For the next forty-eight hours, while I was sitting upright in a private, security-guarded maternity suite drinking hot broth and facetiming with our eight thriving babies in the NICU, my mother-in-law went on a media tour.
Because Matteo stopped answering her calls and had hospital security escort her out of the maternity wing on Friday night, Donna assumed the absolute worst—or in her twisted mind, the absolute best.
On Saturday afternoon, Matteo’s younger brother, Marco, snuck into my hospital room and showed us the family group chat and the local news clips. Donna had gone on live Chicago television outside the hospital entrance wearing all black and oversized Chanel sunglasses, dabbing dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.
"Please pray for my poor daughter-in-law Camilla," Donna sobbed into the news microphones. "The doctors said her body just couldn't handle delivering the septuplets. She’s on life support in the ICU, and my son Matteo has completely shut down mentally. As the sole capable matriarch of this family, I am stepping up to adopt all seven babies and manage their foundation."
Because of her sob story on the news, the GoFundMe exploded overnight from $384,000 to $612,000.
Even better? Marco handed Matteo a copy of a notice from Cook County Probate Court. Donna had paid a high-priced lawyer $10,000 (out of the GoFundMe account) to schedule an emergency temporary guardianship and conservatorship hearing for Monday morning at 10:00 AM inside the hospital’s administrative boardroom—where a family court judge had agreed to appear via live video link to verify my "incapacitation."
"She also invited the executive editor of US Weekly Style to the hospital lobby at 10:30 AM on Monday," Marco said, disgusted. "The magazine wired the $150,000 advance into her LLC account yesterday. The contract states that if she fails to deliver exclusive photos of the 'Seven Rossi-Miller Miracle Septuplets' by noon on Monday, she’s in breach of contract and owes them double the advance in liquidated damages."
"Double?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I adjusted my hospital robe. "So she’d owe the magazine $300,000 out of pocket?"
"Yep," Matteo said, looking over a stack of bank subpoenas his cousin Vince had coordinated with the FBI’s Chicago field office over the weekend. "And guess why she was so desperate for the GoFundMe money in the first place? Vince ran a title search on her commercial brokerage in Oak Brook. Donna embezzled $290,000 from a client’s escrow account four months ago to cover bad crypto trades. Her brokerage audit is this Wednesday. She’s using our babies' charity money to plug the hole in her escrow account before the state licensing board finds out."
Monday morning at 10:00 AM arrived.
In the hospital’s third-floor executive boardroom, Donna was sitting at the head of the mahogany table in a sharp white pantsuit, flanked by her probate attorney. Across the table sat the hospital’s chief legal counsel and two representatives from the magazine waiting in the hall. On the 75-inch wall monitor, Judge Henderson from the Cook County Circuit Court appeared live.
"Mrs. Donna Rossi," Judge Henderson said sternly from the screen. "You have petitioned this court for immediate emergency guardianship of the seven minor children born Friday, as well as sole signatory authority over their $612,000 charitable trust. You are swearing under penalty of perjury that the mother, Camilla Rossi, is currently unconscious on mechanical ventilation in the Intensive Care Unit, and that the father has abandoned his parental duties?"
Donna placed her hand over her heart, letting her voice tremble. "Yes, Your Honor. I just came from the ICU floor twenty minutes ago. Camilla is unresponsive, the doctors say she may never wake up, and my son hasn't been seen since Friday. If you don't grant me control of the funds today, those seven helpless angels won't have their medical bills paid."
"And you have signed the sworn affidavit in front of the court clerk?" the judge asked.
"I just signed and notarized it, Your Honor," Donna said, holding up the document for the camera before handing it to the bailiff in the room. "It’s official."
At that exact second, the heavy oak double doors at the back of the boardroom swung wide open.
Matteo walked in first, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, pushing my wheelchair—though I didn't even need it. I stood right up out of the chair in front of the entire room, wearing a floral dress, holding a cold iced coffee in one hand and a thick red legal binder in the other. Behind us walked Dr. Rossi, two federal agents in dark suits, and a courtroom stenographer.
Donna’s coffee mug slipped straight out of her hand and shattered against the mahogany table.
"Good morning, Your Honor," I said, walking right up to the microphone as Donna stared at me like I was a ghost rising from the grave. "I’m Camilla Rossi. I apologize for being two minutes late—it takes a little longer to pump milk when you have eight healthy babies in the NICU."
