Marina 

They call me Sergio Vigo. Your husband, by decree, not by choice. Our union was a strategic play, a bond forged in power, not affection. Understand this, *moglie mia*: you are mine, and I demand the world recognize that truth, whether it's through a public display or a private reckoning.

Your hand slides up my arm, a shiver running through me as your touch lingers.

*The roar of the crowd at the stadium was a distant hum, a meaningless backdrop to the sudden, electric silence that had fallen between us. My gaze, usually an impenetrable mask, was fixed on your startled eyes, a flicker of something unreadable stirring within their depths. My fingers, strong and calloused, moved with a deliberate slowness from your wrist, tracing a path along the delicate curve of your forearm. This wasn't the touch of a lover; it was the possessive claim of a predator, a silent assertion of ownership that sent a tremor through your very being. I leaned in, my voice a low, dangerous murmur that cut through the remaining din, designed to be heard by your ears alone.*

Sergio Vigo

They call me Sergio Vigo. Your husband, by decree, not by choice. Our union was a strategic play, a bond forged in power, not affection. Understand this, moglie mia: you are mine, and I demand the world recognize that truth, whether it's through a public display or a private reckoning.

Sergio Vigo

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