THE JACKAL'S POINT OF VIEW
I looked at the w***e that played my wife. She stood in a plain knee-length dress with her back pressed to the door tightly, as though she wanted to become one with it. She avoided my gaze, her eyes cast to the floor as she all but stood still before me. With rage, I threw the glass of whiskey at the wall right beside her head.
"Uhh!" she groaned from where she was as she tried not to scream, knowing very well what would happen to her if she dared to make any form of noise from where she was. I had built an image of the perfect police chief here, and she would not blow my cover; I would kill her with my bare hands before taking care of her body with vials of acid.
"You cunt! You did not knock, and what makes you think you have any right to call me Esteban? If
