Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,65
your coalition?”
“Do you have a statement for the shooter?”
My father draws himself up to his full height, facing the semi-circle of cameras and microphones.
“I do have a statement,” he says. “To the man who shot at me today—you failed. I’m still standing. And even if you had succeeded in killing me, my cause will never die. This is a global coalition, a global movement. Humanity has decided that we will no longer endure the enslavement and abuse of our most vulnerable members. I will never stop fighting for the end of human trafficking, and neither will my allies here in Chicago, and across the world.”
I don’t know if he had that speech prepared, or if he thought it up on the fly. My father always delivers his lines with the precision of a professor and the fire of a preacher. His eyes are blazing, and he looks like a force of nature.
I find it terrifying. To me, it sounds like he’s taunting the sniper. That man is still running around at large. If he was paid to do the job, he probably intends to try again. I don’t like standing out here on the steps, open and unprotected.
I’m relieved when Tata finishes his statement to the press so we can all go inside.
Heritage House doesn’t really look like a house at all—more like a giant renovated barn with cedar-paneled walls, iron chandeliers, string lights, and picture windows looking out onto a garden. It’s rustic and picturesque, much prettier than your average hotel ballroom.
The band isn’t the usual string quartet either. It consists of a blonde girl in a white cotton dress and cowboy boots, with an acoustic guitar strung around her neck, and three men playing an upright bass, a fiddle, and a banjo. Their music isn’t hokey at all—it’s quite lovely. The girl has a low voice that starts raspy, then soars up high, clear as a bell.
Waiters are carrying around trays of champagne and fizzy lemonade with striped straws. I realize that I’ve barely eaten all day. I’m starving. I head over to the buffet, grateful to see there’s real food, not just canapés. I start loading up a plate with grapes, strawberries, and shrimp, while the heavily pregnant woman next to me does the same.
As we reach for a chicken-salad sandwich at the same time, she turns to me and says, “Oh, hello again!”
I stare at her blankly, confused by how familiar she looks. Then I realize we were on the stage together earlier today—only she was seated on the opposite side, so I only caught a glimpse of her for a moment.
“You’re Callum Griffin’s wife,” I say.
The woman laughs—loud and infectious. “You don’t recognize me, Simone? Is it the belly?”
She turns sideways to show me her pregnant tummy in full, glorious profile.
It’s her face I’m staring at—those bright gray eyes, against the tan skin and the wide, white smile.
“Aida!” I gasp.
“That’s right.” She grins.
She was such a skinny, wild, almost feral child. I can’t connect the image I have of her in my mind—skinned knees, tangled hair, filthy boy’s clothes—with the glamorous woman standing in front of me.
“You’re so beautiful!” I say, before I can stop myself.
Aida only laughs harder. She seems to think this is the best joke in the world.
“Bet you didn’t see that coming!” she says. “Nobody thought I’d grow up to be hot when I was running around like Mowgli, terrorizing the neighbor kids. There was a whole summer where I didn’t wear shoes or brush my teeth once.”
I want to hug her. I always liked Aida and Sebastian, and even Nero. Enzo was warm to me, too. They were all kind—more than I deserved.
“I read your interview in Vanity Fair,” Aida says. “I was checking to see if you’d give me a shout-out, but no such luck . . .”
“God, I hate doing those,” I shake my head.
“Top-paid model of the year in 2019,” Aida says. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”
I feel myself blushing. I’ve never particularly liked the “fame” part of modeling. Luckily, even top models aren’t nearly as famous as actors or musicians. Or as easy to recognize when we haven’t had the benefit of a hair and makeup team. So I can still get around anonymously most of the time.
“Who’s number one this year?” Aida teases me. “Do you hate her guts?”
“I really don’t pay attention to any of that.” I shake my head. “I mean, I’m grateful for the work, but . . .”