My Mafia Husband Chose to Save Her While I Was Miscarrying

I used to think that no matter how cold a seven-year mafia marriage could be, there would at least be a shred of mutual respect. But just as I got my eight-week pregnancy report, ready to give Carlo this child as our seventh-anniversary gift, I found another woman's silk scarf, lip balm, and earrings in our master bedroom walk-in closet. Silvia—the helpless, sensitive, fragile orphan girl he claimed needed protection—had already invaded my marriage, one step at a time. I called his personal line, only to hear her soft, needy voice on the other end. On a rainy night, because of a fake suicide threat from her, he threw me aside as I bled out, begging him to take me to the hospital. "Using this kind of fake illness to get attention is pathetic," he said to me. The moment he turned and walked away, I finally understood. In his eyes, being strong didn't mean I deserved to be cherished; it meant I didn't deserve to be pitied. That night, I signed the surgery consent form alone and lost the eight-week-old baby in my womb. Later, I left the divorce papers, medical records, and a printout of a one-way plane ticket on the coffee table, and vanished into the night. Carlo thought I was just t…

Oleh Kate