My Don Left Me in Labor for Her Comeback Chapter 02

My Don Left Me in Labor for Her Comeback Chapter 02

The security guard finally opened the passenger door.

Not because anyone cared I was dying.

Because my Maserati was blocking the sponsor’s Bentley.

“Ma’am, can you step out so we can move the—”

He stopped. Saw the blood pooling between my legs.

“I need to lie flat,” I said, my voice a stranger’s rasp. “Get a stretcher！”

They sent two men. No stretcher.

They grabbed me under each arm and half-dragged me through a side door — not toward the lobby, not toward help, but into a storage closet crammed with old playbills and stacked chairs.

“Just rest here, we’ll go find someone—”

I gripped a folding table to stay upright.

“I don’t need rest! Do you have a medical station? Give me a flat surface! A clean cloth!”

“I AM A DOCTOR!”

The stagehands exchanged glances. “Medical’s on the third floor, but the concert’s on. It’s… not accessible right now.”

I keep my voice as cold as I can :

“Then get me clean cloth. Hot water. Disposable gloves. I’m an obstetric surgeon. You bring me what I need, you save my baby, or I will make sure every word you just said ends up in a federal lawsuit.”

One of them ran. The other stood guard at the door, like I was a some shoplifter.

I lowered myself to the floor, back against the wall, my own coat spread beneath me.

The storage closet had no windows.

On the wall, a poster: VIOLETTA ST. CLAIRE — RESURRECTION — CARNEGIE HALL COMEBACK CONCERT.

At the bottom, a handwritten note: Page-turner: Massimo DeLuca. VIP seating: reserved.

The door opened. but It wasn’t a medic.

It was a woman in black — sleek ponytail, cold eyes, lanyard reading: VIOLETTA ST. CLAIRE TOUR — PERSONAL ASSISTANT.

Francesca Bianchi. Frankie.

She looked at the blood seeping through my dress like it was a scheduling inconvenience.

“You’re Don Massimo’s wife, right? I’m Ms. St. Claire’s assistant. Don Massimo is backstage helping with final tuning. He can’t be disturbed. The concert starts in eight minutes.”

“I am in active labor.” I cut her off. “He has approximately two minutes to get down here before I start screaming loud enough to drown out her cadenza.”

“Or at least give me you phone!”

Francesca’s hand tightened around her iPhone.

Her smile was surgical:

“That won’t work for us. Violetta hasn’t performed in three years. Her psychological state is extremely fragile. If Don Massimo is pulled away now, it could trigger a full breakdown. You look like you can managing youself. The ambulance must be close.” She glanced at her watch. “Half an hour. First movement ends. Don Massimo will be here.”

“Do you know what my husband does for a living? ” I said quietly, “Actually — do you know who is my father?”

Francesca’s face flickered.

Because she knew.

Everyone in Massimo’s orbit knew that Vincent Conti had been the DeLuca Family consigliere for twenty-two years, and that his daughter had been raised in rooms where men decided who lived and who died.

But she smiled anyway. “Mrs. DeLuca, I’m just making a suggestion. Half an hour.”

She left.

The door clicked shut.

My phone screen blazed one last time — a text from Maya Chen at Mount Sinai: “Got your location ping. Calling EMS now. Hold on, Sera.”

Then the screen went black.

Battery dead.

From the concert hall, a single violin note pierced the air.

The overture had begun.

In the dark, in the dust, I felt it — the fetal movements slowing.

The desperate kicking inside me, which had been frantic ten minutes ago, was now weakening.

My baby was running out of oxygen.

Violetta St. Claire, three years of psychological trauma, and Massimo DeLuca abandoned his laboring wife to turn her pages.

Because fragile people deserve protection.

But strong people?

Strong people get told to wait in the car.

Waiting her baby to die.

Another contraction detonated inside me.

I bit through my lip and tasted blood.

Half an hour.

Fine.

Half an hour, Massimo. You better pray her violin can drown out the sound of me dying behind this door.