No More Postcards From Chicago

I turned, quickly wiping away my tears. Julian kept his head down, silent, like a frightened little animal.

Alistair strode toward us, lifted Julian into the air with one hand, and kissed his cheek. "Miss me, son?"

Julian was as stiff as a small statue in Alistair's arms, offering no response.

Alistair playfully rubbed his newly grown stubble against Julian's face. "Mad at Papa? You know I brought you a gift. Want to see it?"

I watched the familiar routine, my stomach churning. In my past life, Alistair could always use a few cheap, affectionate gestures to coax Julian into forgetting every slight he had suffered.

This time, Julian was different. He asked softly, "Papa, did you bring the limited edition Ferrari F1 model car I told you about?"

Alistair froze. He'd forgotten. He cleared his throat and patted Julian's head. "That one got held up at customs. You know how strict the Feds have been lately. I only managed to get the jewelry through for Arabella. Next time. I'll definitely get it for you next time, Julian."

Julian asked tentatively, his voice faint, "Then… what about the chocolate, Papa?"

Alistair pulled a slightly crushed piece of chocolate from his pocket. "Arabella has such a sweet tooth, I left the whole box with her. But I saved this one especially for you, Julian."

I watched as Julian’s gaze fixated on the cheap, misshapen piece of chocolate—the kind you could find at any gas station. His lips pressed into a tight line, and the light in his eyes flickered and died. I knew that expression all too well; it was the look of disappointment so deep it left no room for words.

Alistair turned his attention to me, his gaze lingering for a moment on my faded loungewear. "I'll have the living expenses for the new quarter sent over next month. I'll make sure you get a full budget."

I pulled my lips into a humorless smile. I had heard that line so many times I was numb to it. In my past life, the promised dresses and funds always ended up, under various pretexts, in Isabella's closet.

At dinnertime, all we had on the table was a plate of bland pasta, without even a decent sauce.

Alistair looked at the plate and frowned. "Why are you eating this? Where's the chef?"

"Isabella is using the chefs to test menus for Arabella's birthday party," I answered calmly, spooning the pasta onto Julian's plate.

"Didn't I just…" Alistair stopped mid-sentence, his expression hardening slightly, as if he remembered this was a privilege he had approved. "I'll have the family accountant transfer more funds to your account tomorrow."

I remained silent. I knew exactly how this story ended—by tomorrow, that "transferred fund" would have somehow transformed into a brand-new sports car for Isabella.

As if on cue, Isabella's phone rang. Her voice came through the receiver, laced with a deliberately fragile tone. "I think Arabella is having a reaction to some pollen. She keeps sneezing, and she's terrified. Could you come over and stay with her, Alistair? You know how sensitive she's been since Marco passed. You're the only one she can rely on…"

Alistair stood up without a moment's hesitation.

I grabbed his sleeve, my voice urgent. "Julian has a bit of a fever tonight. His temperature is rising."

Alistair didn't stop, already moving toward the door. "Julian's a boy. He needs to be tough, not coddled like a girl. Arabella is different. She's delicate."

After the door slammed shut, the room returned to a dead silence. Julian asked softly, "Mommy, can I sleep with you tonight?"

I held Julian's cold little feet against my body, listening to the heavy rain lashing against the windows. I didn't sleep a wink. At dawn, I discovered Julian's temperature had spiked to a terrifying level, and he was delirious.

"Julian is burning up, Alistair!" I burst out of the room, shouting his name over and over, but the only answer was a heart-stopping silence.

I threw open the master bedroom door, only to find the room empty—Alistair was gone.

Just then, the bodyguard on duty blocked my path with a deadpan expression. "The Don escorted Mrs. Genovese to a private hospital before dawn, Donna. Miss Arabella seemed to be having an allergic reaction last night, and the Don was very worried."

My vision went black for a second, and I nearly collapsed. "Get a car ready—I'm going to the hospital now!"

"I'm very sorry, Donna, but the Don has left with all the family doctors and the security convoy. For safety reasons, the estate is now under lockdown. No vehicles are permitted to enter or exit without the Don's order."

I couldn't wait. I had waited a lifetime before, and the result was Julian's cold body in my arms. I wrapped Julian tightly in a raincoat and, ignoring the bodyguard's protests, burst through an unlocked side door into the Chicago storm. I ran toward the main road, rain and mud splashing my face. I stumbled, waving my arms frantically, trying to flag down any car.

Just then, an unremarkable Ford sedan stopped in front of me. The driver rolled down the window. "Ma'am, do you need help?"

"Please… take me to a hospital. My son is burning up."