Andromeda The Mafia Heiress

Jude Patterson knelt in a puddle of crimson, his hands trembling as they cradled the limp form of his wife, Abigail. Her once-radiant beauty was now marred by the pallor of death, her skin cold and lifeless against his own.

"No, no, no," he sobbed, his cries echoing through the dark alleyway. "Abigail, please... Please wake up. I can't do this without you. I can't..."

The dampness of her blood seeped through his trousers, but he couldn't feel it.

His chest heaved with each anguished breath as he rocked back and forth, unwilling to let go of his wife's lifeless body. He was consumed by a despair so deep that it threatened to drown him.

How had it come to this? Just hours ago, they had been laughing, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the estate. And now... Now, he was alone, a widower before his time.

He couldn't bear to think about the future without her. The world had become a cold, desolate place, devoid of color or joy.

His mind raced, searching for answers to questions that haunted him like ghosts. Who would do this? Who could have taken his beloved wife from him so brutally?

He looked around the alley, his eyes wild and desperate. There was no one there, just the dripping of water from a nearby pipe and the faint sounds of the city beyond the estate walls.

His tears flowed freely, mingling with the blood that stained his hands and clothes. He held her tighter, as if his embrace could somehow bring her back, but the reality of his loss was inescapable.

The wailing of the sirens pierced the silence of the night, accompanied by the dancing blue and red lights that reflected off the walls of the alleyway. But the emergency vehicles arrived too late, their efforts futile in the face of her mortal wound.

The paramedics moved with swift efficiency, but Jude knew that their ministrations were nothing more than a formality, their stethoscopes and defibrillators useless against the gaping wound that had taken his wife's life.

As his voice cracked with grief, a gruff-looking police officer approached, notepad in hand, ready to interrogate the widower. But before a word could be uttered, the sound of angry footsteps echoed down the alleyway, and Jude turned to see Jonathan Hawthorne, Abigail's father, his face twisted with rage and grief.

"He killed her!" he shouted, his finger pointed accusingly at him. "He killed my daughter! You took her away from me, you monster!" His face was flushed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.