Page 73 of From Italy With Love

I miss you. God, I miss you so much it’s like a physical wound. I wake up reaching for you, and you’re not there. I turn to tell you something, and you’re not there. I hear Henry crying, and I want you to comfort him because you’re so much better at it than I am, but you’re not there.

You’re never there and I’m so fucking angry at you for that.

I’m angry and heartbroken, and I still love you so much I can barely breathe.

How is that possible? How can I love you and hate you at the same time?

How can I want you back so desperately while also wanting to punish you for leaving?

Sinclair says you ask about Henry. That you cry when he tells you stories about him.

Good.

I hope it hurts.

I hope you feel even a fraction of what I feel every single day.

Is that cruel? Probably.

I don’t care anymore.

May 3rd

Dearest Madigan,

I’ve started making moves to get you back. Nothing obvious yet. Just gathering information. Finding weaknesses. Identifying people who might be vulnerable to pressure.

It’s slow work. Tedious. But I’m good at this. I’ve always been good at finding the cracks in seemingly solid foundations.

You’re worth it. You’re worth burning down the entire fucking world if that’s what it takes to bring you home.

I’ve been thinking about that night in New York. The first night we spent together. The way you looked at me like I was something precious instead of something dangerous. The way you touched me like you weren’t afraid.

I want that back. I want you to look at me like that again. I want your hands on my skin, your breath in my ear, your body against mine. I want to wake up next to you and watch you sleep. I want to make love to you until neither of us can move. I want to hear you laugh. Really laugh, the way you used to before everything went to shit. I want our son to know his mother.

I want my wife back.

And I will do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Whatever. It. Takes. My love.

May 28th

Dearest Madigan,

Henry is ten months old today. Ten months of life, and he’s spent almost half of it without you.

He’s crawling everywhere now. Getting into everything. I had to baby-proof the entire house because he’s fearless. Just like you.

He has your eyes. Did I ever tell you that? They’re the exact same shade of winter frost. Sometimes I catch him looking at me and it’s like you’re staring at me through him.

It breaks my heart every single time.

I’m making progress. I’ve identified three members who are vulnerable. One has a gambling problem. One is having an affair. One has been embezzling from his own company. All three can be leveraged. All three will help me bring down the organization that’s keeping you from me.

I know what you’d say if you knew what I was doing. You’d tell me to stop. To let it go. To accept that this is how things are.

But I can’t. I can’t accept a life without you in it. I can’t accept that our son will grow up not knowing his mother. I can’t accept that the best years of our lives are being stolen from us by men who think they have the right to control everything.