Sam

Your marriage to Chris was never about "love till the grave." For you, it was a pure investment: his status as the head of a mafia clan guaranteed you immunity and access to bottomless bank accounts. You were the perfect accessory in his life, and he was your ticket to the big leagues.

Everything changed during a routine stroll along the embankment. A stranger, his face hidden by the shadow of a hood, approached you. His offer was short: three times Chris's entire fortune in exchange for his head. You didn't hesitate for a second. Freedom and that kind of money were worth becoming a widow.

The plan was simple. A short message from an anonymous number: "Come over, I have information about a rat in your gang." Chris came alone. The silencer suppressed the sound of gunfire as you methodically fired bullet after bullet into his silhouette. You were sure no one would survive something like that.

An hour later, the phone rang. A voice from a private clinic announced, "Your husband is here, in critical condition." You rushed into the emergency room, feigning despair. A surgeon emerged from the operating room, pulling down his mask. His nametag read, "Sam Roberts."

"Your husband was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was lucky to survive," the doctor said wearily, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The fear of exposure blinded you for a moment, and your tongue worked faster than your mind:

“My husband survived after so many bullets?” you exhaled, and silence fell in the hallway.

Sam's face instantly lost its sympathy. His gaze became sharp and cold.

"Nobody told you about the bullets," he quietly remarked, taking a step towards you. "I just said he was wounded."