is too small to be a bomb. It could be full of anthrax, I suppose.
At this moment, I don’t really care. I pick it up and strip off the wrapping.
I can hear something rattling around inside the box. It sounds small and hard. Too heavy to be a ring.
I open the lid.
It’s a fifty-caliber bullet—hand-turned on a lathe. Bronze alloy. Smelling of oil and gunpowder.
I lift it out of the box, turning the cool, slippery cylinder between my fingers.
There’s a note nested in cotton. Small, square, and hand-written.
It says: I know who you are.
29
Simone
I’m eating breakfast with my parents in their room. We got adjoining suites, so it’s easy enough to go through the door between them while still wearing my pajamas and sit down at the table filled with room-service trays.
Mama always orders too much food. She hates the idea that anybody might go hungry, even though she eats like a bird herself. She’s got platters of fresh fruit, bacon, eggs, ham, and pastries, as well as coffee, tea, and orange juice.
“I’ve got a plate of waffles here for Henry, too,” she tells me as I sit down.
“He’s still sleeping.”
After the fundraiser, Henry and I cuddled up and watched a movie until way too late at night. I was stressed and upset from my dance with Dante. The only thing that calmed me down was the feeling of my son’s head laying on my shoulder, and his peaceful, slow breathing after he fell asleep.
“What were you watching?” Mama asks me. “I heard explosions.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I should have turned it down.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Mama shakes her head. “Your father wears earplugs, and I was awake reading anyway.”
“It was Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse,” I tell her. “That’s Henry’s favorite movie.”
I love it too, actually. Miles Morales reminds me of Henry—smart, kind-hearted, determined. Sometimes messing up, but always trying again.
Who would I be in the movie?
Peter B. Parker, I guess. Fucked up his own life but can still be a good mentor at least.
That’s what I’m hanging onto. I’ve made so many mistakes, but I’ll do whatever I can to give Henry a good life. I want to give him the world, and the freedom to find his way in it.
“How did you sleep, Tata?” I ask my father.
“Well,” he says, drinking his coffee. “You know I can sleep anywhere.”
My father seems to accomplish things by pure force of will. He would never allow something as mundane as a lumpy mattress or street noise to keep him awake.
“What should we do with Henry today?” Mama says.
“Oh . . .” I hesitate. I was planning to leave Chicago today. I have another job booked in New York next week—I thought I’d take Henry there early, go see a few Broadway shows together.
“You’re not leaving already, are you?” Mama asks plaintively. “We barely got to see you.”
“You don’t have another job until next week,” my father says. “What’s the rush?”
I hate when he contacts my assistant. I’m going to tell her not to give him my schedule anymore.
“I guess I could stay another day or two,” I admit.
Right then, there’s a knock on the door.
“Who’s that?” Mama says.
“Probably Carly,” I tell her. Carly’s room is down the hall. We all slept late, past the time when she usually starts Henry’s schoolwork.
My father is already striding over to open the door. Instead of Carly’s petite frame, I’m shocked to see Dante’s broad shoulders filling the doorway instead.
“Good morning,” he says politely.
“Good morning. Come in,” my father says at once.
Dante steps inside. His eyes find mine, and my hand clenches tight around my coffee mug. I wish I had combed my hair and washed my face. And I wish I weren’t wearing pajamas with little pineapples all over them.
“Come join us for breakfast,” Mama says.
“I already ate,” Dante replies gruffly. Then, to smooth the rejection, he says, “Thank you, though.”
“Have some coffee at least,” Tata says.
“Alright.”
Mama pours him a mug. Before she can add any sugar, I say, “Just cream.”
Dante’s eyes flash over to me again, maybe surprised that I remembered how he likes his coffee.
Screwing up my courage, I pick up the mug and hand it to him. His thick fingers brush over the back of my hand as he takes it. I can feel that brief touch lingering on my skin.
“Thank you,” Dante says. He’s saying it to me, looking in my eyes. It’s the first time he’s looked at me without anger on his face. He’s still not friendly, but it’s an