He Called Me a Whore at Our Mafia Wedding

"At my mafia wedding, in front of five hundred made men, my husband Dante Moretti grabbed the mic and called me a whore.

Seven years together. One sentence. Done.

He didn't know I worked at his family's club at eighteen — pouring drinks, never selling my body — to pay for my dying mother's bone marrow transplant. He didn't ask. He just believed the woman who'd been plotting to take my place for nineteen years.

Then came the miscarriage. The slap. The private room where he played our sex tape for his crew.

I signed the papers. Took $2,300. Vanished.

Now the Don of New York is standing outside my bookstore in the rain, coughing blood, begging for one more chance.

Some sins can't be forgiven.

But I might let him try."