No More Postcards From Chicago

The Don was going to lose his wife forever.

After my rebirth, I stopped trying to prevent my husband, Don Alistair Valachi, from lavishing his affection on his late brother's widow, Isabella Genovese, and that spoiled niece of hers, Arabella.

After all, in my previous life, I had burned my life to the ground for a single glance from him. It wasn't until I lay on a cold hospital bed, the memory of my son Julian's body growing cold in my arms, that I finally understood. In the moment before a broken heart led me to take my own life, I saw just how absurdly wrong I had been.

Reborn, the first thing I did was not beg for his love. It was to stride into downtown's most discreet law firm and activate the emergency protocol my father had left for me.

"I request to activate the protective clause and draft a divorce agreement with Alistair Valachi. I need new identities for myself and Julian Valachi, ones that cannot be traced by the Chicago Outfit."

In a few days, Julian and I would vanish from Alistair's life. Since he was so insistent on creating his new "family" with Isabella and Arabella, I decided to let him have it.

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1

I strode out of the law firm. The early spring wind in Chicago cut like a knife, and a violent shudder wracked my body. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms, using the pain to anchor myself in reality. This was not a dream.

I had been reborn five years in the past, back to a time before everything had fallen apart, before the real tragedy had struck.

I had just returned to the heavily guarded Valachi Estate on the city's outskirts when the butler handed me a postcard. "Another postcard for you, Donna. The Don is in Sicily on family business, but he still finds time to send one every day."

"The Don treasures you, Donna. You're the envy of the entire Valachi family—of the entire Chicago Outfit, really."

I glanced at the card. His powerful, messy script—a perfect reflection of his domineering personality—covered the card, offering only a few brief words.

In my past life, these hollow words would have sent a ripple of affection through my heart; now, they just felt like a merciless slap across the face.

As I was about to head toward the main building, a cloyingly sweet yet grating voice drifted from the adjacent east wing's terrace. "You're finally back, Juliana!"

It was Isabella Genovese, my husband's late brother's widow. She was sitting on the terrace with her daughter, Arabella Genovese, enjoying a lavish spread catered by a Michelin-starred chef.

I noticed Arabella was wearing an expensive custom-made dress, smiling like a true Principessa, while my five-year-old son, Julian, stood in a corner of the garden in worn-out sneakers, his eyes fixed longingly on the table laden with delicacies.

Isabella put down her champagne flute and deliberately raised her voice. "Isn't Alistair supposed to be back in Chicago today? He's really something else. You, our esteemed Donna, spend your days waiting for his postcards. Meanwhile, I'm here managing the family's most important offshore trust fund for him. When he gets back, I'll have to have a word with him about this."

I clenched my fists so tight my nails nearly drew blood. The whole situation was a farce.

In my past life, it had all played out exactly like this—Alistair gave me the hollowest romance imaginable, while handing over the Valachi empire's money and power to his brother Marco's widow, Isabella.

I still remembered the day Alistair proposed. In the family's private chapel, in front of all the Capos, he knelt before me, kissed the back of my hand, and vowed, "I swear, as long as I live, the Valachi family will be your shield. I will never betray you, Juliana."

Back then, I was the envy of every socialite in Chicago's high society. Alistair was the youngest and most ruthless Don in Valachi family history. He had protected me since we were children, even once venturing alone into the territory of our mortal enemies, the Russo family, just for me.

During the first year of our marriage, the postcards he sent from business trips could have filled a safe, every one signed with a clumsy but charming little heart.

But everything changed when his brother, Marco, took a bullet for him during a rival family's ambush. At the funeral, Alistair stood before the casket and made a vow to Isabella, who was sobbing as she clutched her daughter. "From this day forward, Isabella, I will be responsible for you and Arabella. I swear I will take care of you for the rest of your lives."

At first, I thought it was just about preserving the family's bloodline, until the truth hit me, one brutal blow at a time.

Isabella enjoyed a black card with no spending limit, while Julian and I had all our expenses cut under the pretext that "the family is under federal investigation, so the budget is tight." Arabella flaunted custom-made leather shoes studded with diamond chips, while Julian's sneakers had holes worn through them, his toes raw and red in Chicago's biting cold.

Alistair eventually became the official Don and prepared to move into a palatial penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. He once ruffled Julian's hair and promised, "As soon as I clear out the opposition up north, I'll bring you home, son."

In the end, it was Isabella and Arabella who moved into that apartment, a symbol of power, attending charity galas and the opera by his side.

Julian and I were left behind in this increasingly dilapidated estate in the suburbs, like two forgotten shadows.

He continued to send postcards, each line dripping with supposed affection, yet he never provided a single dollar for our living expenses. To us, he was a ghost, a phantom who never materialized to check on us.

On a winter night during a city-wide blizzard, Julian came down with pneumonia and was on the brink of death. All the family doctors had been dispatched by Alistair to care for Arabella, who was merely "suffering from a bit of insomnia." I sold nearly all my jewelry and, holding my son, begged for help on the streets all the way downtown.

I was blinded by the dazzling lights pouring from that penthouse. From a distance, I saw Alistair get out of a bulletproof Cadillac, with Isabella, draped in luxurious fur, at his side.

Just as I was about to run toward him, one of his Soldatos kicked me in the chest, roaring, "Get lost! Don't block Mrs. Genovese's way!"

The brutal blow sent a spray of blood from my lips. Through my blurred vision, I watched Alistair's back disappear through the revolving doors. I knew he had heard my screams, but he didn't even turn around.

On that cold winter night, Julian breathed his last in my arms. I held his lifeless body, and as the last of my hope died, I finally let go, welcoming the end.