The businessman shakes his head, startled by my wild shouting.

I run all the way outside the hotel and I look up and down the busy city street, wondering if Henry would have come out here. He knows he’s not allowed to wander around by himself, especially not at night. But if he was angry that I didn’t bring him along to see Dante . . .

I hesitate on the corner, next to a white painter’s van.

Is that what happened? Did Henry come downstairs to try to get another look at his father? Did he follow us . . . maybe all the way to the park?

The back of the painter’s van opens up.

I step aside to get out of the way, still dazed and looking in the direction of the park. Wondering if I should run over there, or if I should call Dante instead.

At that moment, a cloth bag drops over my head. It’s so sudden that I don’t understand what’s happening—I rip and pull at the cloth, trying to tear it off my face. Meanwhile, arms close around me, and I’m lifted off my feet. I shriek and struggle but it’s no use. In two seconds, I’ve been tossed in the back of the van.

36

Dante

I’ve never been blindsided like that in my life.

Simone’s confession was a 400 lbs linebacker, flattening me out of nowhere. I feel like I’m lying on the turf, gasping for breath, my whole head exploding.

Never, not for a second, did I think Simone might be pregnant with my child. We only had unprotected sex that one time at the museum. She was a virgin—I didn’t even consider it.

But now that the idea is in my head, so many things are falling into place.

How she got sick those last few weeks we were together. How she seemed increasingly anxious about my job. How she demanded to meet up that night, and her horror when I arrived, bruised and bloodied and reeking of gasoline . . .

She was going to tell me that I was about to be a father. And then I showed up looking like the least fatherly person on the planet. Like the last man you’d ever want around your child.

I understand now.

I understand . . . but I’m not okay with it. Not one fucking bit.

She flew across the Atlantic. She disappeared out of my life without another word. She carried my baby for nine months, gave birth, and then RAISED MY FUCKING SON WITHOUT EVER TELLING ME HE EXISTED!

I’m so angry at her that I can’t even think about it without going into a blackout state.

When Simone ran away from me in the park, I didn’t try to chase her. I knew it was better for her to get away before I said or did something I’d regret.

I wasn’t going to lay a hand on her—I’d never do that.

But if some stranger had walked up to me asking the time, I definitely might have murdered them.

I could never hurt Simone.

Even now, filled with bitterness and fury, I know that to be true.

And I am bitter. I’m as deeply, wretchedly bitter as a whole barrel of quinine. I’m soaking in it, pickling in it.

She stole our baby. She raised him on the other side of the world. I never saw him grow in her belly. I never saw him learn to crawl or walk. I never heard his first words. And most of all, I never got to raise him. Never got to teach him, help him, care for him. Instill in him a sense of his culture, his family, his heritage, from my side.

Instead he was raised by Simone and Yafeu-fucking-Solomon, who I still hate. Yafeu got his revenge on me, and I didn’t even know it. I tried to take his daughter from him, and he stole my son instead.

I stalk back and forth in the park, radiating so much rage that people jump out of my way on the paths.

It’s not enough. I need to vent some other way.

So I stomp back to my car, still pulled up in front of the hotel, and jump into the open convertible. There’s a pile of blankets in the backseat—I’d been planning to take Simone for a drive out to the dunes later. I thought we’d sit on the sand and look at the stars.

What a fucking fool I was.

I roar away from the curb, speeding recklessly down the road. Usually I drive carefully—not today. Nothing but cold wind in my face can dash away the heat burning behind my eyes.

She betrayed me. That’s why I’m so angry. I was willing to accept that Simone left me. I could forgive her for that. All the pain it caused me could be washed away by having her back again.

But this . . . nothing can give me those nine years back with my son.

Fucking hell, I barely looked at him!

He was right there next to me in the hotel room, and I hardly gave him a moment’s thought.

I try to remember now.

I know he was tall, slim. He had curly hair and big, dark eyes. A lot like Seb when he was little, actually.

Picturing his face, I feel the first stab of something other than anger. A fragile flutter of anticipation.

My son was handsome. He had an intelligent expression. He looked strong and capable.

I could meet him now, meet him properly.

That must be why Simone told me about him.

She didn’t have to—I had no idea. She could have kept pretending he was her nephew.

I remember asking her about that at the Heritage House event. She turned red and hesitated before she answered. GODAMNIT! How could I have been so stupid? There must have been a hundred hints of what was going on, nine years ago up until today.

If I would have gone to London, I would have found out. I would have seen Simone pregnant. Instead I stayed in Chicago, sulking.

I thought about chasing after her. Hundreds of times. I even bought a plane ticket once.

But I never went. Because of pride.

I told myself she didn’t want me, and I couldn’t make her change her mind.

I never considered that there might be another reason she left. Something outside the two of us.

Now I feel something else: a jolt of sympathy.

Because I realize how sick and scared she must have been. She was eighteen years old. Barely an adult.

I think of how much I’ve changed since then. I was impulsive, reckless, a poor decision-maker. Can I blame her if she made a bad choice, too?

If it even was a bad choice.

I think of all the stupid things I did over those nine years—all the conflict and bloodshed, all the mistakes I made . . .

Simone raised our son in Europe, away from all of that. He was healthy, happy, and safe.

I’m not glad she did it—I can’t be.

But . . . I understand why.

I picture her standing in the park, shaking with fear of the thing she had to tell me. Why was she so scared? Because she thought I’d hurt her? Because she thought I’d steal her son?

No. If those were the reasons, she wouldn’t have told me at all.

She told me . . . because she loves me. Because she wants me to know Henry after all these years, and for him to know me. And because . . . I think . . . I hope . . . because she wants to be with me. She wants us to be a family, like we always should have been.

I’m driving down the freeway at a hundred miles an hour, barely having to weave through traffic because it’s getting late and there’s not many cars on the road.

I’ve been driving toward the South Shore development without even realizing it. And now I know the reason why—not to see the high rises, or the empty construction equipment my workers have abandoned for the night.

I want to see her face.