‘You’re boring, and you smell like breast milk,’ my husband sneered as he packed his bags to move into a penthouse with his model girlfriend. I just smiled and continued feeding our son. He didn’t know that the ‘boring’ wife he left was actually the daughter of the city’s most feared mob boss, living in hiding. When I made one phone call to my father, his penthouse dream turned into a nightmare within an hour.
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“Can you move? You’re blocking the mirror.”
The words were spoken with a casual cruelty that had become the soundtrack of my life for the past six months. My husband, Kevin, nudged me aside with his hip, his eyes fixed firmly on his own reflection. I stumbled slightly, clutching our three-month-old son, Leo, closer to my chest.
