“He likes basketball,” I say, a little too sharply.

“Well, he’ll have the height for it,” my father says. “He’s tall like his grandfather.”

Tall like his father, too. But we never mention that.

Perhaps in the silence that follows, my parents are thinking of Dante. I doubt they ever do under normal circumstances, but it’s impossible to miss that particular elephant in the room on our first night back in Chicago.

Tata quickly switches to something else. “How’s your schoolwork going, Henry?”

While Henry tells Tata all about it, Mama asks me about his tutor.

“She’s back at the hotel right now,” I say. “She didn’t want to come to dinner with us.”

“She must enjoy flying all over the world with you two.”

“Probably. Though I’m sure it gets lonely. She starts grad school in the fall, so I’ll have to find someone new. There’s no rush, though—Henry is ahead in school. He could easily take a year off without falling behind.”

“He’s very bright,” Mama says, looking over at him proudly. “Does he like seafood? We could order the clams to start . . .”

The meal is pleasant. I’m happy to see my parents again. But that old anger is simmering inside me, deep below the surface. It was a mistake to come back here, even for a week. I should have turned down the job and refused my parents’ invitation.

“What days are you working?” my father asks.

“Tomorrow and the next day.”

“We could pick up Henry in the morning and take him to Navy Pier while you’re at your shoot?”

“I’m sure he’d enjoy that.”

“Just don’t book anything Saturday night,” my father says. “There’s an evening event, after the rally.”

My lips tighten, but I nod. “Alright. That sounds nice.”

“It’s so lovely to be together again,” Mama says, smiling.

All of us but Serwa.

I blink back tears, taking a sip of my wine.

I don’t think you ever stop missing the people you’ve lost.

Maybe someday it hurts less. But that hasn’t happened yet.

24

Dante

Saturday morning I get up early so I can watch the set-up for the rally. It hasn’t been too bad working with Peterson, the head of the mayor’s security team. He’s former military like me, so there was a shared language in place from the start. We agreed that he’d handle most of the crowd security, while I’d be in charge of exterior threats like explosives, drones, or long-range attacks.

When I arrive at Grant Park, the podium and the perimeter is already in place. The politicians are going to be making their speeches on one end of Hutchinson Field, while the attendees spread out across the lawn. On the west side of the field you’ve got the lakeshore, and on the east, a bank of high-rise buildings. The closest buildings are about 1700 yards away from the podium, so they shouldn’t be an issue. Even so, I’ve got a mirror shield on hand, at the base of the podium.

I’m more concerned with the people on the field. Everybody attending the rally is supposed to come through the metal detectors, but the park is a huge open space. We don’t really have enough guards to be absolutely certain that someone hasn’t snuck in over the barricades with a gun hidden in their jacket.

For that reason, I keep telling the set-up crew to move the crowd barriers back in front of the podium.

“Nobody should be within fifty yards of the stage,” I tell them.

“But it looks weird with such a big gap in front of the podium . . .” Jessica complains. She’s the event coordinator. I can tell she thinks I’m way overdoing it on the security front. Which is probably true—this isn’t my area of expertise. I’m not used to balancing the needs of safety and security against the needs of the press photographers to get a photogenic angle.

“That’s half a football field,” she says. “Come on, I’m sure we can handle a little more intimacy . . .”

“You have the barriers ten yards out,” I tell her. “That’s well within range for even an untrained shooter with a cheap pistol.”

Peterson comes ambling over. He’s a little over six feet tall, with the build of a power-lifter and the beard of a lumberjack.

“What’s going on?” he says.

“Dante wants to move the barriers back,” Jessica says, barely hiding her annoyance. “Again.”

“Better do it, then,” Peterson says.

“Fifty yards?” Jessica hisses.

“Well . . . maybe half that,” Peterson says, cocking an eyebrow at me to see if I’m alright with that compromise.

“Yeah,” I say. “Alright.”

It’s the first of ten or twelve conflicts we have as set-up continues. I make Jessica move the floral arrangements that block egress from the stage, and I tell her that everybody in the meet-and-greet area needs to be screened, even the ones with press passes.

By the time we’re an hour out from the rally, she’s looking teary-eyed and frustrated, like I’ve ruined everything. Maybe I have. I know I’m being paranoid, but Riona asked me to do a job, and I’m going to do it to the best of my abilities.

Callum is the first speaker to arrive. He’s got Aida with him. They’re walking slower than usual, because Aida is about eight months along in her pregnancy. She’s carrying the joint heir of the Gallos and the Griffins—the tie that will bind our families together in perpetuity.

The first half of her pregnancy, she was barely showing. Now she’s in full bloom.

As she walks toward me across the grass, the sun shines down on her head and she looks like a goddess—like Demeter or Aphrodite. Her curly, dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, loose around her shoulders. Her slim figure has filled out and her expression is happy in a way I’ve never seen before. Not amused or mischievous . . . just genuinely joyful. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks are full of color, her skin and hair look healthy and vibrant.

She’s the first of my siblings to have children. Looking at her, I feel so proud and happy for her.

But also, it gives me a little pain. I see Callum at her side, carefully holding her elbow so she can walk over the uneven ground safely in her high heels. He’s helping her, protecting her, hovering around her more than ever. He’s about to become a father, and I can tell that means much more to him than this rally, or anything else in the world.

I envy him.

I don’t care about anything as much as he cares about my sister and their child.

“You look beautiful,” I tell Aida, kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh god,” she laughs. “You know you must be the size of a walrus if your brother starts giving you compliments to cheer you up.”

“Have you been sick?” I ask her.

“No,” Callum says, giving her a stern look. “She’s just got swollen feet because she’s working too much.”

“It’s fine,” Aida says, winking at him, “You can rub them for me later.”

“Did you pick a name yet?” I ask her.