Chapter 24: Bloody Heart: Chapter 24

Saturday morning I get up early so I can watch the set-up for the rally. It hasn’t been too bad working with Peterson, the head of the mayor’s security team. He’s former military like me, so there was a shared language in place from the start. We agreed that he’d handle most of the crowd security, while I’d be in charge of exterior threats like explosives, drones, or long-range attacks.

When I arrive at Grant Park, the podium and the perimeter is already in place. The politicians are going to be making their speeches on one end of Hutchinson Field, while the attendees spread out across the lawn. On the west side of the field you’ve got the lakeshore, and on the east, a bank of high-rise buildings. The closest buildings are about 1700 yards away from the podium, so they shouldn’t be an issue. Even so, I’ve got a mirror shield on hand, at the base of the podium.

I’m more concerned with the people on the field. Everybody attending the rally is supposed to come through the metal detectors, but the park is a huge open space. We don’t really have enough guards to be absolutely certain that someone hasn’t snuck in over the barricades with a gun hidden in their jacket.

For that reason, I keep telling the set-up crew to move the crowd barriers back in front of the podium.

“Nobody should be within fifty yards of the stage,” I tell them.

“But it looks weird with such a big gap in front of the podium . . .” Jessica complains. She’s the event coordinator. I can tell she thinks I’m way overdoing it on the security front. Which is probably true—this isn’t my area of expertise. I’m not used to balancing the needs of safety and security against the needs of the press photographers to get a photogenic angle.

“That’s half a football field,” she says. “Come on, I’m sure we can handle a little more intimacy . . .”

“You have the barriers ten yards out,” I tell her. “That’s well within range for even an untrained shooter with a cheap pistol.”

Peterson comes ambling over. He’s a little over six feet tall, with the build of a power-lifter and the beard of a lumberjack.

“What’s going on?” he says.

“Dante wants to move the barriers back,” Jessica says, barely hiding her annoyance. “

“Better do it, then,” Peterson says.

“

?” Jessica hisses.

“Well . . . maybe half that,” Peterson says, cocking an eyebrow at me to see if I’m alright with that compromise.

“Yeah,” I say. “Alright.”

It’s the first of ten or twelve conflicts we have as set-up continues. I make Jessica move the floral arrangements that block egress from the stage, and I tell her that everybody in the meet-and-greet area needs to be screened, even the ones with press passes.

By the time we’re an hour out from the rally, she’s looking teary-eyed and frustrated, like I’ve ruined everything. Maybe I have. I know I’m being paranoid, but Riona asked me to do a job, and I’m going to do it to the best of my abilities.

Callum is the first speaker to arrive. He’s got Aida with him. They’re walking slower than usual, because Aida is about eight months along in her pregnancy. She’s carrying the joint heir of the Gallos and the Griffins—the tie that will bind our families together in perpetuity.

The first half of her pregnancy, she was barely showing. Now she’s in full bloom.

As she walks toward me across the grass, the sun shines down on her head and she looks like a goddess—like Demeter or Aphrodite. Her curly, dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, loose around her shoulders. Her slim figure has filled out and her expression is happy in a way I’ve never seen before. Not amused or mischievous . . . just genuinely joyful. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks are full of color, her skin and hair look healthy and vibrant.

She’s the first of my siblings to have children. Looking at her, I feel so proud and happy for her.

But also, it gives me a little pain. I see Callum at her side, carefully holding her elbow so she can walk over the uneven ground safely in her high heels. He’s helping her, protecting her, hovering around her more than ever. He’s about to become a father, and I can tell that means much more to him than this rally, or anything else in the world.

I envy him.

I don’t care about anything as much as he cares about my sister and their child.

“You look beautiful,” I tell Aida, kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh god,” she laughs. “You know you must be the size of a walrus if your brother starts giving you compliments to cheer you up.”

“Have you been sick?” I ask her.

“No,” Callum says, giving her a stern look. “She’s just got swollen feet because she’s working too much.”

“It’s fine,” Aida says, winking at him, “You can rub them for me later.”

“Did you pick a name yet?” I ask her.

“I was thinking we could name him after Cal’s great-grandfather,” she says, grinning. “Don’t you think Ruaidhri just rolls off the tongue?”

“Absolutely not,” Cal says.

“It means ‘great king.’ ”

“You can’t be a king if nobody can pronounce your name,” Cal says. “Didn’t you have a grandpa named ‘Clemente?’ ”

“That sounds like a Pope,” Aida says, making a face.

“I think you’re supposed to name babies after objects now,” I tell her. “Apple, and Blue, and Fox, and stuff like that.”

“Oh, perfect!” Aida says cheerfully. “I’ll name him after where he was conceived. Sweet little Elevator Gallo . . .”

“I think you mean Elevator Griffin,” Cal corrects her.

“Elevator Griffin-Gallo,” Aida says. “Very presidential.”

“You’re going to be sitting up there, by the way,” I tell her, pointing to the left side of the stage.

“Oooh, folding chairs!”

“Only the best for my sister.”

“You can wait over there if you want,” I tell them, nodding toward the trailer stocked with snacks and drinks. “They’re going to start letting people onto the field in a minute.”

Aida squeezes my arm. “Thanks for babysitting us all today,” she says.

As she heads over to the trailer, Cal hangs back to talk to me for a minute.

“I don’t think there’s going to be any problem,” he says. “Anti-trafficking is maybe the one bipartisan issue we have left. Riona was just being paranoid.”

“You’re going to speak right after the mayor?” I ask him.

“Yeah. We’ve gotten pretty close the last couple months. He’s going to endorse me when I run for his position.”

“So he’s passing the torch.”

“Basically.”

“How much is that going to cost us?” I say in a low tone.

Cal snorts. “About Five hundred K. Paid via ‘speaking fees’ at future events.”

It’s crucial that Cal becomes mayor, so we can get the rest of our South Shore development approved.

“And Yafeu Solomon gets up right after you?” I say.

“That’s right.” Callum gives me a careful look. “Aida said there was some kind of history between your families.”

“I met him once,” I say stiffly. “There’s no connection between us.”

“Okay,” Cal says.

I can’t tell from his expression if Aida told him the whole story or not. But it’s clear from that I don’t want to talk about it. So Cal doesn’t push it. He just claps me on the shoulder and says, “See you in a bit.”

The rest of the hour passes in a blur of activity—getting the attendees situated on the open lawn, walking the perimeter once more, checking in with the far-flung members of the security team via our ear-pieces, and so forth. Peterson wrangles the speakers, organizing their positions on the stage so I don’t have to talk to Yafeu. I haven’t even seen him yet, since he was the last to arrive, while I was over on the south end of the lawn, dealing with the officers on loan from the Chicago PD.

Finally, music starts pouring from the speakers, as the organizers build the energy of the crowd. They’re playing “Start Me Up” by The Rolling Stones. I don’t know where they get their playlists, but the conjunction of rock stars and stodgy politicians has always seemed odd to me.

I guess there’s nothing stodgy about Cal. He looks tall, fit, handsome, and powerful as he strides across the stage, waving to the crowd. When I first met him, I thought he seemed intelligent, but he had this arrogance and intensity that was off-putting. With those laser-focused blue eyes, he looked like the T-1000 Terminator.

Aida has brought out a better side of him. Given him a little humor and charm. I don’t doubt he’ll become mayor, or whatever he sets his sights on after that.

I’d fucking hate it. The older I get, the less I like talking to people at all.

Still, it’s interesting to see how the crowd responds to him, screaming and cheering as soon as he sets foot on stage. A whole lot of them seem to know Aida, too—they roar when she blows a kiss to the crowd. Seb told me the pair of them have some Instagram account that’s gotten popular. I really am old—I don’t even have Facebook, let alone Instagram.

The mayor follows them out onto stage a minute later. He’s not a tall man, but he has presence. He’s got white hair, bald on top and too long on the sides, rimless glasses perched on a beak of a nose, and a big smile full of crooked teeth. Even though he’s only 5’7, his impressive belly helps give him a sense of dignity. He waves to the crowd with both hands, his pudgy fingers reminding me of cartoon gloves.

Mayor Williams is as crooked as they come, but in a genial kind of way. He’s always been willing to do business with the Irish and Italian mafia families, or anyone else who wants to keep the city running with bribes, favors, and exchanges.

Having him in place has been a good thing. Having Cal as mayor would be even better. What we don’t want is some crusader or the head of a rival family.

As I’m thinking who might run against Cal, Yafeu Solomon climbs the steps to the stage. I look up at him from my position in front of the barricades.

He looks almost exactly the same as when I saw him last—tall, slim, wearing a well-tailored dark suit. His face is just as regal as ever, with no new lines that I can see. Only the little threads of silver in his black hair show that any time has passed at all.

He’s not looking down at me. He’s gazing out over the large crowd with a satisfied expression on his face. It’s an excellent turn out—a credit to his cause.

For a moment I assume the woman walking behind him is his wife. Then he steps to the side of her and I see her face in full. And I realize it’s Simone.

I’m frozen in place, staring up at her.

I’d prepared myself to see her father. I never imagined for a second that Simone would be with him.

I’ve tortured myself with glimpses of her in Ibiza, Paris, London, Miami . . . shots taken by paparazzi, or on red carpets. As far as I know, she’s never come back to Chicago. I never thought she would.

Now she’s standing thirty feet away from me. If she were to look down, she’d see me. But she isn’t looking at the crowd at all. She’s taken her seat at the very corner of the stage and she’s staring down at her hands, obviously not liking the attention.

I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t take my eyes off her.

The mayor is getting up to make the first speech. I’m supposed to be scanning the crowd, checking in with the guards, making sure he’s protected from all angles.

I’m doing none of it. I’m riveted by the sight of Simone.

Fucking hell, she’s twice as beautiful as before. She’s got to be the only supermodel in the world where her photos don’t do her justice.

We were just kids when we met. She was lovely then, but barely an adult.

Now she’s a woman in the fullest sense of the word. She’s everything a woman should be—soft, yet strong. Slim, yet curvy. Feminine and powerful. So powerful that I can’t tear my eyes off her face. They’re pulled back magnetically to Simone’s eyes, her lips, her skin, her slender neck and her full breasts, her long legs crossed in front of her at the ankle, and her slim hands folded in her lap.

There’s a new depth of emotion in her expression. Like her eyes contain an entire novel, if I only knew how to read them.

The mayor has given his whole speech and I haven’t looked away from her once. She hasn’t raised her eyes to look at me.

I can’t believe we’re this close and she doesn’t even feel it.

My desire for her has come roaring back, like a forest fire hit by wind.

I told myself that if I ever saw her again, I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t let myself feel what I felt before.

Well, now it’s happening, and I realize I don’t have a shred of control. I can’t stop myself from wanting to jump up on that stage, pick her up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her away. I want to tear that sundress off of her and bury my face between those breasts . . . I want to take her back the one way I know how . . . by taking possession of her body again.

I want that, and I can’t stop myself from wanting it.

I can barely stop myself from doing it.

I have to grit my teeth hard and clench my fists at my sides.

That’s what I’m doing when Cal stands up to speak. Simone watches him cross the stage. Finally, her eyes pass over me.

I can tell the moment she spots me. She goes rigid in her chair, her expression changing from mild interest to absolute shock.

She’s looking right at me, our eyes locked.

And I can feel myself glaring back at her, my jaw clenched and my whole body stiff with the struggle not to run up on that stage. I know I probably look cold and angry. But I don’t know how else to look. I can’t smile at her, that would be absurd.

I don’t know what to do. And that frustrates me more. I hate that I’m here in this moment, without warning or preparation, forced to look at this woman I loved for so long. I hate this. I hate that I can’t read her expression. She looks upset—that much I can tell. But is it because she’s afraid? Because she doesn’t want to see me? There’s no way to know.

Cal is getting a great response from the crowd. I can hear them cheering after almost every line.

The roar of the crowd is right behind me, but it seems distant and muted. Simone’s face seems to fill my whole view.

It’s like the billboard all over again. But this time, she’s so close I could actually touch her . . .

I wrench my eyes away and try to focus on my actual job. I’m supposed to be making sure nobody’s about to take a pop at Cal. He looks invincible up there behind the podium—just getting into the swing of his speech.

I scan the crowd like I’m supposed to be doing, even though I know my brain isn’t filing information in the usual way. I should be looking for people whose expressions don’t match the rest of the crowd. Whose movements don’t line up. People reaching into their jackets, people who look antsy, like they’re trying to psych themselves up.

Riona said that Solomon had been getting death threats, but the vast majority of threats mean nothing. Even the crazies who try to take action barely ever succeed. The last assassination of a politician on American soil was the mayor of Kirkwood Missouri, way back in 2008.

So I don’t actually think anything is going to happen today. But I’ve got to keep a lookout anyway. I promised Riona. I can’t get distracted just because the woman who ripped my heart out happens to have appeared in front of me.

Cal is winding down. Yafeu Solomon will be getting up next.

I take another sweep of the crowd, then I look at the stage where Cal stands tall behind the podium. I see a banner of flags across the top of the stage. The arrangement is odd—they’re not hung level with each other. In fact, a couple of the flags are hung in a diagonal line, leading directly down to the podium.

From an aesthetic standpoint, it looks strange. I wonder if Jessica had to move them, after I made her change the floral arrangements.

I see the flags kick up just a little with a change in wind. It’s a still day, but the flags are light enough that they show the direction of even the tiniest breath of air.

In fact, they almost look like they were arranged to do exactly that . . .

Cal introduces Yafeu Solomon. Solomon strides forward, joining Cal at the podium and shaking his hand.

“Good afternoon, brothers and sisters,” he says, in his deep, calm voice. “I am so grateful to you all for coming out in support of our cause today. I don’t think there is a greater tragedy taking place in the world today, spread out across the globe, affecting the people of every nation.

“Human trafficking is a crime against all people. It is a crime against humanity. All of us are born free—it is the most crucial characteristic of humans, that none of us should be a slave or a tool to another person. We must all be free to seek our happiness in this life.

“This monstrous scourge takes many forms—forced labor, sexual slavery, arranged marriages, and child trafficking. We must form coalitions with groups like the United Nations and . . .”

I’m not listening to Solomon. I’m trying to follow the line of the flags, to see why they’ve been arranged in this way. What line of sight they’d provide to someone in the right position.

The high rises on the opposite side of the field are far away. A mile off. I didn’t consider them a threat, because only a tiny minority of snipers could make that shot.

At that distance, you’re looking at a five or six-second flight time for the bullet. You’d have to account for temperature, humidity, elevation, wind, and the spindrift of the bullet. Even the rotation of the earth becomes a factor. The mathematical calculations are convoluted—and some have to be done on the fly, if there’s a change in wind or angle, or if the target moves.

Snipers take headshots, in case the target is wearing a vest.

They don’t shoot the moment the speech begins. They wait for the speaker to go into full flow, when they’ve found their position and they’re not shifting around as much.

Yafeu Solomon is ninety seconds into his speech. If someone is about to shoot him, it will happen very soon.

I’m staring across the road at the high rises, looking for motion at any of the windows. A curtain moving, a face peering out.

Instead I see a momentary flash. It’s there and gone in a quarter-second. Light reflecting off glass or metal.

I don’t stop to think. I sprint toward the stage as fast as I can.

At first, Solomon doesn’t notice. I’m almost right below the podium when he breaks off his sentence. I don’t know if he recognizes me. He’s just staring, frozen.

Grabbing the mirror shield in both hands, I lift it up and angle it toward the sun, shouting, “GET DOWN!”

I point the mirror toward the high-rise.

The sun glances off the broad, flat surface and beams back at the building. If there’s someone in the window, it will send a blazing glare right at them. So bright it will blind them.

I don’t hear the shot. I just see the bullet embed itself in the stage.

Solomon barely had time to flinch, let alone duck down behind the podium. He stares at the bullet-hole, too shocked to move.

It’s Simone who grabs him from behind and drags him away. Cal has already seized Aida and pulled her off the stage. The crowd is screaming, stampeding toward the far side of the field.

I keep angling the mirror toward the high rise, knowing that any second another bullet might come spinning down toward my skull.

But a second shot never comes. The sniper knows he’s fucked—he missed his mark, and now he’s got to get out of his perch before the cops storm the building.

I throw down the mirror and run around the side of the stage, looking for Simone.

I find her crouched down with her father, both of them looking wildly around as the security team and the Chicago PD close a circle around us.

“Who was that?” Simone cries, eyes wide.

“Who knows,” Solomon says, shaking his head.

When I look at his face, I’m not sure I believe him.