I stared at Luca. “Why are you so desperate for it?”
That was the mistake.
He moved quickly. One moment I was standing beside the stove; the next, his palm struck my upper back with violent force.
I slammed into the enormous stockpot Wendy had insisted on using for Sunday soup. My left arm plunged into the boiling liquid before my hip struck the rim. Pain exploded through my body. I screamed and twisted away, falling onto the tile while clutching my stomach.
Luca froze. Wendy didn’t.
“Get the papers,” she snapped, pointing toward the island.
Through my tears, I stared at them—not at the terrible burns spreading across my skin, not at my trembling hands, but at the deed. Luca grabbed the packet from the counter.
Then he saw the small black lens above the pantry door. His expression changed. “Mom.”
Wendy followed his eyes.
EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT, I REFUSED TO GIVE MY LATE FATHER’S HOUSE TO MY HUSBAND—SO HE SHOVED ME INTO A BOILING STOCKPOT
