157. Lorenzo
I looked at them both and shook my head. They weren't worth it. I didn't have to cry over spilt milk.
Marissa was adjusting her dress, her expression unreadable, as if what had just happened was nothing to her. It was as if I was air in her eyes.
“This is not pathetic,” my so-called father spoke, his voice carrying that same casual arrogance that had always grated on my nerves. “She’s a good woman to you, Enzo. She wants the best for you and I was also willing to give it to you through her.”
Then, as if I weren’t standing right there, he turned to her, took her hand, and smirked.
“Let’s go somewhere else and finish our business, dear. I still want more of what Enzo is getting from you. Oh, what he wouldn't be getting any longer.”
Disgust. Pure, undiluted disgust. And I
