The morning of my prenatal checkup, I learned that my mafia husband, Dante Salvatore, had quietly arranged for me to be admitted as a post-abortion recovery patient instead of an expectant mother.

I almost laughed and told him he'd gotten the paperwork mixed up.

But he beat me to it, his voice as composed as ever. "It wasn't a clerical error. There's something I have to say to you."

"I've been keeping a college girl. She's gentle, she has never demanded a title, and she has never tried to take what's yours."

"But she's pregnant now. I've already put her through enough. I refuse to let her child suffer along with her. The baby needs my name."

I went rigid on the ultrasound table.

My voice trembled so badly the words came out in pieces. "So you want a divorce, and then you'll marry her?"

He smiled as he wiped the gel from my belly. "What are you saying? When I married you, I promised you'd be my only wife as long as I lived."'

"Anyway, your parents are gone. If we divorced, where on earth would you go?"