Dante Romano, the city's Don, married me—Iris—only to pay for the bullet he put in my chest. Two years of his cold shoulder, his childhood sweetheart Helena's jewelry, and a brain tumor I faced alone. On Christmas, I served him the divorce. "Let's get a divorce." He slammed my medical file down. "You went under the knife alone?!" Now the man who said "I don't need you checking up on me" is begging for six months. Too late. I don't love him anymore.
