I order a sandwich, Riona a coffee and croissant. When I try to pay for both orders, she cuts across me with her credit card at the ready.

“I’ve got to treat you,” she says matter-of-factly, “because I’m trying to butter you up.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s nothing terrible . . .”

“I bet.”

I follow her over to the nearest open table. She sits across from me, folding her hands in front of her in the way I know means she’s about to make her pitch.

“My brother’s speaking at a rally,” Riona says. “It’s for the Freedom Foundation. I want you to handle security for the event. You’d be working with the mayor’s team.”

“Okay . . .” I say, wondering what the favor is, exactly. “I’m not some kind of security expert though . . .”

“I know,” Riona says. “I just want someone from our own family there. The team they hired is going to be focused on the mayor, primarily, and the speaker as well. I want somebody keeping an eye on Callum.”

Callum is her big brother, the one married to Aida. I’ve got almost as much motivation to keep him safe as Riona does. Which is why I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The barista comes over with Riona’s croissant and my sandwich. I take a big bite of my BLT. Riona leaves her food untouched, wanting to finish our conversation before she eats.

“It’s on Saturday,” she says. “You’d be overseeing the set-up and supervising the event. The mayor wants to make sure we’re careful, because the speaker has received several death threats over the last few months.”

“Who is it?” I ask bluntly.

Riona doesn’t beat around the bush. “Yafeu Solomon,” she says.

I set down my sandwich. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Riona says. “He probably won’t even see you.”

Riona is aware of my former interactions with the Solomon family. Other than my siblings, she’s one of the only people who knows.

I sit silent, thinking.

If it were anybody else asking me, I’d just tell them no. I have no interest in being around Yafeu Solomon, and especially not in protecting him. In fact, if I saw some assassin rushing him with a knife, I’d be tempted to simply step aside.

But I do owe Riona a favor.

That’s why she’s asking. A good lawyer never asks a question where they don’t already know the answer.

I sigh. “Who do I contact from the mayor’s office?”

Riona lets herself smile, just for a second, pleased that she successfully roped me in.

“His name’s John Peterson,” she says, texting me his number. “He’s already expecting your call.”

I almost want to laugh. “Of course he is.”

“You know I like to have my ducks lined up,” Riona says. She checks her watch. “I better get back upstairs.”

“You didn’t eat.”

“I’ll take it with me.”

She picks up the croissant in a napkin, keeping her fingers clean, then takes a quick sip of her coffee.

“Thank you, Dante,” she says.

“How many more favors do I owe you ‘till we’re square?”

She laughs. “I don’t know—what’s twenty-five years to life worth?”

“I guess at least one or two more.”

She gives me a little wave and heads back toward the elevators.

I stay put so I can finish my sandwich. No sense letting good food go to waste.

23

Simone

Driving around downtown Chicago sets my nerves on edge.

I don’t know if the city changed, or if my memories are off. In my mind, the city had a kind of late afternoon golden glow—all the glass in the high rises illuminated like a sunset. I remembered the lake and the river, clean and blue, and the gorgeous Art Deco architecture in between.

Now a bunch of the luxury shops along the Magnificent Mile have been boarded up, probably because of the riots and protests over the summer, and the whole city looks dingier and dirtier than I remember.

But that’s probably just the difference in my own head.

I was in love last time I was here. Everything looked beautiful to me then. I didn’t notice the ugly parts.

Now that I’m older, I see things realistically.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Henry asks me. He’s sitting next to me in the cab, reading one of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books. He’s read them all a dozen times, but he likes to look through his favorite ones again and show me the best cartoon panels.

“Nothing,” I say. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“Your face looks mad.”

“No, not mad.”

“Are you sad?”

“Maybe a little tired, baby.”

“I was tired on the plane. So I went to sleep for a while.”

“I should have done that, too.”

I pull Henry against my shoulder and rest my chin on the top of his head. His curls are so soft. He’s a beautiful boy—big, dark eyes. Lashes that any girl would envy. A long, narrow face. His hands and feet are already as big as mine, and still growing. Like a puppy, it just shows how tall he’ll be once he grows into them.

“When are we gonna see Grandma and Grandpa?”

“Right now. We’re meeting them for dinner.”

“Good. I can show them my book.”

As we drive, we pass The Drake hotel. I didn’t book my room there, for obvious reasons. But there’s no avoiding the places I saw on my first stay in Chicago.

I can see exactly the spot where the chauffeured car was parked when I was sobbing in the back and Dante wrenched open the driver’s side door and jumped in.

It’s funny to think how I cried over Parsons. How childish of me. My biggest problem then was not attending the school I wanted. I had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

I lost the love of my life.

I lost my child.

Then I lost my sister.

At least I got Henry back. The rest of it is like dust in the wind . . . scattered too far to ever gather it up again.

The cab pulls up in front of the restaurant. I pay the driver while Henry hops out onto the curb, eager to see my parents. He loves them. And they adore him. My father takes Henry to the zoo and teaches him how to make jollof rice. My mother plays cribbage with him and shows him how to paint with watercolor.

I appreciate their relationship with my son. I really do. But if I ever saw them trying to crush his dream like they did to mine . . . I’d cut them out of our lives without a moment’s hesitation. I will never let my son be bent to someone else’s will. I’m going to do for him what I couldn’t do for myself. I’m going to let him choose his own path.

The hostess leads us to the table where my parents are already sitting, sipping a glass of wine each. They stand up as we approach so they can kiss us on both cheeks.

“You’re looking strong,” my father says to Henry.

“I was playing basketball at the international school in Madrid,” he says.

“You should play golf. That’s the sport of finance and business,” my father says.