On Christmas Eve, eight months pregnant, my mafia husband threw me onto a gridlocked highway—because his widowed sister-in-law was afraid of the dark. My baby died in the traffic jam. In the hospital, he cradled her and called me jealous. I divorced him, sold everything, and left for Northern Europe. A year later, he got out of prison—disowned, penniless. With the divorce papers came a note: “I’m sorry.” I threw it into the fireplace. That apology, along with his arrogance, burned to ash.
