The Butcher gives a stiff nod, which could mean anything, and turns and walks away. I’m relieved to see that he seems to be leaving the party, without making a scene.

I look back at Aida.

“You handled that really well,” I tell her.

“Yeah, shocking, I know,” she says, tossing her head. “You know I grew up with these people. I sat under the table while my father negotiated deals with the Polish, the Ukrainians, the Germans, the Armenians, when I was just four years old. I’m not always running around nicking watches.”

“He’s got some balls marching in here,” I say, scowling in the direction of the doorway where Zajac just disappeared.

“He certainly does,” Aida says. She’s frowning, twisting the ring on her finger while she’s lost in thought.

My mother picked out that ring and mailed it to Aida. Looking at it on her hand, I realize it doesn’t really suit her. Aida would have picked something more comfortable and casual. Maybe I should have let her choose her own or taken her to Tiffany’s. That would have been easy to do.

I was so angry with her after the circumstances of our first meeting that I never really considered what she might prefer. What might make her more comfortable with this arrangement or moving into my house.

I want to ask her what else she knows about Zajac. What deals he’s done with Enzo. But I’m interrupted by my father, who wants to hear what Zajac said. Before I can include Aida in the conversation, she slips away.

My father is going on and on, grilling me about the Butcher, wanting a word-for-word accounting of everybody else I talked to tonight, and what they said.

Usually I’d go through it with him point by point. But I can’t help sneaking glances over his shoulder, trying to see where Aida is in the room. What she’s doing. Whom she’s talking to.

I finally catch sight of her out on the deck, talking with Alan Mitts, the treasurer. He’s a crusty old bastard. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile once in all the times I’ve spoken to him. Yet, with Aida, he’s lost in some anecdote, waving his hands around, and Aida is laughing and egging him on. When she laughs, she throws back her head and her eyes close and her shoulders shake, and there’s nothing polite about it. She’s just happy.

I want to hear what’s making her laugh so hard.

“Are you listening to me?” my father says sharply.

I whip my head back around.

“What? Yes. I’m listening.”

“What are you looking at?” he says, squinting his eyes in the direction of the deck.

“Mitts. I have to talk to him next.”

“Looks like he’s already talking to Aida,” my father says in his most inscrutable tone.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“How has she been performing?”

“Good. Surprisingly well,” I reply.

My father looks her over, giving a nod of approval. “She certainly looks better. Though the dress is too revealing.”

I knew he would say that. There were more conservative options in the pile of dresses Marta brought for my approval, but I chose this one. Because I knew it would hug Aida’s curves like it was made for her.

My father is still blathering on, despite my efforts to wrap up the conversation.

“The mayor has kicked down thirty thousand dollars to your campaign, and endorsed you, but he did the same to twenty-five other council allies, so I don’t think his statement is as strong as—”

Oliver Castle has reappeared, buoyed by liquid courage. I can tell he’s half-drunk by the flush in his sunburned face and the way he roughly cuts in between Aida and Mitts. Aida tries to shake him off, heading to the opposite side of the deck, but Castle follows her over, trying to get her to talk to him.

“So, I think it will be most efficient and most effective if we—”

“Hold that thought, Dad,” I tell him.

I set my drink down, heading outside through the wide-open sliding doors. This part of the venue is only dimly lit by the lanterns overhead, the music quieter and the seating more private. Oliver is trying to pull Aida into the darkest and most distant corner, hidden behind a screen of potted Japanese maples.

I intended to interrupt them immediately, but as I draw closer, I hear Oliver’s low, urgent voice pleading with Aida. My curiosity is piqued. I creep up at an angle, wanting to hear what they’re talking about.

“I know you miss me, Aida. I know you think about me, just like I think about you . . .”

“I really don’t,” she says.

“We had good times together. Remember the night we all built that bonfire on the beach, and you and I walked out on the dunes, and you had that white bikini on, and I took the top off with my teeth . . .”

I’m standing in place, filled with hot, molten jealousy churning around in my guts. I want to interrupt them, but I also have this sick curiosity. I want to know exactly what went on between Oliver and Aida. He was obviously infatuated with her. But did she feel the same? Did she love him?

“Sure, I remember that weekend,” she says lazily. “You got drunk and crashed your car on Cermak Road. And almost broke your hand getting in a fight with Joshua Dean. Good times all right.”

“That was your fault,” Oliver growls, trying to pin her against the deck railing. “You drive me out of my mind, Aida. You make me crazy. I only did all that shit after you left me at the Oriole.”

“Yeah?” she says, looking down at the city streets below the patio. “Do you remember why I left you there, though?”

Oliver hesitates. I can tell he does remember, but he doesn’t want to say it.

“We bumped into your uncle. And he asked who I was. And you said, ‘Just a friend.’ Because you liked being a rebel, dating Enzo Gallo’s daughter. But you didn’t want to risk your trust fund or your spot at Daddy’s company. You didn’t have the balls to admit what you actually wanted.”

“I made a mistake.”

Oliver’s voice is low and urgent, and I can see he keeps trying to take Aida’s hand, but she moves it out of his reach.

“Aida, I learned my lesson, I promise you. I’ve missed you so much that I could have thrown myself off the roof of Keystone Capital a hundred times. I sit in that office and I’m fucking miserable. I’ve got that picture of us on my desk, the one on the Ferris wheel where you’re laughing and hanging onto my arm. That was the best day of my life, Aida. If you give me another chance, I’ll prove what you mean to me. I’ll put a ring on your finger and show you off to the world.”

“I already have a ring on my finger,” Aida says dully, holding up her hand to show it to him. “I got married, remember?”

“That marriage was horseshit. I know you only did that to hurt me. You don’t care about Callum fucking Griffin, he’s everything you hate! You can’t stand people who are stuck up and phony and show off their money. How long did you even date him? I can tell you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” Aida says. She doesn’t sound very convincing.

I know I should interrupt the two of them, but I’m riveted in place. Furious at the balls on Oliver Castle, trying to seduce my wife at my own fucking fundraiser, but also perversely curious to hear how Aida will respond.