“You disappeared from the Young Ambassadors’ dinner. I thought you were going to sit at my table.”

“Oh. Sorry. I left early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Okay, good. I mean, not good you were sick. But I’m glad it wasn’t because you didn’t want to sit with me.”

There’s a little color in his pale cheeks, under the freckles.

I feel a pang of guilt. Jules is a nice guy and not bad-looking. He’s fit, well-mannered, smart. An excellent skier and violinist, from what I’ve heard. But the little sparks I’ve felt for him in the past are nothing compared to the inferno Dante can light inside of me with a single glance.

We pull up to the museum. I feel a thrill at the sight of the long brick facade. This is where Dante dropped me off the day he stole the car with me in the backseat. I wish he were taking me to the ball, instead of Jules.

Since the party’s already in full swing, we have to wait in a line of a dozen limos and sports cars. Jules hands the valet the keys, then takes my arm to help me up the long, carpeted steps to the entrance.

In the grand hall, there’s so much chatter and clinking of glasses that I can hardly hear the music playing. I can’t deny that the array of brilliant masks and gowns are absolutely lovely. I see peacocks and butterflies, harlequins and fairies. Some people have gone with Italian-style gowns with bustles and lace sleeves, others with strapless princess-styles.

The men are mostly dressed in suits or tuxes. Some wear the classic columbina half-mask. Others wear the slightly disturbing volto full-face, the angular bauta, or the sinister scaramouche with the long nose.

“Would you like a drink?” Jules asks me.

“Thank you,” I say.

As he heads off toward the bar, someone sidles up next to me in a Plague Doctor costume.

“Simone . . .” a low voice whispers.

“Yes?” I say hesitantly.

“It’s me!” Emily giggles. She pulls her mask down just a little so I can see her bright blue eyes.

I laugh. “What are you doing in that?”

“Spying,” she says. “Sneaking around. Listening in on conversations.”

“What have you learned so far?”

“Oh, only that Jean VanCliffe brought his mistress to the party, not his wife—you can see her over there in the burgundy gown. And that Angela Price is high as a kite, which is why she’s been dancing all by herself for the last half hour.”

“Riveting stuff,” I tell her. “You should write a book.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she says. “I’d love to write a tell-all novel about the rich and famous of Chicago.”

“I don’t know if they’re actually that interesting,” I say. “Except to themselves.”

Jules comes back to join us, handing me a flute of champagne.

“Oh, sorry.” Emily grins. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

“It’s not—” I start.

“That’s okay,” Jules says, his lips smiling under his mask. “We came to socialize, after all.”

“Oh!” Emily says sarcastically. “I thought we came to support poor little kiddos that need new computers.”

“Right. Of course,” Jules says uncomfortably.

“She’s just teasing you,” I tell him.

“Right,” Jules says again.

That’s always been his weak point—no sense of humor.

“Should we dance?” he asks me.

He pulls me out onto the dance floor amongst the endless rotation of couples swirling around us. The band is playing “The Vampire Masquerade,” fittingly enough. Jules is a much more practiced dancer than Dante. But he’s almost flamboyant—he whirls me around, spinning me, even dipping me a little. It’s clear he wants as many people as possible to see us.

I do like dancing. I love all the rich colors, beading, and brocade all around me. The way the dresses swish and rustle, the way the fabrics shine, bending the light that glitters down from several chandeliers overhead. I like the sweet scent of champagne and a dozen perfumes, over the more mellow scent of the men’s pomade and aftershave, and the lower notes of shoe polish and leather.

The band switches to “Midnight Waltz.”

“Do you want to keep dancing?” Jules asks me.

“Yes!” I say. I’d rather dance than talk.

We whirl around the floor, fast enough that I’m breathing hard. Jules asks me a few questions about how my parents are doing, and if I’ve chosen my college yet.

“I’ll be going to Harvard,” he says proudly.

“That’s great,” I smile.

Just then my back fetches up against something hard and immovable.

“Oh, sorry!” I say, turning around.

I have to look up to meet the eyes of the man towering over me.

He’s dressed all in black. His hair is combed straight back. He’s wearing a black silk mask that covers the whole of his face. His dark eyes glitter down at me.

Before I can say a word, he’s grabbed my waist, and my hand is enclosed in his.

“Excuse me—” Jules protests.

“You don’t mind if I take her,” the man growls.

It’s not a question. He sweeps me away without another glance at Jules.

I knew it was Dante from the moment I saw his bulk. There isn’t a man in the room with shoulders that wide. If I hadn’t already guessed, that rough voice and the intoxicating scent of his cologne would have given it away.

I’m only surprised that he managed to get in the room at all—I doubt he’s on the donor list for KIPP. And I didn’t expect him to own a perfectly-fitted suit.

“What are you doing here?” I say, looking up at him.

Behind the mask, his eyes are more ferocious than ever.

“Watching you dance with another man,” he growls.

The edge in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. His hand swallows mine. I feel the heat coming off his body.

I can’t read his expression, but I can feel his muscles tense with fury.

“Are you jealous?” I whisper.

“Extremely.”

I don’t know why that sends a thrill of pleasure through me.

“Why?” I say.

In answer, Dante only pulls me tighter.

I can feel eyes turning to look at us. It’s impossible not to notice the tallest man in the room. The other dancers create space for us, no one wanting to be flattened by Dante as he spins me around to “Waltz for Dreamers.”

Usually I dislike when people stare at me, but right now I couldn’t care less. They can whisper all they like. All I care about is Dante’s fingers locked around my waist, the impossible strength he uses to whip me around, and the way he doesn’t take his eyes off my face for an instant.

“Why am I jealous?” he says, responding to my question.

“Yes.”

He presses me tight against him.

“Because I don’t care if the richest, fanciest fuckers in the world are in this room. You belong to me.”

8

Dante

I came to the ball to surprise Simone.

I bought a ticket, at an outrageous price, from someone who had actually been invited. Then I got out the one and only suit I own, and even found a mask.