Mama rests her palm on my head for a moment, stroking my hair.

“See you inside, ma chérie,” she says.

Then they leave me alone in the backseat of the car.

Well, not really alone—our driver is sitting up front, patiently waiting for me to compose myself.

“Wilson?” I say in a strangled tone.

“Yes, Miss Solomon?”

“Could you give me a minute alone, possibly?”

“Of course,” he says. “Let me pull to the side.”

He pulls the town car up to the curb, out of the way of everyone else being dropped off at the front doors. Then he steps away from the vehicle, kindly leaving the engine running so I’ll still have air conditioning. I see him strike up a conversation with one of the other chauffeurs. They go around the corner of the hotel, probably to share a cigarette.

Once I’m alone, I give myself over to crying. For five solid minutes I wallow in my disappointment.

It’s so stupid. It’s not like I ever expected my parents to let me go to Parsons. It was just a fantasy that got me through my last year of school at Tremont and the endless soul-crushing exams that I knew I was expected to pass with top marks. And I did—every one of them. No doubt I’ll be receiving a similar acceptance letter from Cambridge any day now because I did apply there, as required.

I sent a portfolio of my designs to Parsons on a whim. I guess I thought it would be good to receive a rejection—to show me that my father was right, that my dream was a delusion that could never actually come to pass.

Then to hear I was accepted . . .

It’s a sweet kind of torture. Maybe worse than never knowing at all. It’s a bright, shimmering prize, put right within reach . . . then yanked away again.

I allow myself to be childish and miserable for that five minutes.

Then I take a deep breath and pull myself together.

My parents still expect me inside the grand ballroom of The Drake hotel. I’m supposed to smile, make conversation, and let them introduce me to the important people of the night. I can’t do that with a blotchy, swollen face.

I dab my face dry, reapplying a little lip gloss and mascara from my purse.

Right when I’m about to reach for the door handle, the driver’s door is wrenched open instead, and someone slides into the front seat.

It’s a man—a huge man, practically a giant. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and definitely not wearing a uniform like Wilson.

Before I can say a word, he slams his foot down on the gas pedal and speeds away from the curb.

2

Dante Gallo

Security at The Drake is stiff, thanks to all the hoity-toity political types coming in for the gala. Rich people will take any excuse to celebrate themselves. Awards banquets, fundraisers, charity auctions—it’s all just an excuse for them to slap each other’s backs publicly.

Papa’s restaurant La Mer is providing the king crab legs, scarlet prawns, and half-shell oysters that will make up the gargantuan seafood tower in the center of the buffet. We bid cheap on this job, because we won’t be making our profit on shrimp tonight.

I pull my van up to the service doors and help the kitchen staff unload the crates of iced shellfish. One of the security guards pokes his head into the kitchen, watching us crack open the crates.

“What do you even call that?” he says, staring at the scarlet prawns with a horrified expression.

“It’s the best shrimp you can’t afford,” I tell him, grinning.

“Oh yeah? What’s that cost?”

“Hundred and nineteen a pound.”

“Get the fuck outta town!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You better pull me a full-size mermaid with d-cup titties out of the ocean for that price.”

Once we’ve got all the product safely stowed in the walk-in refrigerator, I nod to Vinny. We set the last chest under a room-service cart.

Vinny works at The Drake, sometimes as a bellhop, and sometimes as a dishwasher. His real job is procuring items for guests—stuff a little more difficult to come by than fresh towels and extra ice.

I’ve known him since we were running around Old Town in Spider-Man sneakers. I got a whole hell of a lot bigger, while Vinny stayed the same—skinny, freckled, with terrible teeth but a great smile.

We take the service elevator up to the fourth floor. The elevator lurches alarmingly under our combined weight. The Drake is one of Chicago’s roaring 20s hotels—renovated since then, but not much. It’s all brass doorknobs, crystal chandeliers, tufted chairs, and that musty smell of carpets and drapery that haven’t really been cleaned in the last fifty years.

I bet Dukuly is pissed at being shoved into some common suite on the fourth floor. He’s got a lake-side view, but it’s a far cry from the Presidential Suite. Unfortunately for him, he’s not the most important person in town for the gala, not even close. At this particular event, he barely ranks in the top half.

That’s probably why he’s still sulking in his room while the gala’s about to begin. I can smell the cigar smoke seeping out from under his door.

“You want me to go in with you?” Vinny asks.

“Nah,” I say. “You can get back downstairs.”

It’s gonna be all hands on deck in the kitchen. I don’t want Vinny getting into trouble, or anybody to come looking for him. Plus, I’ve done business with Dukuly twice before. So I don’t anticipate any trouble.

Vinny leaves me with the room-service cart.

I knock on the door—three taps, as agreed.

Dukuly’s bodyguard cracks it open. He’s your typical burly n’ surly type, dressed in a nice suit, but looking like he lives at the top of a beanstalk.

He lets me into the suite, which consists of two bedrooms with a sitting room in between. After a quick pat-down to make sure I came unarmed, he grunts, “Have a seat.”

I settle into the chintz sofa, while the ogre takes an armchair opposite. A second bodyguard leans up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. This guy is a little leaner than his friend, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I want to tell him that the henchman ponytail went out of style with the last of the Steven Seagal movies. Before I get the chance, Dukuly comes out of his room, puffing furiously on his cigar.

He’s already dressed in his formal tux, which strains around his belly. He’s one of those men who practically looks pregnant because his weight is solely concentrated around the middle, between spindly arms and legs. His closely-trimmed beard is speckled with gray, and his thick eyebrows form a heavy shelf over his eyes.

“Dante,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Edwin.” I nod.

“Cigar?” He holds out a premium Cuban cigar, heavy and fragrant.

“Thanks,” I say, standing up to take it from him.

“Come by the window,” he says. “We had a complaint from the front desk. Apparently, there’s no smoking in any of the rooms anymore. What is this country coming to?”

He nods to Ponytail, who hastily unlatches the window and forces up the sash. No easy task, since the old windowpane is practically welded in place by time and stiffness. There’s no screen—just a straight four-story drop to the awning below.