My Mafia Husband Broke My Hand and Lost His Throne

The day I turned five months pregnant, someone tried to take my baby’s life. It wasn't pregnancy paranoia, and it certainly wasn't just a threat. It was murder. Elena Russo, the old housekeeper of the Russo Estate, lured me to the edge of the slippery spiral staircase on a stormy night. She told me someone downstairs had brought flowers from Mr. Rizzo. But there were no flowers on her silver tray—only an oiled, wet rag. Cradling my stomach, I started down the stairs, only to lose my footing and crash down the landing. Blood soaked through the hem of my dress, pooling on the floor. Choking on the pain, unable to make a sound, I called my husband, Stefano Rizzo, twenty-seven times. No one answered. When the doctor pushed the consent forms in front of me, I had to use my stiff left hand to sign my child’s death certificate all by myself. I survived. The baby didn't. And the man who allowed it all to happen was my own husband, Stefano Rizzo. He was the youngest Don of the Chicago Rizzo family—the very same man who once sat in the front row of the Vienna Concert Hall and told me, "Your hands are worth more than the Rizzo family vault." Later, outside the maid Laura Leone's bedroom door…

Oleh Kate