastasia, momentarily stunned by Matteo's interception, adjusted her grip. She was aiming for me now, her eyes feral.

Adrian’s shot was coming, but Matteo, falling, somehow moved faster. His left hand dropped to his belt, and the weapon he always carried—a small, highly specialized sidearm—was in his hand. His eyes, already glazed with shock and pain, focused with deadly clarity on his wife. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement. It was the perfected choreography of a professional killer, his final, efficient act.

Bang!

The shot was deafening in the confined garage. It was followed by the sound of a body hitting the concrete with a horrible, heavy slump.

Anastasia was gone. One moment a screaming, vengeful angel of death, the next, a lifeless heap by the tire track, her pistol clattering away. The single bullet from Matteo had been perfectly placed, killing her instantly.

The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying. My security detail froze, guns drawn but useless. Adrian, his weapon still raised toward Anastasia's corpse, lowered it slowly, his breath ragged.

I didn't look at Anastasia. I looked only at Matteo. He was slumped against the side of the car, sliding down toward the floor, leaving a widening smear of crimson on the black paint.

I rushed to him, dropping to my knees in the oily concrete. The warm, metallic scent of his blood was everywhere.

"Matteo! Matteo, look at me!" I cradled his head in my lap. His hair was damp, his face pale, already etched with the terrible gray pallor of imminent death.

The security guards were shouting into their radios; Adrian was checking Leonel in the back seat, his face rigid with shock but his focus still on his son.

Matteo’s eyes, those calculating, dark eyes that had always held such contempt and suspicion for me, looked up. Now, they were swimming, but they were clear. They held a profound, heartbreaking realization.

"Leonel... is he..." His voice was barely a whisper, broken and bubbling.

"He's fine. Matteo, he's safe. You saved him," I whispered, pressing my hand uselessly against the gaping wound in his chest. The blood was pulsing out, thick and unstoppable. The bullet had ripped through him, destroying the life force that had been so dominant, so controlling, for so long.

He reached up, his fingers stained red, and touched my cheek. It was the first truly tender touch he had given me in years, perhaps ever. His gaze was locked on mine, searching, begging.

"Serafina… I need you to know." He struggled for breath, his chest seizing. "It was never the money. Not truly. I… I hated that Antonio chose you. That you had his loyalty. I couldn't… forgive you for that."

The confession was raw, stripped bare of all his typical bravado. It was an admission of pride and jealousy, not just business rivalry.

"Don't talk, Matteo. Just stay still."

He smiled faintly, a painful, tragic twist of his lips. "No time for stillness now. I’m cold. So cold."

He coughed, and blood flecked his chin. His grip on my suit jacket tightened.

"I was a bad husband," he rasped, the words tearing out of him. "I loved the idea of power… more than I loved you. Or... or anything." His eyes drifted past me, toward the car where Leonel was now stirring, whimpering softly at the noise.

"Tell the boy... tell him I wasn't... entirely a monster. Not to him. Not in the end." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a plea. "Forgive me, Serafina. For all of it. The cruelty. The threats. The... the hate."

I looked down at the man who had been my enemy, my husband, the source of my deepest pain and the father of my child. In this final, selfless moment, standing between a bullet and his son, he had paid the ultimate price. He had chosen love over revenge, sacrifice over spite. All the carefully constructed walls of malice, all the years of manipulation, crumbled away in a single breath.

"I forgive you, Matteo," I said, the words heavy, tasting of blood and tears. "I forgive you."

His eyes softened, releasing the desperate tension he had carried all his life. A flicker of true peace crossed his face—a look I had never seen before. He took a final, shuddering breath, a long, rasping inhalation that never released.

Then, he was still. His hand slipped from my cheek, his weight going slack in my arms.

I stayed there, kneeling on the cold floor, the dead man in my lap, the dead woman meters away, and the sirens beginning to wail in the distance. The complexity of Matteo Verrelli—the villain, the ruthless opponent, the dying penitent father—had been violently resolved. His final act of undeniable redemption had secured Leonel’s future in a way no court ruling ever could. He had sacrificed the last remnants of his life to prove that, at the core, he was a father.

Adrian came to me, his face etched with grim horror. He placed a hand on my shoulder, steadying me as the sirens screamed closer.

"Serafina," he said, his voice raw. "It's over."

But I knew it wasn't. The court battle was over, yes, and the threat of Anastasia was gone. But the price was permanent, etched into the concrete and the blood on my hands, sealing a legacy that was as complex and tragic as the life that had just ended.