A Donna's Final Performance

The ambush came when I was eight months pregnant. In the chaos of gunfire and screeching tires, I went into premature labor. And through the searing agony, a miracle—or a curse—happened. My hearing returned.

Outside the operating room, my husband, Julian Valachi—Don of the Valachi family—was speaking with our doctor just outside the door.

"Don Valachi, the baby is fully formed and stable. We should be able to save him—"

Julian Valachi cut him off. "No. This baby dies. An 'accident.' She can have another. This is the only way she'll ever truly believe Nico is hers."

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my body to lie still.

He thought his deception was seamless. He was wrong. I heard everything.

Fine. If he wanted to direct this play, I would see it through to its bitter end.

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1

Dr. Al-Jamil hesitated, his fingers fumbling with his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Don Valachi, Donna Aurora's health is delicate. This pregnancy was a miracle after three years of trying. The chances of another… If she learns the child she fought so desperately for was… discarded? It will destroy her."

The anesthesia was already creeping through me, a cold numbness spreading through my limbs. I willed myself to move, but only a single finger twitched in response.

Julian strode in and took my hand. He offered me a gentle smile before turning back to Dr. Al-Jamil.

"Don't worry. She’s deaf. She won't hear a thing. Increase the anesthesia later. She'll never know."

"Besides, Nico looks like me, not Scarlett. She'll never suspect a thing."

Dr. Al-Jamil opened his mouth, a protest forming on his lips, but Julian silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand.

"I owe Scarlett. For three years, she's had no official place by my side. I have to make this right. Our son must be the undisputed heir of the Valachi family."

Dr. Al-Jamil wiped beads of cold sweat from his brow, exhaled a long, defeated sigh, and said no more.

Another needle pricked my skin. As the cold fluid surged into my veins, my consciousness began to fray at the edges.

Julian leaned down to kiss my forehead, his expression a careful counterfeit of anxiety and heartbreak. He began to sign, his movements slow and deliberate.

[Don't be afraid, my love. I'll be right here with you until our baby is born.]

But just before the darkness consumed me, I heard his low murmur to the doctor.

"Before my wife wakes, dispose of it. Leave no trace."

I closed my eyes. In a hazy fog, I felt a weight being lifted from my body.

Then, a baby's sharp cry echoed from outside the room. Julian’s hand dropped mine in an instant. He bolted from the room.

"Nico, shhh, don't cry. Papa's here."

I don't know how long I was under. When I finally opened my eyes, Julian’s face was the first thing I saw.

Tears sprang to his eyes. He surged forward, his hands a flurry of motion as he signed.

[My love, does it still hurt? Are you tired? You’ve been through so much. If I could, I would take all this pain for you.]

Then, he lifted the baby from a bassinet and gently held him out to me.

[Look. Our son. Isn't he perfect?]

I looked down. The baby was pouting in his sleep. He was, admittedly, adorable.

But there was no joy in my heart. Only the ghost of the child I had carried—fully formed and alive—whom I would never even get to see.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I drew a shaky breath, steeling myself.

Julian, lost in his own paternal bliss, didn't notice. He looked at me, his eyes shining with eagerness.

[What should we name him? I was thinking—]

My voice, when it came, was hoarse from disuse, the sound of it foreign in my own ears.

"Ni… co."

Three years ago, a high fever had triggered profound sensorineural hearing loss. I'd rarely spoken since, unnerved by the alien sound of my own voice.

The moment the name left my lips, Julian's smile froze. The hand he'd been using to sign stalled mid-air.

I held his gaze, my expression serene, and watched the panic flare in his eyes before I raised my own hands to sign.

[This baby… he seems bigger, stronger than most newborns. The name Nico just came to me.]

He visibly relaxed, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.

[Yes. You're right. Whatever you want, my love. Nico it is.]

For the next month, Julian doted on me.

He bathed me himself, ensured a glass of warm water was always within my reach, and rarely left my side.

But in the quiet of the night, when I feigned sleep, I’d hear his hushed commands over the phone.

"Get rid of the bastards who hit the motorcade. Give the driver a generous severance, get his family on a plane to the West Coast, and tell them to never set foot in Chicago again."

And sometimes, his voice would soften into a caress.

"Scarlett, my love, just a little longer. I promise, you'll see our boy soon."

The day I was discharged, Julian brought a woman to our home.

[This is a distant relative. I had Luca bring her over from Italy to help care for you.]

Her smile was a thin veil for the malice simmering in her eyes. I remained impassive and nodded.

[What is her name?]

Julian took my hand, carefully tracing the letters into my palm.

[S-c-a-r-l-e-t-t. Scarlett Bellini.]