I find it terrifying. To me, it sounds like he’s taunting the sniper. That man is still running around at large. If he was paid to do the job, he probably intends to try again. I don’t like standing out here on the steps, open and unprotected.

I’m relieved when Tata finishes his statement to the press so we can all go inside.

Heritage House doesn’t really look like a house at all—more like a giant renovated barn with cedar-paneled walls, iron chandeliers, string lights, and picture windows looking out onto a garden. It’s rustic and picturesque, much prettier than your average hotel ballroom.

The band isn’t the usual string quartet either. It consists of a blonde girl in a white cotton dress and cowboy boots, with an acoustic guitar strung around her neck, and three men playing an upright bass, a fiddle, and a banjo. Their music isn’t hokey at all—it’s quite lovely. The girl has a low voice that starts raspy, then soars up high, clear as a bell.

Waiters are carrying around trays of champagne and fizzy lemonade with striped straws. I realize that I’ve barely eaten all day. I’m starving. I head over to the buffet, grateful to see there’s real food, not just canapés. I start loading up a plate with grapes, strawberries, and shrimp, while the heavily pregnant woman next to me does the same.

As we reach for a chicken-salad sandwich at the same time, she turns to me and says, “Oh, hello again!”

I stare at her blankly, confused by how familiar she looks. Then I realize we were on the stage together earlier today—only she was seated on the opposite side, so I only caught a glimpse of her for a moment.

“You’re Callum Griffin’s wife,” I say.

The woman laughs—loud and infectious. “You don’t recognize me, Simone? Is it the belly?”

She turns sideways to show me her pregnant tummy in full, glorious profile.

It’s her face I’m staring at—those bright gray eyes, against the tan skin and the wide, white smile.

“Aida!” I gasp.

“That’s right.” She grins.

She was such a skinny, wild, almost feral child. I can’t connect the image I have of her in my mind—skinned knees, tangled hair, filthy boy’s clothes—with the glamorous woman standing in front of me.

“You’re so beautiful!” I say, before I can stop myself.

Aida only laughs harder. She seems to think this is the best joke in the world.

“Bet you didn’t see that coming!” she says. “Nobody thought I’d grow up to be hot when I was running around like Mowgli, terrorizing the neighbor kids. There was a whole summer where I didn’t wear shoes or brush my teeth once.”

I want to hug her. I always liked Aida and Sebastian, and even Nero. Enzo was warm to me, too. They were all kind—more than I deserved.

“I read your interview in Vanity Fair,” Aida says. “I was checking to see if you’d give me a shout-out, but no such luck . . .”

“God, I hate doing those,” I shake my head.

“Top-paid model of the year in 2019,” Aida says. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

I feel myself blushing. I’ve never particularly liked the “fame” part of modeling. Luckily, even top models aren’t nearly as famous as actors or musicians. Or as easy to recognize when we haven’t had the benefit of a hair and makeup team. So I can still get around anonymously most of the time.

“Who’s number one this year?” Aida teases me. “Do you hate her guts?”

“I really don’t pay attention to any of that.” I shake my head. “I mean, I’m grateful for the work, but . . .”

“Oh, come on,” Aida says. “I want the dirty details. Who’s nice and who’s a total shit? Who’s sleeping together that I’d never guess?”

I can’t believe how much Aida’s managed to retain the wild energy she had as a child. She’s so animated and playful. She’s got all the joie de vivre in the world, while I don’t seem to have an ounce of it anymore.

I try to play along, to think of something that might amuse her.

“Well,” I say. “There was this one photographer—”

Before I can go any further, Callum Griffin joins us.

“Sorry we didn’t have a chance to meet properly before,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Yes,” Aida says to him, in a pretend-posh tone. “How very remiss of you not to introduce yourself amidst the gunfire, my love.”

“I see you’ve met my wife,” Callum says. I can tell he’s used to Aida’s teasing.

“We actually go way back,” Aida says.

“You do?” Callum raises one thick, dark eyebrow.

“That’s right. You had no idea that I’m BFFs with the most gorgeous woman in the world, did you?” Aida laughs.

“I’m married to the most gorgeous woman in the world,” Callum says, smiling at her.

“Oh my god!” Aida squeezes his arm through his suit jacket. “What a charmer. No wonder you keep getting elected to things.”

“Thank you for coming to the rally today,” Callum says to me. “It’s a good cause.”

“Yes, thanks, Simone,” Aida says solemnly. “I know most people are pro child trafficking, but not you. You’re firmly against it, and I respect that.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, trying not to laugh. Aida hasn’t changed a bit. She may have grown up to look the part of a politician’s wife, but her blithe heart is just the same.

Glancing at Aida’s belly again, I say, “Congratulations, you two. Do you know what you’re having?”

“A boy,” Callum says proudly. I think he would have been proud either way, but I was with Dante long enough to know what a son means to these dynastic families.

“That’s wonderful! I—” I break off mid-sentence. Without thinking, I was about to say that I had a son as well.

“What is it?” Aida asks. Her keen gray eyes are scanning my face. I remember all too well how intelligent she is, and how perceptive.

“I was just going to say how happy I am for you. I’m sure your . . . whole family must be so excited.”

It’s the first time I’ve mentioned Dante, even obliquely.

Aida is still watching me closely, her head slightly tilted to the side.

“They are,” she says softly. “All of them.”

Knowing Aida’s curiosity, I’m surprised she hasn’t asked me about Dante yet. Her restraint probably isn’t a good sign. It means she knows that things between us are still in an ugly place.

“Oh,” Callum says. “There’s Ree.”

I follow his gaze to see Riona Griffin walking into the room, dressed in a stunning cobalt gown. The dress is modest, with long sleeves, but it hugs her figure to perfection. That rich blue against her creamy skin and vibrant hair is far more eye-catching than any amount of bare flesh could be.

Sure enough, Dante follows a dozen feet behind her. My heart goes flying upward, like a quail startled out of the brush. Just as quickly, an arrow pierces through it when Dante’s stern gaze passes over me like I’m not even there.

I wonder if he and Riona came together. They must have, arriving at the same time.