The unlocked front door was the first red flag of the day. Now, if you knew Natalie, you'd know she wouldn't leave the house unlocked unless she was running from a serial killer or had a gun to her head. Neither seemed likely. I stepped inside, instantly on edge. "Natalie?" My voice echoed through the house. Nothing. Weird! "Natalie!" I called again, this time louder—still nothing. And then—ohhhhhh-a soft, breathy moan drifted from upstairs. Oh, fuck no! I felt it—how my stomach plummeted. My jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. Every muscle in my body went taut, primed to end whatever bastard was currently balls-deep in my wife. I stormed up the stairs, fists clenched at my sides—ready to make somebody's obituary a reality. Clothes—her clothes—were scattered across the hallway. Lacy panties led to the bedroom door. My gaze snapped over to a bra dangling from the doorknob like a goddamn victory flag. The room door was slightly ajar as I stepped in front of it. And that's when I saw her. My Natalie… Straddling some faceless asshole, her bare back arched, moving in a rhythm that left no doubt. A damn tango of sexual body parts. My brain short-circuited. She lifted her head. Our eyes locked. A voice snapped beside me—sharp, close. Then—bam—a jab to the gut snapped me out of it. "What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?" I blinked. My wife. Natalie. Right there beside me. Wait. What? I turned back to the bed. It wasn't Natalie. But her sister, Kelly. Natalie and Kelly were sisters who looked nearly identical—except Natalie had a heart tattoo on her left arm with our names inked inside, and Kelly was half a shade lighter and apparently a full shade sluttier. "Are you freaking kidding me?" I hissed. She chuckled, steering me toward the stairs like a kid who had just walked in on Santa. "Relax, babe. They're leaving soon. We all are." I blinked, confusion etching across my face. She gave me the look—the look women give when they’re about to carve you a new ass. Yeah. One of those. "Lorenzo," she snapped. "The trip. The one you planned." I stared at her, my brain fog at full density. "What trip?" I muttered, trying to buy some time and figure out just what the hell we were talking about here. "Lorenzo, you didn't forget about our trip today, did you? Really?" Like a bat out of hell, my soul, damn near left my body. I panicked and darted my eyes around the room, like the answers were somewhere hidden in the drywall. "Wha—pfft—me? Forget? Babe, come on." I forced a chuckle. "Ah, maybe." Her expression turned to steel. "Say it, Lorenzo—" "—Say what?" I swallowed hard. "Just say you forgot." I exhaled through my nose, dragging a hand over my face. "I have a good memory, but it is short." Natalie didn’t flinch. Just drew in a slow breath, eyes flat, lips tight. “Wow,” she said—like a loaded gun. "—Look, it's been a long week and work's been kicking my ass, and I meant to check my calendar, but then—" "Uh-huh, sure," she dismissed my feeble defense. "—And the bags..?" "… Bags?" I muttered. “The luggage," she said flatly. "You were supposed to pack." Oh. Oh, I didn't like this ride; it's scary… "… I can handle that." Natalie's stare was colder than an ex's heart. "You got two minutes." My hands flew up. "Two minutes? Done." I said, hauling ass upstairs to pack whatever the hell I could find, knowing full well this trip was already a disaster, especially with her annoying lil sister. Who, I just watched exchange bodily fluids with Thor! My lungs burned as I charged down the stairs, shirt glued to my back. I’d packed half the damn house in under ninety seconds, the suitcase wheezing behind me, zippers ready to explode. At the bottom step, I froze. My eyes traced across the living room—quick, instinctive. No Natalie. “Natalie?” Not this shit again. I stepped off the stairs and into the open kitchen, leaning past the island. Nothing. Then Natalie’s voice drifted up through the floor, casual as ever: “Grabbing some laundry from the basement before we leave.” Of course, she was. Air hissed out of me as I made my way back into the living room and flopped on the couch. Sunlight poured through the picture window like the universe hadn’t just kicked me in the nuts. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet—just a breeze lifting the trees, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. Inside, it was still. And I knew—my wife wasn't coming back up anytime soon. Natalie took her time with everything—everything except swiping my credit cards. Next came the sound. Off to my right, through the doorway separating the living room from the stairwell, high heels clattered—hard-soled chaos pounded closer—a rhythmic disaster, like a bad Cha-Cha Slide remix. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Kelly! Stumbling down the stairs, tangled with her latest boyfriend, locked in a sloppy kiss. Yet as they moved together, her eyes never left mine—saying more than words ever could. She smeared cheap lipstick across the guy’s mouth, then wiped it off with the back of her hand—casual as routine. Messy affection, poor decisions echoing off the Moretti’s walls. She stopped at the front door, twisting toward me with a grin after she had already committed a cosmetic crime in my bedroom. "Tell Natalie we'll be right back. We're about to go grab some snacks." I didn't even turn my head. Caught her in my peripheral and gave a silent nod, keeping my gaze locked on nothing in particular. It was easier that way. Kept the flicker of irritation from crawling up my ass. Her fuck-toy stood beside her—tall, plus-sized, trying too hard to look polite. He mumbled an apology, like that could erase what I’d just seen—on my Egyptian cotton sheets. Second thought: burn the whole goddamn bedroom set and send this prick the invoice. A beat later, he stuck out his hand—some awkward intro move—but I didn't bother shaking it. I didn't catch his name either. What was the point? She would drop him in a few weeks, tops. Like all the other poor bastards who thought they could weather Hurricane Kelly. Funny how women always “find themselves” by losing their panties. They throw that line around, thinking it makes the train of discarded bodies behind them disappear. I was still chewing on that thought when the door slammed behind them. My eyes flicked up. Speak of the devil, Natalie waltzed in nonchalantly—laundry basket in hand, fresh clothes stacked up in scary ADA fashion. Her favorite anime outfits—the ones she slipped into before sex. Cosplay wasn’t my thing, but if playing Catwoman got her freaky? Who was I to complain? Maybe that was her version of a peace offering. Besides… that kitty was dangerous—hell, it should’ve come with a warning label: “Enter at your own risk.” I couldn't stop myself. Threw Natalie a warm, knowing look—the kind that said yeah… You got me, and we both knew exactly why. "—And what exactly are you grinning about, Mr. Moretti?" she teased, one brow cocked, a mischievous glint in her eyes—and I swear she was purring. I couldn't help it. Goddamn, my wife looked good. That little smirk, that spark—she knew exactly what she was doing. And I knew exactly what I wanted to do about it. "I was thinking about how blessed I am to be with my soul mate," I ran a hand through my sandy brown hair, meaning every damn word. "Awww, babe, you are sweet when you aren't acting so cocky!" I chuckled. "Yeah, whatever." But then my tone shifted, turning more serious. "On a different note, babe—how your sister looks at me is a little unsettling. I'm thinking she might have a thing for me." She walked over and sank onto the couch beside me, folding her legs beneath her in a lotus position. "Lorenzo," she said, her voice soft but particular. "Of course, my sister has a crush on you…" Her hazel eyes fixed on mine, pulling me in like they always do. "I mean, look at you. Handsome, fit, smart, emotionally available—hell, you even fold laundry. And you were the college quarterback who brought this city a championship. You're like... the definition of a trophy husband." I grinned, flattered, and leaned in. Our lips collided in a hungry kiss, my teeth catching her bottom lip before everything spilled into the X-rated lip smack that left us tangled for hours—sheets twisted, pillows everywhere, limbs locked, balls slapping, her laughter echoing off the walls. The afternoon had slipped past us when we were done and halfway human again. We lay there for a while, bodies cooling, the silence stretching. Eventually, the waiting kicked in after we showered. Natalie called her sister a few times and left voicemails. Nothing. "We can't miss that flight," I reminded her while I was tossing on a clean shirt. Those tickets weren't refundable, and the driver was already en route. I barely finished the sentence when I heard—a low engine hum slicing through the still evening air, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel outside just below our bedroom. I peered out the curtain and noticed a clean black four-door sedan with bright headlights pulling into our driveway. "Natalie! Our ride's here!" I shouted, hauling ass as I hurried downstairs to grab our suitcases before heading out the front door. But the second I stepped outside, bags in hand… I stopped cold. Guess who I saw? You probably guessed it… Kelly. Curled up in the backseat; sniffling, whimpering, resulting in a tear-streaked face. Classic helpless act. God, I hated her irritating ass. All I wanted was one good day—just me and the wife. But nope. Kelly had to show up and ruin everything—like she always had. I swear, that drama queen made my ass itch, and not in a good way. I stood there, suitcase still in hand, debating whether to chuck it at the car or walk back inside. My grip tightened. That’s when another ride pulled up—sleeker, newer—our actual ride. And before I could even move, a blur flew past me. Natalie—bolted out the front door, glassy-eyed, rushing straight to Kelly like she was the damn Red Cross. Pity party? Checked. Geez, Louise! The level of attention that woman craved was boundless—and above all, she'd mastered the art of playing the sympathy card, especially when it came to Natalie. Lucky me—I still had to go back inside to grab Kelly's luggage. As I walked back in to grab a few things from the coat closet, I saw Natalie’s laptop on the kitchen counter. Just sitting there. Open. Lit up. Begging to be noticed. A photo. Handsome. Shredded. A scar slashed across his scalp. And just like that, my stomach dropped. No reason to feel insecure, not after the sex circus I’d survived today. I wasn’t about to spiral. Not again. Not today, Satan. You can kiss my white—heavily seasoned Italian—ass. I closed the laptop, brushing off the twitch that lingered in my gut. But here was the kicker—Satan? That sneaky bastard already had my balls in a vise. That guy in the photo? Yeah, Scarface wasn't just some random pretty face. He was the man who killed my wife.
Warning Signs
The unlocked front door was the first red flag of the day. Now, if you knew Natalie, you'd know she wouldn't leave the house unlocked unless she was running from a serial killer or had a gun to her head. Neither seemed likely.
I stepped inside, instantly on edge. "Natalie?" My voice echoed through the house. Nothing. Weird! "Natalie!" I called again, this time louder—still nothing. And then—ohhhhhh-a soft, breathy moan drifted from upstairs.
Oh, fuck no!
I felt it—how my stomach plummeted. My jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. Every muscle in my body went taut, primed to end whatever bastard was currently balls-deep in my wife. I stormed up the stairs, fists clenched at my sides—ready to make somebody's obituary a reality.
Clothes—her clothes—were scattered across the hallway. Lacy panties led to the bedroom door. My gaze snapped over to a bra dangling from the doorknob like a goddamn victory flag. The room door was slightly ajar as I stepped in front of it. And that's when I saw her.
My Natalie…
Straddling some faceless asshole, her bare back arched, moving in a rhythm that left no doubt. A damn tango of sexual body parts.
My brain short-circuited. She lifted her head. Our eyes locked. A voice snapped beside me—sharp, close. Then—bam—a jab to the gut snapped me out of it.
"What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?"
I blinked. My wife. Natalie. Right there beside me.
Wait. What?
I turned back to the bed. It wasn't Natalie. But her sister, Kelly. Natalie and Kelly were sisters who looked nearly identical—except Natalie had a heart tattoo on her left arm with our names inked inside, and Kelly was half a shade lighter and apparently a full shade sluttier.
"Are you freaking kidding me?" I hissed.
She chuckled, steering me toward the stairs like a kid who had just walked in on Santa.
"Relax, babe. They're leaving soon. We all are."
I blinked, confusion etching across my face. She gave me the look—the look women give when they’re about to carve you a new ass. Yeah. One of those.
"Lorenzo," she snapped. "The trip. The one you planned."
I stared at her, my brain fog at full density. "What trip?" I muttered, trying to buy some time and figure out just what the hell we were talking about here.
"Lorenzo, you didn't forget about our trip today, did you? Really?"
Like a bat out of hell, my soul, damn near left my body. I panicked and darted my eyes around the room, like the answers were somewhere hidden in the drywall. "Wha—pfft—me? Forget? Babe, come on." I forced a chuckle. "Ah, maybe."
Her expression turned to steel. "Say it, Lorenzo—"
"—Say what?" I swallowed hard.
"Just say you forgot."
I exhaled through my nose, dragging a hand over my face. "I have a good memory, but it is short."
Natalie didn’t flinch. Just drew in a slow breath, eyes flat, lips tight. “Wow,” she said—like a loaded gun.
"—Look, it's been a long week and work's been kicking my ass, and I meant to check my calendar, but then—"
"Uh-huh, sure," she dismissed my feeble defense. "—And the bags..?"
"… Bags?" I muttered.
“The luggage," she said flatly. "You were supposed to pack."
Oh. Oh, I didn't like this ride; it's scary…
"… I can handle that."
Natalie's stare was colder than an ex's heart. "You got two minutes."
My hands flew up. "Two minutes? Done." I said, hauling ass upstairs to pack whatever the hell I could find, knowing full well this trip was already a disaster, especially with her annoying lil sister. Who, I just watched exchange bodily fluids with Thor!
My lungs burned as I charged down the stairs, shirt glued to my back. I’d packed half the damn house in under ninety seconds, the suitcase wheezing behind me, zippers ready to explode.
At the bottom step, I froze. My eyes traced across the living room—quick, instinctive. No Natalie. “Natalie?” Not this shit again.
I stepped off the stairs and into the open kitchen, leaning past the island. Nothing. Then Natalie’s voice drifted up through the floor, casual as ever: “Grabbing some laundry from the basement before we leave.”
Of course, she was.
Air hissed out of me as I made my way back into the living room and flopped on the couch. Sunlight poured through the picture window like the universe hadn’t just kicked me in the nuts.
Outside, the neighborhood was quiet—just a breeze lifting the trees, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. Inside, it was still. And I knew—my wife wasn't coming back up anytime soon. Natalie took her time with everything—everything except swiping my credit cards.
Next came the sound. Off to my right, through the doorway separating the living room from the stairwell, high heels clattered—hard-soled chaos pounded closer—a rhythmic disaster, like a bad Cha-Cha Slide remix. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was.
Kelly! Stumbling down the stairs, tangled with her latest boyfriend, locked in a sloppy kiss. Yet as they moved together, her eyes never left mine—saying more than words ever could. She smeared cheap lipstick across the guy’s mouth, then wiped it off with the back of her hand—casual as routine. Messy affection, poor decisions echoing off the Moretti’s walls.
She stopped at the front door, twisting toward me with a grin after she had already committed a cosmetic crime in my bedroom. "Tell Natalie we'll be right back. We're about to go grab some snacks."
I didn't even turn my head. Caught her in my peripheral and gave a silent nod, keeping my gaze locked on nothing in particular. It was easier that way. Kept the flicker of irritation from crawling up my ass.
Her fuck-toy stood beside her—tall, plus-sized, trying too hard to look polite. He mumbled an apology, like that could erase what I’d just seen—on my Egyptian cotton sheets.
Second thought: burn the whole goddamn bedroom set and send this prick the invoice.
A beat later, he stuck out his hand—some awkward intro move—but I didn't bother shaking it. I didn't catch his name either. What was the point?
She would drop him in a few weeks, tops. Like all the other poor bastards who thought they could weather Hurricane Kelly. Funny how women always “find themselves” by losing their panties. They throw that line around, thinking it makes the train of discarded bodies behind them disappear.
I was still chewing on that thought when the door slammed behind them. My eyes flicked up. Speak of the devil, Natalie waltzed in nonchalantly—laundry basket in hand, fresh clothes stacked up in scary ADA fashion. Her favorite anime outfits—the ones she slipped into before sex.
Cosplay wasn’t my thing, but if playing Catwoman got her freaky? Who was I to complain? Maybe that was her version of a peace offering. Besides… that kitty was dangerous—hell, it should’ve come with a warning label: “Enter at your own risk.”
I couldn't stop myself. Threw Natalie a warm, knowing look—the kind that said yeah… You got me, and we both knew exactly why.
"—And what exactly are you grinning about, Mr. Moretti?" she teased, one brow cocked, a mischievous glint in her eyes—and I swear she was purring.
I couldn't help it. Goddamn, my wife looked good. That little smirk, that spark—she knew exactly what she was doing. And I knew exactly what I wanted to do about it.
"I was thinking about how blessed I am to be with my soul mate," I ran a hand through my sandy brown hair, meaning every damn word.
"Awww, babe, you are sweet when you aren't acting so cocky!"
I chuckled. "Yeah, whatever." But then my tone shifted, turning more serious. "On a different note, babe—how your sister looks at me is a little unsettling. I'm thinking she might have a thing for me."
She walked over and sank onto the couch beside me, folding her legs beneath her in a lotus position. "Lorenzo," she said, her voice soft but particular. "Of course, my sister has a crush on you…" Her hazel eyes fixed on mine, pulling me in like they always do. "I mean, look at you. Handsome, fit, smart, emotionally available—hell, you even fold laundry. And you were the college quarterback who brought this city a championship. You're like... the definition of a trophy husband."
I grinned, flattered, and leaned in. Our lips collided in a hungry kiss, my teeth catching her bottom lip before everything spilled into the X-rated lip smack that left us tangled for hours—sheets twisted, pillows everywhere, limbs locked, balls slapping, her laughter echoing off the walls.
The afternoon had slipped past us when we were done and halfway human again. We lay there for a while, bodies cooling, the silence stretching. Eventually, the waiting kicked in after we showered. Natalie called her sister a few times and left voicemails. Nothing.
"We can't miss that flight," I reminded her while I was tossing on a clean shirt. Those tickets weren't refundable, and the driver was already en route.
I barely finished the sentence when I heard—a low engine hum slicing through the still evening air, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel outside just below our bedroom. I peered out the curtain and noticed a clean black four-door sedan with bright headlights pulling into our driveway.
"Natalie! Our ride's here!" I shouted, hauling ass as I hurried downstairs to grab our suitcases before heading out the front door. But the second I stepped outside, bags in hand… I stopped cold.
Guess who I saw? You probably guessed it… Kelly. Curled up in the backseat; sniffling, whimpering, resulting in a tear-streaked face. Classic helpless act.
God, I hated her irritating ass. All I wanted was one good day—just me and the wife. But nope. Kelly had to show up and ruin everything—like she always had. I swear, that drama queen made my ass itch, and not in a good way.
I stood there, suitcase still in hand, debating whether to chuck it at the car or walk back inside. My grip tightened. That’s when another ride pulled up—sleeker, newer—our actual ride. And before I could even move, a blur flew past me.
Natalie—bolted out the front door, glassy-eyed, rushing straight to Kelly like she was the damn Red Cross.
Pity party? Checked.
Geez, Louise! The level of attention that woman craved was boundless—and above all, she'd mastered the art of playing the sympathy card, especially when it came to Natalie. Lucky me—I still had to go back inside to grab Kelly's luggage.
As I walked back in to grab a few things from the coat closet, I saw Natalie’s laptop on the kitchen counter. Just sitting there. Open. Lit up. Begging to be noticed.
A photo. Handsome. Shredded. A scar slashed across his scalp. And just like that, my stomach dropped. No reason to feel insecure, not after the sex circus I’d survived today. I wasn’t about to spiral. Not again. Not today, Satan. You can kiss my white—heavily seasoned Italian—ass.
I closed the laptop, brushing off the twitch that lingered in my gut.
But here was the kicker—Satan? That sneaky bastard already had my balls in a vise.
That guy in the photo?
Yeah, Scarface wasn't just some random pretty face. He was the man who killed my wife.