But I knew it wouldn't last. With every birthday, I felt my father's eyes on me more and more often. At twenty-five, I was well beyond the usual marrying age for the daughter of a mafia man. We women were used as a gesture of good will, or sometimes bargaining chips to placate the men. Make them feel bigger than they were. More important. And the thought of becoming some gangster's trophy wife, of sleeping in the same bed with him and letting him rut over me every night, made me want to vomit. So one day, I just walked out of the house, got into my car, and left....