by Sophie Lark
I don’t give a shit about any of that. I’m powered by ambition alone. I want control. Wealth. Influence. I want to be untouchable.
But that means the physical act of campaigning can be exhausting.
So as I’m walking back down to the hallway, instead of heading to the stairs as I intended, I turn into the library.
This is one of my favorite rooms in the house. Barely anyone comes in here, except for me. It’s quiet. The smell of paper and leather and birch logs is soothing. My mother keeps the fire going in the evenings for my benefit. The rest of the house is so heavily air-conditioned that it’s never too hot to have a small fire in the grate.
Over the mantel is the painting of my great great-great-grandmother, Catriona. She came to Chicago in the middle of the potato famine, like so many other Irish immigrants. Just fifteen years old, crossing the ocean alone with three books in her suitcase and two dollars in her boot. She worked as a housemaid for a wealthy man in Irving Park. When he died, he left her the house and nearly three thousand dollars in cash and bonds. Some people said they must have secretly had a relationship. Other people said she poisoned him and forged the will. Whatever the truth, she turned the house into a saloon.
She was the first Griffin in America. My parents like to say we’re descended from the Irish princes of the same name, but I prefer the truth. We epitomize the American dream: a family rising from house servant to the Mayor of Chicago. Or so I hope.
I sit quietly for a minute, sipping my drink, then I start scrolling through my emails. I can never be idle for long.
I think I hear a sound, and I pause for a moment, thinking it must be one of the staff out in the hall. When I don’t hear anything else, I return to my phone.
Then, two things happen at the same time:
First, I smell something that makes the hair rise up on the back of my neck. Smoke, but not the clean smoke from the fire. A harsh, chemical burning smell.
At the same time, I hear a sound like a sudden intake of breath, but ten times louder. Then there’s a flash of heat and light as the curtains ignite.
I jump up out of my chair, shouting god knows what.
I like to think that I know how to keep my head in an emergency, but for a moment I’m confused and panicking, wondering what the hell is happening, and what I should do about it.
Then, rationality asserts itself.
The curtains are on fire, probably from a spark tossed out of the grate.
I have to get a fire extinguisher before the whole house burns down.
That makes sense.
Until some person leaps up from behind a chair and darts past me out of the office.
That startles me even more than the fire.
Realizing I wasn’t alone in the library is a rude shock. I’m so surprised that I don’t even get a good look at the intruder. All I register is that they’re medium height, with dark hair.
Then my attention is dragged back to the rapidly multiplying flames. They’re already spreading across the ceiling and the carpet. In minutes, the whole library will be ablaze.
I sprint down the hallway to the linen closet, where I know we keep a fire extinguisher. Then, dashing back to the library, I pull the pin and spray the whole side of the room with foam until every last ember is extinguished.
When I’m finished, the fireplace, the chairs, and Catriona’s portrait are all doused in white chemical foam. My mother’s going to be fucking furious.
Which reminds me, there was someone else involved in this debacle. I dash back to the head of the staircase, just in time to see three people making their escape: a blonde girl who looks a hell of a lot like Nora Albright. A brunette I don’t know. And Nero fucking Gallo.
I knew it. I knew the Gallos had snuck in.
The question is why?
The rivalry between our two families goes back almost all the way to Catriona. During Prohibition, our great-grandfathers battled for control of the illegal distilleries in the north end. It was Conor Griffin who won out, and that money has been fueling our family ever since.
But the Italians never go down easy. For every shipment of booze Conor cooked up, Salvator Gallo was waiting to hijack his trucks, steal the liquor, and try to sell it back to him at double the price.
Later, the Griffins took control of gambling at the Garden City racetrack, while the Gallos ran an illegal numbers game inside the city. When liquor was legal again, our families ran rival pubs, nightclubs, strip joints, and brothels. While continuing to supply less-legal party drugs, guns, and stolen goods.
Nowadays, the Gallos have moved into the construction industry. They’ve done pretty well for themselves. But unfortunately, our interests always seem in conflict with theirs. Like right now. They’re backing Bobby La Spata for my Alderman seat. Maybe because they like him. Maybe because they just want to stick their thumb in my eye one more time.
Did they come here tonight to talk to some of the swing vote guests?
I’d like to get my hands on one of them to ask. But by the time I track down the security we’ve hired for the night, the Gallos are long gone, including the tall kid.
God DAMN it.
I head back to the library to reassess the damage. It’s a fucking mess—a smoking, stinking, soggy mess. They destroyed my favorite part of the house.
And why were they even in here, anyway?
I start looking around, trying to figure out what they were after.
There’s nothing of significance in the library—any valuable papers or records would be in my father’s office, or mine. Cash and jewelry are stored in the various safes scattered through the house.
So what was it?
That’s when my eye falls on the mantle, spattered with decelerant foam.
I see the carriage clock and the hourglass.
But my grandfather’s pocket watch is missing.
I hunt around on the ground and even in embers of the birch logs, in case it fell inside the grate somehow.
Nothing. It’s nowhere to be found.
Those fucking wops stole it.
I storm back downstairs where the party is just getting going again after the interruption of the fire alarm. I see Nessa giggling with some of her friends. I could ask her if she invited Sebastian Gallo, but there’s no way she’d be clueless enough to do that. Plus, she looks so happy despite the commotion—I don’t want to interrupt her.
I don’t extend the same courtesy to the rest of her friends. Catching sight of Sienna Porter, I seize her by the arm and pull her a little way off from Nessa.
Sienna is a skinny little redhead from Nessa’s college. I’ve caught her sneaking looks at me a time or two before. More importantly, I’m pretty sure she was one of the girls talking to Sebastian earlier in the night.
Sienna doesn’t protest me hauling her away— she just blushes tomato red and says, “H—hi Callum.”
“Were you talking to Sebastian Gallo earlier?” I ask her.
“Uh, well, he was talking to me. I mean, to all of us. Not to me specifically.”
“About what?”
“About March Madness, mostly. You know his team played in the first round—”
I shake my head, cutting her off.
“Do you know who invited him tonight?”
“N—no,” she stammers, eyes wide. “But if you want, I could ask him . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s meeting us at Dave and Buster’s later.”
“What time?” I say, squeezing her arm a little too hard.
“Uh, ten o’clock, I think?” she says, wincing.
Bingo.
I let go of her. She rubs her arm with her opposite hand.
“Thanks, Sienna,” I say.
“No problem,” she says, totally confused.
I pull out my phone and call Jack Du Pont. We’ve been friends since college, and he works as my bodyguard and enforcer when I need one. Since we hired a whole security team for the party, he d
idn’t come over tonight. But they’ve proven themselves to be pretty fucking useless. So it’s Jack I want now.
He picks up after one ring.
“Heya boss,” he says.
“Come pick me up,” I tell him. “Right now.”
3
Aida
We pile into Nero’s car, roaring away from the Griffins’ house as quickly as we can without running over any partygoers. Nero and I are whooping, Dante is glowering, and Sebastian looks mildly curious.
“What the fuck did you do?” Dante demands.
“Nothing!” I say.
“Then why are we running like we’re about to have ten cops on our tail?”
“We’re not,” I say. “I just got busted in the house. By Callum Griffin.”
“What did he say?” Dante asks suspiciously.
“Nothing. We didn’t even speak.”
Dante stares between Nero and me, thick eyebrows so far contracted that they look like one straight line hanging low over his eyes. Nero is trying to seem nonchalant, keeping his eyes on the road. Sebastian looks completely innocent because he is innocent—he was just drinking a Diet Coke with some redhead when we grabbed him.
I think Dante’s going to drop it.
Then he lunges forward and grabs a handful of my hair, pulling it toward him. Because my hair is attached to my head, this yanks me forward across the seats.
Dante inhales, then shoves me back, disgusted.
“Why do you smell like smoke?” he demands.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying. I heard an alarm go off in the house. Tell me the truth right now, or I’m calling Dad.”
I scowl right back at him, wishing I were as big as Dante, with gorilla arms that look like they could tear you to pieces. Then I’d be a lot more intimidating.
“Fine,” I say at last. “I was in the library upstairs. A small fire started—”
“A SMALL FIRE?”
“Yes. Quit shouting or I won’t tell you anything else.”
“How did this fire start?”
I squirm in my seat.
“I might have . . . accidentally . . . let the curtains get a little bit in the fireplace.”
“Porca miseria, Aida,” Dante swears. “We just went there to drink their liquor and watch their fireworks, not burn their fucking house down!”
“It’s not going to burn down,” I say, without being entirely confident in my statement. “I told you, Callum was right there.”
“That’s not better!” Dante explodes. “Now he knows you did it!”
“He might not. He might not even know who I am.”
“I doubt that very much. He’s not as stupid as the rest of you are.”
“Why am I included in this?” Sebastian says.
“Because you’re stupid,” Dante replies. “Even if you didn’t do anything tonight, specifically.”
Sebastian laughs. It’s impossible to offend him.
“Where were you?” Dante says, rounding on Nero.
“I was on the main level,” Nero says calmly. “With Nora Albright. Her father owns the Fairmont in Millennium Park. He called me a greasy little criminal once. So I fucked his daughter in the Griffins’ formal dining room. Sort of killed two birds with one stone, in terms of revenge.”
Dante is shaking his head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe you guys. You’re acting like children. I never should have let you go over there.”
“Oh, get off it,” Nero says. He’s not one to take Dante’s shit, even if it means coming to blows. “Since when are you a good boy? You hate those paddy fucks as much as we do. Who cares if we ruined their party?”
“You’re gonna care if Callum Griffin gets that Alderman seat. He’s gonna tie us up in red tape and shut down every one of our projects. He’ll bury us.”
“Yeah?” Nero says, dark eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll go pay him a visit with a cattle prod and a pair of pliers. Go to work on him until he’s more cooperative. I’m not scared of the Griffins or anybody else.”
Dante just shakes his head, too irritated to even try to reason with us.
I’m torn. On the one hand, Dante’s right that we were all a bit reckless. On the other, the look on Callum Griffin’s face when his library caught fire was pretty fucking priceless.
“Turn here,” Sebastian says to Nero, pointing.
Nero takes a right on Division Street.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dante says.
“Some of the kids are gonna hang out after the party. I said I’d meet them,” Sebastian says.
“Fuck that. You all need to go home,” Dante says.
Nero has already pulled the car up to the curb. Sebastian hops out of the convertible, swinging his long legs over the side as easily as getting out of bed.
“Sorry, big brother,” he says genially. “But I don’t have a curfew. And you’re not my mama.”
Nero looks like he’d like to do the same, but he’s stuck driving Dante back home. Faced with my angry big brother and the prospect of him ratting me out to Dad, I think Sebastian’s got the right idea. I scramble across the seat and jump out of the car, too.
“Get back here!” Dante shouts.
I’m already running after Sebastian, calling over my shoulder, “I’ll be home in a couple of hours! Don’t wait up!”
Sebastian slows down when he hears me coming. Even when he’s just ambling, I have to jog to keep up. Those damn long legs of his.
“Was the fire really an accident?” he says.
“More or less.” I shrug.
He chuckles. “I didn’t even get to see inside the house. Bet it’s nice.”
“Yeah. If you like pastel colors.”
Sebastian stuffs his hands in his pockets, strolling along. His dark, curly hair hangs down over his eyes. He’s got the curliest hair of any of us. He could probably grow it into an Afro if he wanted to.
“Nessa looked nice,” he says.
“Yeah, she’s pretty,” I agree. “Don’t get any ideas though. Papa would burst a blood vessel.”
“I’m not,” Sebastian says. “You know what Mom always said: ‘Calm water doesn’t need more water—you need wind to move your sail.’ I probably need to find a little maniac like you.”
I grin up at him. “If I get married, it’ll definitely be to someone who doesn’t give me any shit. Can you imagine going from being bossed around by Dante to bossed around by somebody else? Fuck that. I’d rather be single forever. In fact, I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
We’re just coming to Dave and Buster’s, but I can already see through the window that Sebastian’s friends aren’t inside yet.
“What should we do while we wait?” Sebastian asks me.
“Are there any ice cream places around?”
“Didn’t you eat at the party?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “But that was a long time ago.”
Seb laughs. “Alright, I’m not gonna turn down ice cream.”
We walk a little further toward the lake until we find a place that has soft serve. Sebastian gets a cup; I get a cone. We take it out to the boardwalk to eat, walking along the pier so we can look down at the water.
The lake is so big that it looks like an ocean. It has waves just like the sea, and storms that blow in. Not right now, though. Right now, the water is as calm as I’ve ever seen. We’ve walked all the way to the end of the pier, to the point that juts out furthest over the lake.
Sebastian finishes his ice cream, chucking the cup into the nearest trash can. I’m still working on my cone.
We’re chatting about his classes at school, and about mine. I’m taking courses at Loyola—a little bit of everything. Psychology, poli-sci, finance, marketing, history. I like taking whatever I’m interested in at the moment. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how it’s gonna all add up to a degree.
I think Papa’s getting annoyed with me. I know he wants me to finish up and come work with him full-time. B
ut he’s not going to let me do the interesting or difficult stuff—he’s already got Dante and Nero for that. He’s going to try to shunt me off in some boring office doing busywork. And that sounds like a fucking nightmare to me.
I’m the baby of the family and the only girl. There’s never been much in the way of expectations laid out for me. Maybe if my mother were alive, it would be different. But I’ve basically run wild my whole life. As long as I wasn’t getting in too much trouble, my father had more important things to worry about.
My brothers are good friends to me, but they have their own lives.
Nobody needs me, not really.
That’s okay, though. I’m not whining about it. I like being free and easy. Right now, I’m hanging out with Seb, eating ice cream, and enjoying a summer night. What more do I need?
That feeling of contentment lasts about five seconds. Then I look up and see two men walking toward us. One’s wearing a suit, the other a hoodie and jeans. The suited guy has brown hair, freshly cut, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The expression of fury on his face is all too familiar to me, since I last saw it about forty minutes ago.
“Seb,” I whisper, making my brother stand up straight.
“Is that Callum Griffin?” he mutters.
“Yup.”
“Look who it is,” Callum says. His voice is low, cold, and full of rage. He has extremely blue eyes, but there’s nothing pretty about them. They’re painfully intense, the only color on his person.
I don’t know who the guy is standing next to Callum. He looks mean as hell. He’s got the build of a boxer, a shaved head, and a slightly squashed nose, like he’s taken a hit or two. I’m betting he’s doled out a whole lot more.
Unconsciously, Sebastian has moved closer to me and a little bit in front of me, shielding me with his body.
“What do you want?” he says to Callum.
Sebastian isn’t nearly as intimidating as Dante, or as vicious as Nero. Still, he’s taller than Callum and his thug, and his voice is as stern as I’ve ever heard it.
Callum just scoffs. His face is handsome—or at least, it should be. But I’ve never seen such a cold expression. He looks like he hates everything. Most especially me.