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.

————————

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.]

I looked at Julian’s smiling face and felt a deep, bone-chilling cold. I gestured toward Scarlett.

[She seems… flashy. Does she know how to care for someone? Does she know sign language?]

Julian’s smile tightened for a fraction of a second. I waved a dismissive hand.

[It doesn’t matter. I trust your judgment. And she’s here to take care of me, not to chat.]

The tension in his shoulders eased. He shot Scarlett a warning look. She pursed her lips and wheeled the bassinet into the nursery.

Later, Julian massaged my shoulders, drew me a warm bath, and tucked me into bed—the very picture of a perfect, devoted husband.

But that night, I awoke to the sound of suppressed gasps.

My senses, newly sharpened, zeroed in on the sound. It was coming from the study next door.

I retrieved a miniature listening device from my nightstand, pressed record, and slipped out of the room.

The heavy door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I could see their silhouettes tangled against the bulletproof glass. I clutched the device, swallowing the burn of tears.

Julian’s hand slid up Scarlett’s waist as he bit her shoulder, his voice a low growl. "My sweet girl, Scarlett. It's only been two months since you gave birth, and you're tighter than ever. Not like Aurora. She’s limp as a dishrag now."

The rip of fabric, the slick sound of kisses, Scarlett’s breathless moans… they filled the room. Julian didn’t even bother to lower his voice, just chuckled darkly.

"You know, Scarlett, ever since Aurora went deaf, she's like a dead fish in bed. Sometimes I want to just… shut her up for good. But you… baby, let me hear you scream."

My hand holding the device went slack. My mind spiraled back in time.

Julian and I met at a charity gala. The tabloids called us Beauty and the Beast, whispering about how a classical pianist could fall for a man with blood on his hands.

Three years ago, when the doctors told me I was losing my hearing, Julian had been the one to break down. I was terrified and insecure. I asked him if he was disgusted by me. In response, he dismissed our entire staff and insisted on caring for me himself.

He learned sign language in a matter of days, patiently teaching me each sign, even as I lashed out at him in frustration and fear.

In the end, my voice remained, but the world had gone silent. The grief was a physical weight, and I unleashed all of it on him. I screamed at him to leave me, to find someone whole.

He didn’t even flinch when I hurled a crystal figurine at his head. He just wiped the blood from his forehead, pulled me into his arms, and traced words into my palm with his fingertip.

[Aurora, no matter what, you will always be my one and only queen.]

I could still feel the phantom touch, still see the raw devotion in his eyes.

A baby’s sharp cry from the nursery pulled me back to the present. I clenched my fists, forcing my feet to stay rooted to the spot. The child, after all, was innocent.

Then I heard his mother, Scarlett, her voice a sickly sweet coo as she pulled on Julian’s arm.

"Nico can wait. Julian, aren't I enough for you?"

Julian hesitated for a moment, then his hands found her waist again, his voice thick with lust.

"Mmm, we have to be quick. I need to get back—"

Scarlett silenced him with a kiss. I stopped the recording and retreated to my bedroom.

Through the wall, I heard Julian’s low chuckle.

"Scarlett, how did you even think of this? Posing as a distant relative… It’s… thrilling."

An hour or so later, the bedroom door creaked open. Julian tiptoed to my side.

He gently adjusted my blankets and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

"Ti amo."

What a fucking joke.

When I awoke, Julian was already dressed. He brushed his finger over the tip of my nose, a silent gesture for me to sleep in.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, I heard his booming, exaggerated voice from the hall.

"Darling, not even the best chef in Sicily could rival your cooking!"

Through the window, I saw the gleaming, bulletproof Bentley idling by the entrance. The family’s Consigliere, Luca Giordano, stood waiting by the car, his expression serious.

Scarlett’s voice was a cloying mix of delight and petulance. "Darling, wait! What about my good morning kiss?"

They flirted shamelessly for another moment, a perfect portrait of a newlywed Don and Donna.

"I’m off to handle family business. You take good care of the baby."

As the car vanished down the drive, I took a deep breath. My phone buzzed.

[My love, save room for dessert. I’m bringing you a limited edition vinyl from your favorite opera house tonight.]

[Okay.] I typed back, then rose to get ready.

As I opened my bedroom door, I heard Scarlett in the nursery, her voice a venomous hiss. "You damned deaf bitch, why couldn't you have just died in that ambush?"

"So what if you knew Julian a few years before I did? What's so special about you? Why do you get to be Mrs. Valachi while I’m stuck playing some pathetic relative?"

Her tirade was punctuated by the slam of a baby bottle on a countertop, followed by a violent shake of the cradle, as if she were venting her rage on it instead of me.

"Aurora, just hurry up and die!"

I averted my gaze and quietly pushed open the door to Julian’s study.

The cigar box on his desk was, as always, perfectly neat. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and opened it. Inside the ashtray lay the crumpled butts of several lipstick-stained cigarettes. Beside it, a discarded box of pills.

None of that mattered. I scanned the room and spotted what I needed: a few strands of auburn hair and short black hair tangled near the whiskey glass from last night. I carefully collected them, then scraped a sample from Nico’s pacifier, tucking everything securely in my pocket.

The baby lay in his cradle, his breathing soft and even. A pang of... something, maybe pity, shot through me. I hesitated for only a moment before reaching out my hand.

Just as my fingers closed around a few strands of his downy hair, a sharp cry pierced the air. Startled, I scooped the baby into my arms, rocking him gently until his cries subsided.

A voice snapped from behind me. "Donna Aurora, what are you doing in here?"

My first instinct was to whirl around.

But I caught myself. I forced my body to remain still, acting as if I hadn't heard a thing, continuing to pat the baby’s back with a steady rhythm.

When Scarlett finally moved into my line of sight, I feigned a small, startled jump, then carefully transferred the now-quiet baby into her arms.

Back in my room, I dressed and left without a second glance, ignoring the suspicious glare she threw at my back.

I took the samples from Julian, Scarlett, Nico, and myself to Chloe Hayes for three separate paternity tests. She told me the results would be ready in a week.

I nodded. I stood before the elevator for a long time before finally pressing the button for the family’s private clinic.

I had to know what really happened to my child.

The elevator ascended, and the feeling of weightlessness made my stomach churn. Just the thought of what I might learn was enough to make my chest ache, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe.

"Dr. Al-Jamil, tell me. What happened to my baby?"

Dr. Al-Jamil was both startled and terrified to see me. The moment I spoke, the blood drained from his face.

I pressed my advantage. "Don't tell anyone I was here. Especially not Don Valachi. If you do, I’ll leak it to the rival families that you were the one who confirmed the ambush details. Your complicity in that ambush was already a betrayal of your oath. And of me."

He couldn't meet my eyes, his gaze fixed on the floor in shame.

"I had the… remains… cremated as 'medical waste' that same day. Don Valachi’s orders. He said to be quick and leave no trace."

On the drive home, Dr. Al-Jamil's words echoed in my head. They were a litany of torment, each repetition a fresh stab to my heart. The grief inside me began to curdle into a cold, hard rage.

That evening, Julian walked in, beaming, and announced his grand plan.

[I'm holding a baptism for Nico. A grand one. I want all of Chicago to know the heir to the Valachi family has arrived!]

His eyes held the glint of a man in absolute control, and his mood was buoyant.

And my child… my child didn’t even have a gravestone.

I blinked once, slowly, then gave him a calm, placid nod.