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.
I drive up to the billboard right as it flips from the ad for Cola to the one for perfume.
Simone’s face hits me like a slap.
She’s beautiful. Dreamy. And sad. Yes, she’s sad, I know it. Because all those years she longed for me, just like I did for her. We were two halves of a heart, torn apart, bleeding and aching to be stitched back together again.
She loves me. And I love her. I can’t stop loving her.
No matter what she’s done to me, no matter what she might do in the future, I can never stop. I would cut off my hands for this woman. Strip the flesh off my bones for her. I can’t live without her, and I don’t want to try.
Forgiving her isn’t optional. I have to do it. I can’t exist without it.
Because I can’t exist without her. I tried and I tried. It will never work. I’ll get down on my fucking knees and crawl across glass for her.
As soon as I realize this, the anger seeps out of me. My chest is burning, but not with fury.
It’s just love. I fucking love her. I always have and I always will.
I’m parked in front of the billboard. The dark night is silent all around me.
Until someone sits up in my backseat.
I shout and spin around, reaching automatically for the gun under the seat.
Then I see it’s a boy.
My boy.
It’s Henry.
He looks at me nervously, trying to flatten his curls with one hand. He bites his bottom lip, with the unmistakable appearance of a kid who knows he’s in trouble.
He’s wearing flannel pajamas, navy blue with red piping. I can’t stop staring at him.
I must have been fucking blind before. He’s got Simone’s smooth, bronze, luminescent skin. His curls are a little looser and a little lighter. His face is longer, not square like hers.
In fact, it’s just the shape that Seb’s was at that age. He’s got long lashes like Nero had, and Aida. But the actual color of his eyes . . . they’re dark, dark brown. Almost black.
Just like mine.
I’m frozen in place, looking at him. Silent. Totally unable to speak.
“I . . . I hid in the backseat,” he explains, unnecessarily. “Sorry,” he adds, wincing.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
Those are the first words I’ve spoken to my son.
His eyes dart away from me and back again. I can tell he’s as curious to look at me as I am him, but he’s scared.
“It’s alright,” I say again, trying to reassure him. I don’t really know how to talk to a kid. I had younger siblings, but that was different, and it was a long time ago.
“I wanted to meet you,” he says.
“Me too,” I assure him. Then, as gently as I can, I say, “Does your mom know where you are?”
He shakes his head, looking more guilty than ever.
“I snuck out,” he admits.
He’s honest. I’m glad to see that.
“We should call her,” I say.
I hit the number on my phone. It rings several times, then switches over to voicemail. No response from Simone.
She’s still upset over the way I reacted. She must not have noticed that Henry’s missing. She’s probably crying somewhere.
I’m about to text her, but Henry interrupts me.
“How come you never came to visit me?” he says.
I hesitate. I don’t know what Simone told him. I could have discussed this with her, if I’d stayed calm, instead of losing my temper.
“What did your mom say?” I ask Henry.
“She said you were far away.”
“That’s true. I was in the army for a while—did you she tell you that?”
Henry shakes his head.
“I went to Iraq. You know where that is?”
“Yes,” he says. “I like geography. I learned a song about the hundred and ninety-five countries.”
“They eat kebabs in Iraq. You know, meat skewered on a stick. Lamb or beef, sometimes fish or chicken. That was good, better than the barracks food. They had this stew called Qeema, too.”
“I don’t like soup,” Henry says, wrinkling his nose.
“I don’t like soup, either,” I tell him. “But stew, if it’s good and thick, that can be a real meal. I bet you get hungry, a big kid like you.”
“Yeah, all the time.”
“I was that way, too. Always growing. Are you hungry now?”
Henry nods, eyes bright.
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Ice cream.”
I start the car engine again.
“I bet there’s someplace open that serves ice cream . . .”
Right then, my phone starts buzzing next to me. I see Simone’s name, and I pick it up, thinking that she noticed my call, or saw that Henry was missing. I’m planning to tell her that he’s with me, he’s safe.
“Simone—” I start.
A male voice replies instead.
“Dante Gallo.”
It’s a smooth voice. Almost pleasant. Still, it sends a sick electric pulse across my skin.
I know who it is, though I’ve never heard his voice before.
“Christian Du Pont,” I say.
He lets a little hiss of air, halfway between annoyance and a laugh.
“Very good.”
He already knows I’ve figured out his name, because he saw me in his little cabin.
It’s me who’s flooded with a nasty sense of shock.
Du Pont called me on Simone’s phone. That means he has her phone. And he probably has Simone as well.
“Where’s Simone?” I demand.
“Right here with me,” he says, softly.
“Let me talk to her.”
“No . . . I don’t think so . . .” he replies, lazily.
My brain is racing, and so is my heart. I’m trying to stay calm, trying not to antagonize him. My voice is like a steel cable, stretched to the breaking point.
“Don’t you hurt her,” I growl.
Du Pont gives that huffing laugh again, louder this time.
“She’s a true beauty,” he says. “Even more than her pictures. That surprised me.”
I’m gripping the phone so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shatter it in my hand. Henry is watching me, wide-eyed. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but my expression is enough to terrify him.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“That’s an interesting question,” Du Pont says. I can’t see him, but he sounds pensive, like he’s leaning back in a chair, smoking a cigar, or just looking up at the ceiling. “What I actually want is impossible. You can’t bring someone back from the dead, after all. So then I have to look at other options. Other things that might make me feel just a little bit better . . .”
“Simone has nothing to do with this!” I snap.
Du Pont doesn’t respond to my anger. He stays perfectly calm.
“I don’t think that’s true, Dante. You know, when I came here, I had a simple and specific purpose. Revenge. I planned to do it cleanly. Callum Griffin, Mikolaj Wilk, and Marcel Jankowski. Kolya Kristoff deserved to die as well, of course, but Fergus Griffin had already taken care of that. So I intended to work my way down the list and be done with it. But you got in my way.”
“I didn’t even know who you were trying to hit at the rally,” I tell him.
“That’s what’s so interesting about fate, isn’t it, Dante?” Du Pont hisses. “I knew all about you in Iraq, even before I ended up in a unit with your spotter. You were a hero to those boys. To me too, when I first got there. I wanted to meet you. A couple times it almost happened. One night we were both at the al-Taji base, close enough that I could see your back, sitting in front of the fire. But something always intervened to keep us apart. And after a while, I started to think it was better that way. Because I wanted to beat your record. I thought it would be so much more fun if the first time we met, face to face, I could tell you that. Then you went home, and I thought, ‘Perfect. Now I know exactly what number I have to beat.’ ”
I’m in agony listening to this bullshit. I don’t want to hear about this ridiculous military rivalry between us that existed only in his head. I want to know where Simone is right now. I need to hear her voice to know that she’s safe. But I’m clinging to every shred of patience I can muster, so I don’t antagonize this psychopath more than I already have.
“Then they sent me back,” Du Pont says, with an edge of bitterness in his voice. “And I never hit that number.”
I already know he wasn’t “sent back.” He was discharged for being a nut job. But I doubt he’s going to acknowledge that, and I certainly don’t need to bring it up.
“I thought that was the end of our parallel paths,” he sighs. “Until Jack died.”
“You know I didn’t kill him,” I say. Not because I give a fuck what Du Pont thinks about it, but because I don’t want him taking it out on Simone.
“I know exactly what happened!” Du Pont spits. “Though it took me months to get the real story. You all covered your asses, kept your own names out of the papers. Let them write about Jack like he was a fucking criminal like the rest of you. When he WASN’T!”
“He was Callum’s bodyguard,” I say, not asserting one way or another if that likewise made Jack part of the Irish mafia, or only an employee. “They were friends.”
“Friends,” Du Pont sneers. “Do you drive your friends around like a servant? Do you open doors for them? Those Irish fucks treated him like a dog, when our family has ten times the pedigree of theirs.”
There’s no point arguing with him. I know that Cal cared about Jack. He was devastated and guilty for months after Jack’s death. It took him a long time to forgive Miko, even after Mikolaj married Cal’s sister. Callum probably wouldn’t ever have forgiven him, if Mikolaj hadn’t saved Nessa’s life.
But none of those things are going to make Du Pont any less angry at our families. We walked away from that battle with our families intact. Christian didn’t.
“What do you want?” I repeat, trying to get him back on track. I don’t give a shit about his grudge. I only care about Simone.
“It’s not what I want,” Du Pont says, in a calmer tone. “It’s what fate has decreed. It’s brought us together again, Dante. It’s making us face off against each other, just like we did in Iraq.”
Following the musings of a madman is exhausting. I never knew Du Pont in Iraq. But he thinks we had some kind of rivalry. Like Nero guessed, it appears that he wants to reignite it here and now. He wants the showdown he was denied.
“That’s what you want?” I say. “A competition?”
“It seems the most fair way to resolve our conflict,” Du Pont says, dreamily. “Tomorrow morning, at 7:00 am, I’m going to release the beautiful Simone into the wild. I’m going to hunt her like a deer. And I’m going to put a bullet in her heart. I’ve told you the time, and I’ll text you the place. You’ll have your chance to try to stop me. We’ll see whose bullet finds its mark first.”
This is not at all what I thought he was going to say. My hand trembles around the phone. I would give anything to be able to reach through the space between us, to tear out Du Pont’s throat.
“I’m not fucking playing games with you!” I shout. “If you put one fucking finger on her, I’ll eviscerate every last Du Pont on this fucking planet, starting with that old bitch Irene! I’ll track you down and rip your spine out, you—”
He’s already hung up the phone. I’m shouting at nothing.
Actually, I’m shouting at my son, who’s been watching me this whole time with his big, dark eyes, hands clenching the blanket still laying across his lap in the backseat.
I’m shaking with rage, I can’t help it.
That lunatic has Simone. He wants to shoot her right in front of me tomorrow morning.
“Is someone gonna hurt Mom?” Henry whispers.
“No!” I tell him. “No one’s going to hurt her. I’m going to get her and bring her back. I promise you, Henry.”
It’s the first promise I’ve ever made to him.
I’ll keep it, or I’ll die trying.
