Cristina's Mistakes
Copyright© 2026 by Paul Darkblue
Chapter 2
Please forgive me, if I need you like I do
Please believe me, every word I say is true
Please forgive me, I can’t stop loving you
Please forgive me - Bryan Adams -1993
Cristina tells her story
“Francesco joined our school at the beginning of this academic year as a temporary support teacher for disabled children. He was hired to cover for my colleague, Paola, who was out on maternity leave. He seemed like a nice guy, and at first, I treated him just like any other colleague.
But after a few weeks, he developed a flirty attitude toward me. I don’t even know why. He was always talking to me in the staff room, asking for advice, offering to buy me morning coffee, sitting next to me at lunch in the canteen, and always taking my side during staff meetings.
Then he started actively hitting on me, telling me how beautiful I was, how much he admired me, and that he wanted to get to know me better outside of work. Sometimes, while we were talking, he would linger just a bit too long when touching my arm; other times, he’d rest his hand on my shoulder. I caught him staring at me even when we were on opposite sides of the room, talking to different people. It was obvious he had a crush on me, and that is where I made my first major mistake.
I didn’t shut him down the way a married woman should have. Instead, I felt flattered having this young guy pay so much attention to me. It made me feel young and desired again as a woman. I suppose I was looking ahead at the coming years, wondering how much longer I could still have that kind of impact on a man, especially someone as young as Francesco. So, I let him keep going.
Things went on like that for a while, until he finally asked me to have lunch with him outside the school building. And that was my second mistake, I agreed. It didn’t happen every day, but I started meeting him away from our workplace. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong; I just felt like I was getting a little closer than usual to a colleague. Still, those little moments made me feel like I was back in the dating game again. I kept telling myself I had nothing to worry about and that I had everything under control.
So, we spent a few weeks getting closer. I told him a bit about our family, and he told me his story. He was an only child, living on his own, waiting to secure a permanent teaching position. There was no girlfriend in the picture. He told me his long-term girlfriend had broken up with him because she was tired of waiting for a ring, but he hadn’t been ready; he said he was still waiting to find his true soulmate.
Looking back, it was so incredibly stupid. I flirted with him. I loved leading him on, making him believe there might actually be some hope for us. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself from playing the game. How foolish of me.
Then, one day, he invited me over to his apartment. He said he wanted to show me where he lived. It was a Wednesday, the day my classes ended early in the afternoon, leaving me with a couple of hours to myself before I had to be home. Again, I knew it was wrong for a married woman to meet a single man at his apartment. But that was my third mistake. I convinced myself it was harmless, and after our usual lunch, I agreed to go back to his place.
In his apartment, he poured us a couple of glasses of Prosecco while we sat and talked on the living room sofa. He started praising and flattering me again, telling me how beautiful and sexy I was. Slowly, he placed his hand on my knee, gently caressing it as he moved higher up my thigh. Then, looking deep into my eyes, he told me he was in love with me and sealed my lips.
I will never understand why, and I guess I’ll never know if it was the wine, the long flirting game, the thrill of the forbidden moment, the warmth of his hand on my thighs, or maybe all of it combined, but I opened my mouth and kissed him back. From there, it was like a flood bursting through a dam. Before I knew it, I was in his bedroom, having sex with him.
I admit he was fit and had good stamina, but sex with him was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the incredible intimacy you and I always shared. I made him wear a condom and never let him cum in my mouth. Yes, I had an orgasm, a weak one, but it was nothing like the overwhelming waves you give me. Suddenly, the truth hit me like a lightning bolt.
There was no love on my side. Not a single ounce of the love I have always felt for you, my husband. In my twisted mind, during those few minutes before everything started, I had thought that ‘just sex’ could be a thrilling experience, something worth trying once in a lifetime. So many people, even some of my female colleagues and friends, bragged about it. But to me, compared to our deep, total marital bond, it was completely meaningless.
Afterward, I just lay there on that unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, naked next to a man who meant absolutely nothing to me. I felt dirty, empty, guilty, and incredibly stupid. Tears of pure sadness filled my eyes. It was the exact opposite of the happiness I always felt after we made love, Marco.
I got out of bed, threw my clothes back on, and told Francesco that we had made a massive mistake. I told him that I loved my husband and that this would never, ever happen again. Then I left to go pick up Emma from her ballet class.
And that is when the real nightmare started.
In a passionate voice, he told me that sex with me was the best he’d ever had, that I was his true soulmate, and that he loved me deeply. He insisted we were meant to be together, that we would be a couple forever, and that he would marry me and gladly adopt Emma. In his mind, it was just a matter of time before I realized how deep our connection was, and that I would dump you to start a new family with him.
I told him again that I had made a terrible mistake, that I loved my husband and my family deeply, and, just to keep him quiet, that we could still be friends, the way we had been over the past few months. Then, I practically ran out of the apartment.
Luckily, you got home late that night from one of your long business trips. I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep, because I couldn’t bring myself to talk to you. I was so visibly shaken that I knew I’d get caught the second I opened my mouth.
That night, lying awake in the dark, I knew I had to come clean. I had to confess my betrayal, beg for your forgiveness, and face whatever consequences came next. If I didn’t, I knew I’d never be able to look you straight in the eye again, and the burden of my secret would eventually rip our lives apart. I just needed to find the right moment to talk to you.
And that was my final, fatal mistake. I should have confessed right then, without delaying it, but I have been a coward. I was too terrified to face the fallout. And now look at what my cowardice has done to us!”
Tears streamed down Cristina’s face, her words breaking apart into heavy sobs as she relived the betrayal. I remained completely silent. Deep down, I knew there was more to come. After a couple of minutes, Cristina managed to steady her breathing and resumed her story.
“Over the next few weeks, things got much worse with Francesco. At first, he kept up his attentive, flirting behaviour, but day by day, he grew increasingly obsessed. One day, he even brought me flowers at school. It was incredibly embarrassing in front of the other teachers, but he made up an excuse that they were just a thank-you gift for helping him with his duties. Inside the bouquet, though, was a handwritten card: ‘Come back to my place today, Cristina. I love you, and I need your body so bad.’
He started sending almost daily messages to my personal email address. Looking at the timestamps, I realized he was writing them in the middle of the night. The first few were filled with passionate declarations, about how much he loved me, how desperately he wanted to be my soulmate, and all that kind of thing. I think I replied to a couple of them, just to firmly remind him that we were nothing more than friends.
Later, the tone shifted into pornographic fantasies, where he described exactly what he wanted to do to me if we were in bed together again. I ignored them completely, deleting them from my inbox and emptying them from the trash bin, too. I felt so deeply ashamed. I know I should have filed a formal sexual harassment complaint with the school board, but I was terrified that every detail of that fateful Wednesday would be exposed before I even had the chance to confess it to you.
Eventually, the emails turned angry and openly threatening. He wrote that I would be his, one way or another, and that no man other than him would ever touch me again. He told me I had to take action to get rid of you so we could start our life together, and that if I didn’t, he would take care of it himself.
That final escalation happened the very week before your crash, and it was the breaking point for me. I made up my mind: I was going to arrange for Emma to stay over at my mother’s house the following weekend, and I was going to confess the entire affair to you. But then the car crash happened.
When the police showed up at my door, explaining that you’d been in a horrific accident on your way home and were hanging between life and death in the ICU, I was scared to death. I even considered whether Francesco could have had his hands in your incident, maybe a sort of sabotage to your car, and only when the police explained the details to me was I somehow relieved on that count.
But most of all, I couldn’t bear the thought that I was hiding something so monumental from you, and the sheer terror of losing you after such an enormous betrayal was tearing me apart inside.
I took a leave of absence to take care of you at the hospital. News of your accident spread quickly, and for a short time, that seemed to keep Francesco quiet.
But then, two or three weeks later, while you were still hospitalized, he showed up right at our front door. I was at home, getting ready to head to the hospital to visit you, and I was completely caught off guard. Luckily, Emma was still at school.
At first, I tried to turn him away at the door, but he started raising his voice, shouting that we had to talk and that I couldn’t just ignore him or disappear on him. I didn’t want to cause a scene in the hallway outside our apartment, so I finally let him inside. I tried to speak to him politely and calmly. I told him that he and I were over, that what we did was a one-time mistake, and that I had a husband whom I loved and needed to care for.
But my words only made him angrier. He kept yelling that I was wrong, that I was lying to myself out of pure pity for you, and that he was the only man I truly loved. He kept saying that we wouldn’t have shared such passionate intimacy if we weren’t soulmates.
I was shaking, desperately trying to find a way to get rid of him. I was honestly ready to call the police when my phone rang. It was my mother. I excused myself and ran into the kitchen, closing the door behind me so she wouldn’t hear a madman screaming in the background. The call took a few minutes, and when I walked back into the living room, he was gone.
But before leaving, he had smashed our wedding picture hanging on the wall. That night, when Emma noticed the broken frame, I lied and told her it was my fault, that I’d knocked it down while cleaning. I made sure the glass was replaced just before you finally came home from the hospital.
When I went back to work after my leave, I did everything I could to avoid him, always making sure to stay close to other people and never be alone with him. I was still terrified, but again, I was just waiting for you to recover so I could finally face you and confess my insanity.
The rest you already know, Marco. But please believe me, this is the absolute truth. I love you, and I will love you forever. I will never leave you to face this alone. I will always be by your side, and I’ll be waiting for you at home, no matter how long it takes.”
I was caught off guard by how the story had unfolded. I had been braced for a sordid tale of an ongoing, continuous affair, but it had turned out to be the story of a sick, obsessed stalker.
But was any of it actually the truth? How could I possibly trust Cristina now? Was she just spinning a narrative to excuse herself, knowing that the only man who could contradict her story was dead? One thing was certain: on my phone and in my personal cloud, I had a lot of evidence documenting her betrayal.
Regardless, there was no time left for more questions. The guards informed Cristina that her allotted visiting time was up, and she had to leave. As they led her out, I could still hear her crying and screaming down the hallway, “Forgive me, Marco! Please, forgive me! I love you!”
I had an immense amount of information to digest, and I told myself there was plenty of time in a prison cell to do it.
Trial and sentence
The autopsy revealed that the actual cause of death had been the rupture of an aneurysm in Francesco’s brain. Likely, he would have died anyway within a few months or even weeks. My heavy fist to his face had simply helped nature do its job. How incredibly ‘lucky’ I was!
I was formally charged with “omicidio preterintenzionale.” Derived from the Latin “preter intentionem,” under Italian law, it translates to killing someone as the unintended consequence of a violent act, without the actual intent to murder.
With this charge pending, I was facing 10 to 18 years in prison under the Italian penal code.
There is no bail system in Italy. For a homicide charge, I had to remain in custody until the trial and final sentencing. I could have tried my luck and requested house arrest with an electronic monitor, but I absolutely refused to share a roof with Cristina, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. My parents had passed away a few years earlier.
I spent eight months in prison awaiting trial, nearly two of which were split between the public hospital and the prison infirmary, as I was granted permission to undergo my final surgery to remove the remaining steel plates from my leg
My lawyer petitioned for a “rito abbreviato,” an Italian legal procedure meaning a “shortened trial”, and the judge granted the request.
The investigation uncovered many new and shocking facts, most of which worked against Francesco. In his bedroom, the police found the hidden camera he had used to record his sexual encounters. He apparently loved to film his sex life and post the footage, with faces blurred, on those types of “Share your girlfriend/wife” forums and chat rooms.
On his laptop, forensic investigators retrieved hundreds of gigabytes of pictures and videos that had been downloaded from these sites. At least four different women were identified as victims of his sexual deviance, including his ex-girlfriend and my wife. That Wednesday afternoon was the only recording they found involving Cristina. Furthermore, investigators were able to recover almost every single email and text message he had sent to my wife over the preceding months from his digital devices.
As far as the evidence was concerned, it seemed Cristina had told the absolute truth. It had been a onetime sexual encounter that had quickly devolved into relentless harassment and stalking.
During the trial, the prosecutor argued that my action had been excessively violent, emphasizing that there had been no physical fight or threat from Francesco prior to the punch. To make matters worse, someone in the park had been filming a video on their phone, capturing the entire scene. Francesco had attacked me using only words, and I had reacted by punching him without any warning. That video was damning evidence against me. Consequently, the prosecutor asked for the maximum sentence of eighteen years.
My lawyer played every single card he had. He built our defence around several key arguments.
I had absolutely no history of anger management issues and had never been a violent man.
I had been subjected to intense public humiliation by the insulting words Francesco shouted in front of numerous witnesses.
The psychological toll of the phone calls, graphic videos, and pictures I had received over the previous days, combined with his threat to steal my family.
I had been minding my own business, simply walking along, when Francesco intentionally crossed my path to confront me.
He leaned heavily into Francesco’s perverted lifestyle and dangerous obsession, backing it up with Cristina’s full, devastating testimony about the affair and subsequent stalking.
Based on these factors, my lawyer petitioned the court for the minimum base sentence of 10 years, along with an additional reduction for mitigating circumstances.
Eventually, I was found guilty and sentenced to 12 years, yet the judge accepted the mitigating circumstances, specifically the severe provocation. This cut the baseline sentence by one-third, bringing it down to eight years. And then came the real advantage: because we had chosen the rito abbreviato, the sentence was automatically reduced by a further one-third.
That brought the final sentence down to exactly 5 years and 4 months, with eight months of that already served while awaiting trial.
Under Italian law, the actual time I would spend behind bars was going to be much shorter, though. I could slice off forty-five days of buona condotta (good conduct) for every six months spent in prison.
The math showed that if I played my cards right, I’d be out of jail and on probation in about fourteen months. My sentence would be fully served after about two more years.
Prison Time
I would never have imagined in my life that I’d have to face jail time. My life had always been completely law-abiding; up until then, the worst I’d ever gotten were a few speeding tickets.
And yet, there I was, locked in a tiny cell originally designed for two inmates, which I had to share with three other convicted guys. Italian prisons are notoriously overcrowded, so my accommodations were anything but comfortable. It was stifling hot in the summer, freezing cold in the winter, smelly, noisy, a living hell.
If nothing else, the facility was not far from my hometown. My wing was classified as low-security, and thank God, there were no dangerous or violent criminals around. My cellmates were a young, small-fry drug dealer, a white-collar guy sentenced for corruption, and a home burglar who had been caught in the act, so I didn’t face any trouble on that front.
Time in prison was brutal. The days were long and monotonous, bleeding into one another. The only things that truly helped me kill time and survive the ordeal were reading books (I volunteered at the prison library), reading letters from strangers, and visits from my family.
It is strictly forbidden to use any electronic devices inside the facility, but in a low-security prison, getting your hands on one isn’t all that difficult.
On the news and social networks, my trial had gone completely viral. Thousands of people were commenting on my story and my sentence. Some haters wanted to see me locked away for much longer, arguing that less than five years was far too small a price to pay for taking a human life. Surprisingly, though, many commenters took my side, mostly men who despised guys who hit on married women, but also a lot of women who respected how I had stood up for my honour and my family.
Then there were the actual handwritten letters. I received dozens of them, mostly echoing the sentiments of the social media posts. There were a few from haters, but many more from people offering their outright support. I even got letters from a few unstable women who wrote that they would gladly date me the second I got out, or who explicitly proposed some sex nights to celebrate my freedom. They all took for granted that I would divorce my wife.
For the first couple of months, while awaiting trial, I flatly refused to see Cristina. I was still consumed by rage. I simply couldn’t bring myself to forgive her for the way she had shattered our marriage vows and severed our bond of love.
I didn’t want to divorce her at that moment. With my trial still pending, I had far too much to lose. True to her word, Cristina kept insisting through my lawyer that she wanted to visit, making it clear that Emma desperately needed to see me as well.
The truth was, I missed Emma terribly. Eventually, I gave in and agreed to let them come. That first meeting was deeply traumatic. When Cristina and Emma walked into the visiting room and saw me behind bars for the first time in nearly three months, they both burst into tears. Looking at my baby girl’s pain completely broke me.
After that first emotional visit, Cristina never missed a beat.
She stood firmly by my side throughout the legal process, providing full testimony that ultimately helped my case immensely. She continued to visit me in prison every single week, bringing freshly cooked meals, fresh fruit, new books to read, and anything else I liked, if it complied with the prison regulations. About once a month, she would bring Emma along.
I wasn’t entirely sure that seeing her father in prison was the right choice for a young girl, but Cristina assured me that Emma insisted on coming, and she never missed a single chance to see me. Over those long months, I watched my daughter end puberty and enter her teenage years, blossoming into a beautiful young woman. The guys in jail weren’t exactly gentlemen, and crude catcalls and whistles echoed down the corridor whenever she approached the family visiting area.
At the same time, I realized how heavily the burden of these events was taking its toll on Cristina. During our visiting hours, she did everything within her power to maintain our connection and flash me a genuine smile. We talked endlessly about my life inside and Emma’s life at school, but it was painfully clear that she was depressed and deeply unhappy. I understood that she was doing exhausting, heavy lifting to keep Emma on the right track. At first, Emma had blamed her for absolutely everything and barely spoke a word to her for weeks, but over time, it seemed they had reconnected and were facing the storm together.
Week after week, my burning rage began to fade, even though I could never truly forget Cristina’s betrayal. We were still married, but I constantly wondered: “for how much longer?” Regardless of my doubts, I found myself actively counting down the days until her weekly visits.
And just like that, week after week, my time behind bars finally came to an end, and I was ready to step back into the world. I had served exactly one year, ten months, and twelve days in prison, including the initial eight months awaiting trial. I was finally going home.
Returning home