Trapped In A Mafia Marriage

The surgeon told me I had one hour to save my right hand, the one that spun my soul into symphonies. My husband, Don Dante Rossi, gave that hour to his mistress for a minor fracture.

The surgeon pleaded with him, explaining that every minute we delayed risked catastrophic, permanent damage.

But Dante just looked at our ten-year-old son, Nico. “What do you think?”

Nico met my eyes from the gurney, his own gaze chillingly calm. “Mamma is strong. She’ll understand the sacrifice. Besides,” he added, “if she’s in pain, it means she loves us more.”