The Seven-Year Itch: Erasing the Donna
On our seventh wedding anniversary, I was straddling my Mafia husband, Lucian, kissing him deeply.
My fingers fumbled in the pocket of my expensive silk dress, searching for the pregnancy test I'd hidden there.
I wanted to save the news of my unexpected pregnancy for the end of the evening.
Lucian's right-hand man, Marco, asked with a suggestive smile in Italian:
"Don, your new little canary, Sophia. How does she taste?"
Lucian's mocking laughter vibrated through my chest, sending a chill down my spine.
He replied, also in Italian:
"Like an unripe peach. Fresh and tender."
His hand was still caressing my waist, but his gaze was distant.
"Just keep this between us. If my Donna finds