Chapter 2: Fireworks and Threats

But one day, my stepson unwittingly offended the most favored son of the mayor’s family. When I knelt and pleaded for mercy on his behalf, the young man’s eyes reddened with anger, and he spat out:

"Fine. If you can’t bear for him to kneel, then you kneel instead."

The words hit like a slap in the face, stinging with humiliation and powerlessness. I’d learned long ago that Chicago’s old guard protected its own, and the mayor’s family ruled our block with the same iron certainty as City Hall itself. The air around us crackled with threat and expectation. I did what I had to, for Ben—always, for Ben.

It was the night of the Fourth of July.

All across Chicago, fireworks bloomed like bursts of red and gold. The sound of explosions echoed between brick apartment buildings, mingling with laughter and the far-off blare of police sirens. The whole city felt alive, feverish with summer’s heat. Mrs. Lewis, the cake-seller from down the block—a sturdy woman with a quick tongue and kind heart—came knocking urgently at my door.

The aroma of vanilla and cinnamon still clung to her, mingling with the sharpness of her worry. The flag bunting on her porch fluttered wildly as she called out, her voice trembling. I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried to see what had rattled her, dread already curling in my stomach.

"Rachel, something’s happened to your Ben!"

My heart thudded against my ribs. I sprang up from the stove, not even bothering to take off my apron, and hurried to the front door.

The sizzle of onions on the pan was forgotten. I stumbled over the old welcome mat, barely noticing that my slippers were half-off. Panic and maternal instinct propelled me through the small living room and out into the warm, sticky night.

Before I could ask for details, Mrs. Lewis grabbed my arm and rushed me out onto the sidewalk.

Her grip was firm, her face pinched with urgency. We half-ran past the Johnsons’ porch, dodging clusters of neighborhood kids waving sparklers. Someone set off a Roman candle too close to the curb, and a group of teens hollered from a rooftop, waving sparklers and red Solo cups. The city felt charged, every face in the crowd a blur of concern or celebration. My heart pounded louder than the fireworks overhead.

Main Street was bustling—intersecting roads packed with people, restaurants and coffee shops lining both sides, bridges arching over the river, and street performers weaving through the crowd with fire tricks.

The air was thick with the smell of grilled hot dogs and the metallic tang of spent fireworks. A river breeze carried the sounds of laughter, distant pop music, and the echo of shouts. Stilt walkers bobbed above the crowd, and a gospel choir sang near the church steps. But under all the noise, a different kind of tension pulsed near the bridge—a small cluster of people, too still for a festival.

Panting, I finally spotted Ben’s gray-blue ball cap at the far end of the bridge.

It was the one I’d mended last week, with a little patch over the brim. My breath caught as I saw his skinny shoulders, hunched and defiant, in the middle of something he couldn’t possibly handle alone.

A black SUV was parked at the bridgehead, surrounded by bodyguards and assistants. One guard, a hunting falcon tattoo on his arm, had Ben by the collar.

Their suits were too crisp for the neighborhood, their faces blank and cold. The falcon tattoo was notorious in our part of town—rumor had it, the man behind it had once worked security for the city’s most dangerous players. His grip on Ben was merciless.

Ben’s slender, delicate fingers clung tightly to something, refusing to let go.

He said, stubbornly and clearly, "No. This is the lucky charm my mom gave me."

His voice was thin, but it didn’t shake. I remembered threading that old Saint Christopher medal onto a chain, telling Ben it would keep him safe. Now, it seemed, he clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

From inside the SUV, a childish yet icy voice replied, "Liar."

The door’s window lowered a crack, revealing a young face shadowed by the interior light, his eyes hard with practiced disdain.

Then came the command: "Adam, twist his arm."

Without hesitation, the guard named Adam raised his hand, his face expressionless.

—No!

A surge of protective terror coursed through me. Without thinking, I barreled forward, shoving past the startled onlookers, my hands outstretched, ready to throw myself between Ben and whatever was about to happen.