“I don’t think I know the Gallos . . .” she says. “Are you members at the North Shore Country Club?”

“No!” I say, matching her voice in pitch in phoniness. “Should we join? I fear my tennis game has been suffering ever so much lately . . .”

She stares at me like she has a slight suspicion I’m making fun of her but doesn’t believe that could possibly be true.

Callum’s hand tightens painfully around my waist. It’s hard not to wince.

“Aida loves tennis,” he says. “She’s so athletic.”

Christina smiles uncertainly.

“So do I,” she says. Then, turning back to Callum, “You remember when we played together in Florence? You were my favorite doubles partner of that trip.”

It’s funny. I could give two shits if Christina Cuntley-Hart wants to flirt with Callum. They might have fucked last week, for all I know. But I find it pretty fucking disrespectful that she’s doing it right in front of my face.

I look over at poor Geoffrey Hart to see what he thinks about it. He hasn’t spoken one word so far. He’s got his eye on the television over the bar, which is playing highlights from the Cubs game. He’s holding Christina’s purse in both hands, with an expression on his face like this month of marriage has been the longest thirty days of his life.

“Hey, Geoff,” I say to him, “did they let you play, too, or did you just carry the rackets?”

Geoffrey raises an eyebrow and gives a little snort. “I wasn’t on that particular trip.”

“Hm,” I say. “Too bad. You missed seeing Cal score with Christina.”

Now Christina is definitely pissed. She narrows her eyes at me, nostrils flared.

“Well,” she says flatly. “Congratulations again. Looks like you’ve got quite the catch, Cal.”

As soon as she sweeps away with Geoffrey in her wake, Callum lets go of my waist and seizes my arm instead, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls at me.

“Are those your actual friends?” I ask him. “She should have just gotten one of those little dogs for her purse. Geoff is an awkward accessory . . .”

“Grow up,” Callum says, shaking his head in disgust. “The Huntleys organized a massive fundraiser for me last year. I’ve known Christina since grade school.”

“Known her?” I say. “Or fucked her? Because if you haven’t done it yet, you’d better get to it, before she starts humping your leg in public.”

“Oh my god,” Callum says, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe this. I’m marrying a child. And not a normal child—a demon hellspawn, like Chucky, or the Children of the Corn . . .”

I try to jerk my arm away from him, but his grip is harder than steel. I’m going to have to really make a scene to get loose, and I’m not quite ready to blow this thing up just yet.

So instead, I signal to the nearest waiter and take a glass of champagne off his tray. Then I take a sip and say to Callum, quietly and calmly, “If you don’t let go of me, I’m going to throw this drink in your face.”

He releases me, his face paler than ever from anger.

But he leans right into my face and says, “You think you’re the only one who can fuck with my plans? Don’t forget that you’re going to be moving into my house. I can make your life a living nightmare from the moment you wake up in the morning until I allow you to lay your head down again at night. I really don’t think you want to start a war with me.”

My hand is itching to fling that champagne right in his face, to show him exactly what I think of that.

But I manage to restrain myself. Just barely.

I content myself with smiling up at him and saying, “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.”

Callum stares at me blankly.

“What . . . what the fuck are you talking about? Does that mean you’re going to try to make the best of this mess?”

“Sure,” I say. “What else can I do?”

Actually, it’s a quote from The Art of War. Here’s another one I like:

“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”

8

Callum

After that first bit of brattiness, Aida calms down and starts to behave herself. Or at least, she does her best. She puts on a smile and chats with reasonable civility to the stream of guests who come up to congratulate us.

It’s pretty fucking awkward explaining to friends and family that I’m about to marry this girl they’ve never even heard of, let alone met. Again and I again I tell them, “We kept things private. It was romantic, keeping it between the two of us. But now we can’t wait anymore; we want to get married.”

I see more than a few people glance down at Aida’s stomach to see if there’s a particular reason we’re in such a rush.

Aida puts those rumors to rest by drinking her weight in champagne.

As she reaches for another glass, I snatch it out of her hand and slug it down myself instead.

“You’ve had enough,” I tell her.

“I decide when I’ve had enough,” she says stubbornly. “It takes more than a little glorified ginger ale to get me drunk.”

But I can tell she’s already less steady on her high heels, and she was none too steady to begin with.

I’m relieved that she wore a dress, though the one she picked looks cheap and overly bright. What’s wrong with these people? Don’t they have the money to buy decent clothes? Her brothers look like complete thugs. One’s wearing a fucking t-shirt and jeans, the other’s kitted up like James Dean. Dante is skulking around the room like he expects a bomb to go off any minute, and Nero’s chatting up the bartender like he’s planning to take her upstairs. Maybe he will, that sleazy shit. I’m pretty sure he fucked Nora Albright in my house.

At least Enzo Gallo is properly attired for the occasion, and properly mannered. He seems to know almost as many people here as I do. Not the new-money socialites, but anybody deeply connected to old Chicago. I can see them shaking his hand with respect. Maybe my father wasn’t entirely wrong about the benefits of this alliance.

My parents come over to check in on us, with Madeline Breck alongside them. Madeline is almost seventy years old, black, with close-cropped gray hair, a plain suit, and sensible shoes. She’s got a calm and intelligent face. If you were stupid, you might think she’s a friendly grandmother type. In actuality, she’s one of the most powerful people in Chicago.

As President of the Cook County Commissioner’s Board, she controls the purse strings of massive publicly-funded projects from parks to infrastructure. She also has an iron-clad grip on the liberal democrats of Chicago. Without ever appearing to stick her finger in the pie, she manages to get whoever she wants appointed to key positions like city treasurer or state’s attorney.

She is shrewd and subtle, and not at all someone I want to get on my bad side. So I’m almost sick at the thought of Aida saying something obnoxious in front of her.

As she approaches, I hiss to Aida, “Behave yourself. That’s Madeline—”