I wonder if Dante will actually come tonight?

I don’t think he will. He certainly didn’t seem very interested when Tata invited him.

I don’t think he wants to see me again. He didn’t speak to me at all after the shooting. Well—he asked if we were alright. But I think he would have asked that of a complete stranger. It doesn’t mean anything.

He saved my father’s life. I don’t think that meant anything, either. Dante was working security—he was just doing his job.

The redheaded woman was Riona Griffin. She’s the sister of Callum Griffin, the Alderman of the 43rd Ward. Dante must be connected to their family. That’s why he was supervising the event.

They must be dating. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

It’s been nine years. I should have known he’d be taken now. I’m surprised he’s not married already. A man like that, a walking specimen of masculinity . . . he must have women chasing after him everywhere he goes.

I saw it myself, when we were dating. Everywhere we went, women couldn’t help but stare at him.

Every woman wants to know what it’s like to be with a man that big. To be lifted up and thrown down on a bed like you’re feather-light. When you get a look at those hands, twice the size of your own hands . . . you can’t help but think how big the parts of him that you can’t see must be . . .

I already know the answer to that question, and my mind is still racing.

Of course Dante has been with other women since we split.

I’ve had other boyfriends myself. But none of them compared to him.

It’s an awful thing, when the first man you ever sleep with is built like a Greek god. Everybody that comes after seems all too mortal.

I dated photographers, designers, other models. I dated an Israeli banker and a man who owned his own island on the coast of Spain. Some of them were kind, some were witty. But none of them were Dante.

They were just men.

Dante is “the man.” The one who first formed my conception of what a man should be. The one who first made me fall in love. Who took my virginity. And who gave me a son.

The others were barely acquaintances by comparison.

When I’d feel the tiniest flutter for one of those men, I’d ask myself, “Is this love? Could I be falling in love again?”

Then I’d look back through all the pain and misery of those years, to the months when Dante and I were together. They shone as bright as diamond in my mind. As much as I tried to bury them in the mud and dirt of the misery that followed, those memories were still there, as hard and sparkling as ever.

I look at myself in the mirror, wondering what Dante saw when he saw my face again. Did he think I looked different? Older? Sadder?

I was so damn young when we met.

I start making up my face, quickly and fiercely.

I don’t think he’s coming tonight, but if he is, I’m going to look as beautiful as possible. I know he doesn’t want me anymore—he probably hates me. But I won’t be pathetic.

I can hear Mama shouting in the next room. Well, not shouting exactly—but definitely using a more agitated tone than usual. She’s not happy that Tata’s still going to the party tonight.

“Someone just tried to kill you!” she cries. “If that doesn’t justify a night off, then I don’t know what does!”

Henry looks up from his Switch. He’s lying on my bed playing Cuphead.

“Did someone actually try to kill Grandpa?” he asks me.

I know you’re supposed to lie to your kids sometimes. Henry was brought into the world with so much turmoil and secrecy that I didn’t have energy for anymore. From the time he was small, I’ve told him the truth about almost everything.

“Yes,” I say. “Someone shot at him while he was giving his speech.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did the police catch him?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmm,” Henry says, looking back down at his game again.

Kids don’t understand death. They know that adults make a big deal about it. But to them, it’s like a video game. They think they’ll always come back, even if they have to start the level over.

“Is Grandma gonna stay with me again?” Henry asks.

“No,” I say. “She’s coming with us. Carly will be here, though.”

“Can I order room service?”

“Yes. You need to get chicken or salmon—not just fries this time.”

Henry looks up at me, grinning. “Potatoes are a vegetable, you know.”

“I don’t think they are.”

“What are they, then?”

“Uh . . . maybe a root?”

Henry sighs. “They’re spuds, Mom. Spuds.”

I can’t tell if he’s messing with me. Henry has an odd sense of humor, probably from spending too much time with adults and not enough with other kids. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s smarter than me, so I’m not ever fully confident when I’m arguing with him. He’s always coming out with weird things he just read in some book. And when I Google it afterward, he’s usually right.

I run my fingers through his soft curls, kissing the top of his head. He reaches up briefly to give me a kind of half-hug, with his attention still on his game.

“I’ll see you in a couple hours,” I tell him.

I don’t plan to be at the party late. I want to tuck Henry into bed myself when I get back to the hotel.

Mama’s already dressed when I come out to the main room. She doesn’t look very happy.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, giving me a quick hug. “I told your father we should skip the reception . . .”

“It’s at an event center,” I tell her. “Not out in the open.”

“Even so . . .”

“We’re going,” my father says in his imperious way. “You can come along or not, Éloise.”

My mother sighs, her lips thin and pale with stress. “I’m coming,” she says.

We take a cab over to the Heritage House event center. As soon as my father steps out of the car, he’s surrounded by press and the flash of a dozen cameras. Obviously, the news of the shooting got out. People are shouting questions at him from all sides.

“Do you have any idea who’d want to kill you, Mr. Solomon?”

“Was this the first time you’ve suffered an attack?”

“Is this related to your campaign for the Freedom Foundation?”

“Are you still going forward with your coalition?”

“Do you have a statement for the shooter?”

My father draws himself up to his full height, facing the semi-circle of cameras and microphones.

“I do have a statement,” he says. “To the man who shot at me today—you failed. I’m still standing. And even if you had succeeded in killing me, my cause will never die. This is a global coalition, a global movement. Humanity has decided that we will no longer endure the enslavement and abuse of our most vulnerable members. I will never stop fighting for the end of human trafficking, and neither will my allies here in Chicago, and across the world.”

I don’t know if he had that speech prepared, or if he thought it up on the fly. My father always delivers his lines with the precision of a professor and the fire of a preacher. His eyes are blazing, and he looks like a force of nature.