Across from him, Yara Salcedo shifted in her chair and pressed a manicured hand to her stomach.
“This pain is not normal,” she said, her voice tight. “Cormack, I’m serious.”
Cormack murmured something that wasn’t quite a response.
He had a meeting downtown at two. Three division heads were waiting on revised numbers. One of his attorneys needed approval on a land transfer in Hammond. The hospital visit was an inconvenience. Necessary, yes. Important politically, certainly. But still an inconvenience.
Yara was the daughter of Aurelio Salcedo, and men in Cormack’s world did not ignore the daughter of Aurelio Salcedo.
Then the double doors at the far end of the hall burst open.
A gurney came tearing through the corridor so fast one of the wheels rattled over the tile seam. Two nurses ran alongside it. Another person in blue scrubs shouted into a radio.
“Blood pressure dropping.”
“Thirty-eight weeks.”
“Move, move.”
“Possible PPCM—get OB and cardio in place now.”
Cormack looked up, irritated first.
Then frozen.
The woman on the gurney was drenched in sweat, face white as paper, black hair tangled against the pillow. Her fingers were clamped around the side rail. A clear oxygen mask fogged and cleared, fogged and cleared with every shallow breath. Beneath the blanket, the hard curve of a full-term pregnancy strained upward like a cruel miracle.
Brin.
The Mafia Boss Walked Into the Hospital With His New Lover
