Chapter 3

The next morning, the rumors started.

Whispers in the hallways. A soldier talking too loud in the kitchen. Someone saw Connor leaving Isabella' s bungalow in the early hours.

The whispers reached my father.

His rage was a physical thing. It filled the house, suffocating. He sent two of his men to get my mother and Connor.

They were summoned to his study. The door closed.

I stood outside, paralyzed with fear. I could hear my father' s voice, low and furious. I imagined what he would do to her. To both of them. My mother was an outsider. Her life was fragile.

I had to do something.

I burst into the room.

My father was behind his desk, his face purple with rage. My mother stood before him, pale and terrified. Connor stood beside her, his expression like stone, protective.

"Father!" I shouted, my voice high with panic.

He turned his furious gaze on me. "Leo, get out."

"No!" I lied, the words tumbling out of me. "It was my fault. I begged him to stay. I wanted to hear about the old days. About the family's business in the Midwest."

My father stared at me, his eyes narrowing. Suspicion warred with surprise. I had never shown any interest in the "business."

I pushed on, my mind racing. I started telling stories. Not stories about the Midwest. Stories my mother had told me about Chicago. About her family. I twisted them, made them about Connor. I talked about gang wars, union takeovers, things a fourteen-year-old boy shouldn't know.

"He told me everything," I said, looking at my father, trying to seem eager, hungry for the life he led. "He's a hero."

My father looked from me to Connor, then to my mother. He was still suspicious, but he saw something else in my eyes. A potential heir. A son finally showing interest.

He grunted. "Get out. All of you."

We left the study. My mother didn't look at me. She just hurried back to her bungalow.

Connor stopped me in the hallway. He put a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm.

"Thank you, Leo," he said, his voice quiet.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a silk handkerchief. He placed it in my hand.

It was a Zippo lighter. Silver, custom-made. Engraved with a single, elegant "C."

"You told a good story," he said. "But you got one detail wrong."

He looked at me, his blue eyes holding a deep sadness. "The Chicago River. It doesn't flow naturally. They reversed it. A feat of engineering. They did it to save the city, to revitalize it."

He paused, and his next words were almost a whisper. "Just like love can revitalize a broken heart."

He looked toward my mother's bungalow.

"Give this to your mother," he said. "Tell her it's from Chicago."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the hallway with the heavy lighter in my hand and his strange words echoing in my ears.