214 I Went to New York to Tell My Mafia Boss Husband I Was Pregnant—Instead, His Assistant’s Daughter Called Him Daddy, and I Finally Stopped Waiting / Chapter 14 / 110

Chapter 14 - The Fever

June's first fever happened at two in the morning during a week when Vincent was in New York. She had been restless all evening, refusing the bottle after a few ounces and crying with a thin, unhappy sound I had never heard before. When the thermometer showed a temperature high enough to concern me, fear moved through my body faster than thought. I called the pediatric advice line, answered their questions, and followed the instructions they gave me.

Only after I had a plan did I call Vincent.

He answered immediately, voice thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"June has a fever. I've spoken to the nurse. They want me to monitor her and bring her in if certain symptoms develop."

I heard movement on his end, then the sound of a drawer opening. "I'm coming to Chicago."

The old Vincent would already have been calling a driver. The new one paused.

"Do you want me to come?" he asked.

I looked at June, flushed and miserable against my shoulder. I wanted help. I did not want chaos.

"Yes," I said. "But don't arrive with five people. Come by yourself. And don't call the pediatrician behind my back unless I ask."

"Understood."

He reached Chicago before dawn. I had not asked how. I knew there were private planes, drivers, favors, and networks built into his life. For once, speed was useful. He came into the apartment quietly, washed his hands, and sat on the floor beside the couch while I held June. He did not touch her until I offered.

"She's so hot," he whispered.

"I know."

The temperature came down slightly after the medication recommended by the nurse. We watched the clock. Vincent made tea and forgot to drink his. At six, June finally slept against his chest. I lay on the couch with my eyes closed but could not fully rest.

"Claire," he said softly.

"What?"

"You can sleep. I'll wake you if anything changes."

There had been a time when I would have heard those words as an invitation to trust him completely. Now I heard them as a specific offer for one hour in one room. That was manageable.

"Wake me in forty-five minutes anyway."

"Okay."

He did.

By morning, June's fever was lower but still present, and the pediatrician wanted to see her. Vincent drove us because I had not slept enough to feel safe behind the wheel. In the exam room, he sat quietly while I explained the timeline. The doctor diagnosed a common viral infection and reviewed warning signs. No dramatic emergency, no hidden threat, no terrible consequence. Just a sick baby who needed fluids, rest, and attentive parents.

On the way home I started crying.

Vincent glanced over. "Is she worse?"

"No."

"Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my coat. "I was scared. And now I'm not as scared. That's all."

He pulled into a parking space rather than trying to talk while driving. "You don't have to explain it."

That sentence made me cry harder.

When we got back to the apartment, Nora arrived with groceries and took one look at Vincent sitting beside the bassinet. "You look terrible," she told him.

"Thank you."

"Claire looks worse."

"Also thank you," I said.

Nora made soup while Vincent changed June's diaper with the concentration of a man defusing something explosive. The three of us moved around the tiny apartment without pretending we were a family unit. Nora was my friend. Vincent was June's father. I was her mother. Roles did not have to blur simply because we occupied the same room during a difficult day.

In the afternoon, Vincent received a call from New York. I watched his expression change as he listened. Years of marriage had taught me the signs: the stillness, the narrowing eyes, the voice dropping into something precise and controlled. Whatever was happening mattered to him.

He stepped into the hallway to finish the call. When he returned, he said, "I need to handle something tonight. I can do most of it from here, but I might have to leave tomorrow morning."

My stomach tightened.

"What kind of something?"

He hesitated. "A business dispute involving people I don't want connected to this apartment. There's no direct threat to you or June. If that changes, I'll tell you."

It was more information than he would once have offered and less than I wanted. I considered the difference between privacy and deception. They were not the same.

"If you need to leave, leave," I said. "Don't stay here and bring whatever it is closer because you want credit for being present."

His face tightened. "I wouldn't use June for that."

"Good. Then we're clear."

He left the next morning after checking that June's temperature was normal. He did not promise to return that night. He said he expected to be back Friday and would confirm by Thursday afternoon. The specificity calmed me more than reassurance would have.

June recovered quickly. Within two days she was kicking on her play mat as though she had never frightened us. I, however, felt changed by the experience. Not because Vincent had come, but because I had asked him to come without feeling that the request placed my independence at risk. I could need help and still have boundaries. I could trust him with one night and remain uncertain about other things.

On Thursday afternoon, at exactly four, he messaged: Friday arrival confirmed. I can take June at two if she's fully recovered and you agree.

I asked the pediatrician whether ordinary activities were fine. They were.

Friday at two, Vincent arrived. June smiled when she saw him—not a social smile directed at whoever leaned closest, but something brighter, more recognizable. Vincent stopped in the doorway.

"Did she just—"

"Yes."

He looked absurdly pleased. "She knows me."

"Probably."

He held out his hands, waiting. I passed June to him. She caught his collar and immediately tried to put it in her mouth.

"A moving reunion," I said.

He laughed.

I watched them for a moment, then picked up my bag for the arts center. The fever had reminded me that love did not protect anyone from frightening nights. Reliability did not mean nothing went wrong. It meant there were people you could call when it did—and that when they answered, they listened before deciding what you needed.