MILLIE
As the airplane ascended into the sky, an unexpected wave of nausea washed over me, its grip tightening around my stomach. This reaction was foreign to me; I had never before felt so queasy while flying. Fumbling with my seatbelt, I hastily rose from my seat, urgency pushing me toward the nearest bathroom. The idea of vomiting in the confines of an airplane restroom was a scenario I had always hoped to avoid, yet here I was, unable to contain the churning turmoil within.
The tiny airplane lavatory seemed even more constricting as I leaned over the grayish-blue toilet. In a swift and unsettling moment, my stomach revolted, expelling the breakfast I had consumed not long ago. Flushing the evidence away, I splashed water onto my hands and face, attempting to reclaim a semblance of composure.
Despite these efforts, a disconcerting realization began to take shape within me, casting a shadow over my already uneasy state. It hit me like a storm creeping on the horizon-I was overdue for my period. The distractions brought on by Karsen’s call had momentarily eclipsed this fact, but now it surged back into my consciousness. Memories of missed contraceptive pills, coupled with my persistent nausea, painted a worrying picture. Nearly two weeks overdue, a span of time I had not experienced since the irregularity of my early menstrual years.
Leaning against the cool interior of the bathroom wall, I wracked my mind, attempting to recall when this had last occurred. The stability brought about by the pill I had started taking around the time of my marriage to Gio had smoothed out these uncertainties. Though occasionally I still encountered fluctuations of two to three days, the idea of a two-week delay was foreign and unsettling.
The chaos of the past months compounded my concerns. The turmoil surrounding Sienna and Dario had created a backdrop of stress, one that might have caused me to forget taking my pills on occasion. But could I be certain? I hadn’t kept a tally; I hadn’t been attentive enough. Regret for not addressing this more seriously after my conversation with Karsen gnawed at me. Amid the tumult of my sister’s situation and the strains on my marriage with Gio, the significance of my contraceptive regimen had faded to the background.
Attempting to ground myself, I considered alternate explanations. Perhaps this nausea was merely a symptom of an impending flu, a reaction to stress rather than a harbinger of a profound change. Yes, that had to be it-a rational reassurance amidst the whirlwind of concerns.
With a trembling hand, I slid open the bathroom door and made my way back to my seat. The stewardess cast a worried glance my way, met with a swift but strained smile. I couldn’t afford them assuming I was gravely ill and diverting the flight for an emergency landing.
Seated once more, a tide of unease still gripped me. The question loomed large: What if I was pregnant? The last discussion with Gio about parenthood had been conclusive-he had firmly expressed a desire to postpone children in the face of the dangers that surrounded us. But when would the circumstances ever truly be conducive? Especially now, as Mathias’s declaration of war hung heavy over us. The irrationality of this war seemed glaring, its toll on our lives immeasurable.
Yet I couldn’t let conjecture dictate my emotions. Nausea alone wasn’t definitive proof of pregnancy. Upon returning to New York, I could take a pregnancy test to put my uncertainties to rest. Until then, I needed to channel my focus toward the immediate task: reconnecting with Kaye, persuading her to arrange a meeting with Karsen, and convincing him to accompany me to New York. One thing, however, would remain unsaid in these discussions with Kaye-the turmoil of my potential pregnancy.
~*~
Returning to Chicago was a peculiar experience for me. The city where my childhood had unfolded seemed strangely distant from the concept of “home.” This feeling had little to do with the ongoing conflict between the Famiglia and the Outfit. Rather, it was my own evolution over the past four years, since I had departed for New York, that contributed to this sense of detachment.
In spite of the raging war, Chicago appeared unchanged during my latest visit. The streets retained their usual calm, and the general atmosphere was one of anticipation as the Christmas holiday approached.
To blend in and avoid drawing attention, I concealed my hair beneath a wig and wrapped a scarf around my lower face. The bitter Chicago winter justified this ensemble, shielding me from prying eyes. My heavy wool coat failed to completely ward off the biting cold, which persisted in nipping at my exposed skin.
Moving through the streets unburdened felt liberating after a long stretch of constraints. I had grown accustomed to the gilded cage that confined me. While I deeply loved Gio and couldn’t envision life without him, there were moments when I yearned for greater autonomy. Although he had defied convention by supporting my brief foray into college, a luxury few men of his stature would grant, I understood that our lives would perpetually be hemmed in by the dictates of the underworld.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I traversed the streets without a watchful bodyguard shadowing me. Observing the passersby, I pondered the routines and experiences of those unshackled from the grip of the mafia. My sisters and I had never truly known such unadulterated freedom; even when Harper was on the run, it had been a form of desperate flight rather than a liberated existence.
Though my resentment towards mob life had never matched Harper’s fervor, there were instances when I hankered for fleeting glimpses of liberation. My stint in college had offered a tantalizing taste, yet it was destined to remain a brief interlude. Departure from my current milieu wasn’t just curtailed by Gio’s authority; it was also because this world was the sole realm where I truly belonged-the only reality I comprehended.
As I stood there, my gaze fixed on the restaurant across the street, I hoped that Kaye hadn’t deviated from her customary routine since our last phone conversation. My entire plan hinged on this timing.
Facing the eatery where Kaye regularly met with Leila for Wednesday brunch, I waited expectantly. Despite the frigid conditions, I clung to a coffee-to-go cup, its warmth combating the cold’s relentless grip. Finally, a sleek black Mercedes limousine, its windows tinted, glided to a stop before the restaurant. Kaye emerged, exuding her characteristic regal aura, her pregnancy evident as her coat contoured around her swelling belly. She must have been nearing her ninth month. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would resemble her in eight months’ time, but I dismissed the thought-now was not the moment for reverie.
Kaye was accompanied, not merely by her imposing presence and her burgeoning child, but also by her three-year-old daughter, Patrice, clutching her hand. A smile involuntarily crept onto my face, but it swiftly faded as I confronted the stark reality that I wouldn’t witness Patrice’s growth, despite being her godmother. Two burly bodyguards trailed Kaye and her daughter into the restaurant, familiar faces whose names eluded me.
After confirming the road was clear, I hastened across the street and entered the cozy bistro-style establishment. I approached the waiter, shedding my woolen cap and banking on my wig to obscure my identity, though I had to lower my scarf to communicate. My back remained directed towards the dining area, cognizant that Kaye’s guardians would be vigilant, considering my entry occurred after theirs.
“Table for two?” inquired the waiter, a handsome young man in his late twenties.
“Just one,” I replied, unbuttoning my coat to reveal dark denim jeans and a white blouse-a deliberate attempt to portray myself as an inconspicuous, unarmed woman, unlikely to be of significance.
The waiter’s lips curled into a smile. “Can’t believe someone hasn’t taken you out for brunch. A lady as lovely as you shouldn’t dine alone.”
His flirtatious tone caught me off guard; such encounters were a rarity in New York. My recognition was widespread, and while Gio’s public image was that of a shrewd entrepreneur, his clandestine connections were well-known. Furthermore, I was perpetually shadowed by bodyguards.
“I’m flying solo,” I responded, realizing how long it had been since Gio and I had shared a leisurely meal. Regret constricted my heart, and I resolved that upon my return, I would ask him to secure a reservation at the Korean restaurant where we had embarked on our inaugural date.
“Right this way. I’ve got a table for you.”
Casting a surreptitious glance over my shoulder, I discovered that, as anticipated, the bodyguards had redirected their attention elsewhere. They maintained their focus on Kaye and her daughter, occasionally stealing glances towards a table inhabited by suited men to their right. In the world of Made Men, only other men were deemed potential threats.