“I was thinking we could name him after Cal’s great-grandfather,” she says, grinning. “Don’t you think Ruaidhri just rolls off the tongue?”

“Absolutely not,” Cal says.

“It means ‘great king.’ ”

“You can’t be a king if nobody can pronounce your name,” Cal says. “Didn’t you have a grandpa named ‘Clemente?’ ”

“That sounds like a Pope,” Aida says, making a face.

“I think you’re supposed to name babies after objects now,” I tell her. “Apple, and Blue, and Fox, and stuff like that.”

“Oh, perfect!” Aida says cheerfully. “I’ll name him after where he was conceived. Sweet little Elevator Gallo . . .”

“I think you mean Elevator Griffin,” Cal corrects her.

“Elevator Griffin-Gallo,” Aida says. “Very presidential.”

“You’re going to be sitting up there, by the way,” I tell her, pointing to the left side of the stage.

“Oooh, padded folding chairs!”

“Only the best for my sister.”

“You can wait over there if you want,” I tell them, nodding toward the trailer stocked with snacks and drinks. “They’re going to start letting people onto the field in a minute.”

Aida squeezes my arm. “Thanks for babysitting us all today,” she says.

As she heads over to the trailer, Cal hangs back to talk to me for a minute.

“I don’t think there’s going to be any problem,” he says. “Anti-trafficking is maybe the one bipartisan issue we have left. Riona was just being paranoid.”

“You’re going to speak right after the mayor?” I ask him.

“Yeah. We’ve gotten pretty close the last couple months. He’s going to endorse me when I run for his position.”

“So he’s passing the torch.”

“Basically.”

“How much is that going to cost us?” I say in a low tone.

Cal snorts. “About Five hundred K. Paid via ‘speaking fees’ at future events.”

It’s crucial that Cal becomes mayor, so we can get the rest of our South Shore development approved.

“And Yafeu Solomon gets up right after you?” I say.

“That’s right.” Callum gives me a careful look. “Aida said there was some kind of history between your families.”

“I met him once,” I say stiffly. “There’s no connection between us.”

“Okay,” Cal says.

I can’t tell from his expression if Aida told him the whole story or not. But it’s clear from mine that I don’t want to talk about it. So Cal doesn’t push it. He just claps me on the shoulder and says, “See you in a bit.”

The rest of the hour passes in a blur of activity—getting the attendees situated on the open lawn, walking the perimeter once more, checking in with the far-flung members of the security team via our ear-pieces, and so forth. Peterson wrangles the speakers, organizing their positions on the stage so I don’t have to talk to Yafeu. I haven’t even seen him yet, since he was the last to arrive, while I was over on the south end of the lawn, dealing with the officers on loan from the Chicago PD.

Finally, music starts pouring from the speakers, as the organizers build the energy of the crowd. They’re playing “Start Me Up” by The Rolling Stones. I don’t know where they get their playlists, but the conjunction of rock stars and stodgy politicians has always seemed odd to me.

I guess there’s nothing stodgy about Cal. He looks tall, fit, handsome, and powerful as he strides across the stage, waving to the crowd. When I first met him, I thought he seemed intelligent, but he had this arrogance and intensity that was off-putting. With those laser-focused blue eyes, he looked like the T-1000 Terminator.

Aida has brought out a better side of him. Given him a little humor and charm. I don’t doubt he’ll become mayor, or whatever he sets his sights on after that.

I’d fucking hate it. The older I get, the less I like talking to people at all.

Still, it’s interesting to see how the crowd responds to him, screaming and cheering as soon as he sets foot on stage. A whole lot of them seem to know Aida, too—they roar when she blows a kiss to the crowd. Seb told me the pair of them have some Instagram account that’s gotten popular. I really am old—I don’t even have Facebook, let alone Instagram.

The mayor follows them out onto stage a minute later. He’s not a tall man, but he has presence. He’s got white hair, bald on top and too long on the sides, rimless glasses perched on a beak of a nose, and a big smile full of crooked teeth. Even though he’s only 5’7, his impressive belly helps give him a sense of dignity. He waves to the crowd with both hands, his pudgy fingers reminding me of cartoon gloves.

Mayor Williams is as crooked as they come, but in a genial kind of way. He’s always been willing to do business with the Irish and Italian mafia families, or anyone else who wants to keep the city running with bribes, favors, and exchanges.

Having him in place has been a good thing. Having Cal as mayor would be even better. What we don’t want is some crusader or the head of a rival family.

As I’m thinking who might run against Cal, Yafeu Solomon climbs the steps to the stage. I look up at him from my position in front of the barricades.

He looks almost exactly the same as when I saw him last—tall, slim, wearing a well-tailored dark suit. His face is just as regal as ever, with no new lines that I can see. Only the little threads of silver in his black hair show that any time has passed at all.

He’s not looking down at me. He’s gazing out over the large crowd with a satisfied expression on his face. It’s an excellent turn out—a credit to his cause.

For a moment I assume the woman walking behind him is his wife. Then he steps to the side of her and I see her face in full. And I realize it’s Simone.

I’m frozen in place, staring up at her.

I’d prepared myself to see her father. I never imagined for a second that Simone would be with him.

I’ve tortured myself with glimpses of her in Ibiza, Paris, London, Miami . . . shots taken by paparazzi, or on red carpets. As far as I know, she’s never come back to Chicago. I never thought she would.

Now she’s standing thirty feet away from me. If she were to look down, she’d see me. But she isn’t looking at the crowd at all. She’s taken her seat at the very corner of the stage and she’s staring down at her hands, obviously not liking the attention.

I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t take my eyes off her.

The mayor is getting up to make the first speech. I’m supposed to be scanning the crowd, checking in with the guards, making sure he’s protected from all angles.

I’m doing none of it. I’m riveted by the sight of Simone.

Fucking hell, she’s twice as beautiful as before. She’s got to be the only supermodel in the world where her photos don’t do her justice.

We were just kids when we met. She was lovely then, but barely an adult.

Now she’s a woman in the fullest sense of the word. She’s everything a woman should be—soft, yet strong. Slim, yet curvy. Feminine and powerful. So powerful that I can’t tear my eyes off her face. They’re pulled back magnetically to Simone’s eyes, her lips, her skin, her slender neck and her full breasts, her long legs crossed in front of her at the ankle, and her slim hands folded in her lap.