Where Stray Falcons Come to Die
The year Nico Gallo loved me most.
He was in a car explosion that crippled his legs and blew off a finger, but he gave me the only chance of survival.
“I have nothing left but my life.”
The entire Chicago underworld envied me, for Nico Gallo loved me enough to die for me.
Until Ava, the mistress he had hidden for eight years, showed up at my door, her face full of curiosity.
“Nico’s and my little baby is growing in your belly.”
On the stack of surrogacy agreements, her and Nico’s names were written in black and white.
“Nico says I’m just a kid, not grown up enough to have a baby myself.”
Her tone was innocent, her face beautiful, but her mind was like that of an eight-year-old child, and every other word out of her mouth was “Nico.”
Nico had raised her well, so well that she was untouched by the world’s grime.
Watching her, I stood on the staircase of the Falcone family’s villa and let go.
I gave up the five-month-old fetus in my womb.
In the operating room, I felt the sharp, tearing pain of the abortion. From the adjacent ward, Ava’s shrill screams echoed.
“Nico, I’m scared! Where are you!”
Two hours later, Nico rushed to me, his hands covered in blood. I gave him two choices.
“Kill me.”
“Or get out of my family.”