I was stubborn about one thing. No one got a seventh chance to make the same mistake.   The sixth time my father betrayed me, I blew up his cargo ship. My husband, Reno Bellandi, took the opportunity to inherit the entire Mafia family.   Later, the elders brought him an old friend's widow, Maria Calder.   The day Reno insisted on keeping her by his side, I loaded one bullet into my revolver. Every time he made another exception for her, I added another.   The second bullet was for missing our daughter's parent conference to bail Maria out of jail after she caused a scene. The third was for sending a car to take Maria shopping for a limited-edition bag while my pneumonia flared up.   He saw me load the fifth.   He toyed with the revolver and scoffed. "Are you still playing these childish games?"   I smiled too. "Yes. I'm having fun."   The sixth time was our wedding anniversary. Reno promised to be back at the estate before 10 p.m.   After midnight, Maria sent me a video. In the shirt I'd ironed for him, Reno was making her pasta.   "Mrs. Bellandi, the Don says having dinner with you is boring."   Then she turned to him. "Don, your wife looks furious. If you don't go home soon, she'll have that gun loaded."   In the video, Reno chuckled with the arrogant certainty of a man used to being obeyed. "Would she dare? She blew up her own father's ship for me. She has nowhere else to go. Let her sulk. Maybe it'll teach her to behave."   I smiled too.   I pressed the last bullet into the cylinder and left the estate.