Too Late, Mr. Capo: Your Wife Is Gone

"Happy Anniversary," my husband said, sliding the separation agreement across the mahogany desk.

It was the eighteenth time in five years I had signed these papers.

Matteo De Luca, the most ruthless Capo in New York, checked his Rolex with cold impatience.

"Sign it, Sera. Bianca is on the ledge again. She needs to see we're over, or she jumps."

Bianca. The ward. The broken bird. The woman whose fragile psyche dictated every moment of my marriage.

I signed my name, and he left me alone on our anniversary to save her. Again.

But saving her wasn't enough.