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“You chose your bloodline eighteen years ago on Michigan Avenue, Vincent,” I answered, my voice dropping into a register of deadly calm.
“And now you will have to live with the choice you made in the dark,” I concluded, turning Noah toward the street exit.
Behind us, Vincent tried to follow, but two campus safety officers stepped smoothly between his dark overcoat and my son’s path.
PART 3: The Broken Ledger
The October wind was biting as we stepped out onto Quincy Street, sending yellow maple leaves skittering across the brick sidewalks.
Noah pulled his coat tighter around his chest, walking in a heavy, contemplative silence that felt louder than any argument.
“Mom,” he said finally, stopping beneath the wrought-iron gas lamps of the Harvard Faculty Club.
“Who was that man back there?” he asked, turning his intelligent, penetrating gaze directly into my soul.
I looked at the son I had protected from the ruthless world of the Chicago underworld, knowing that the era of shields was over.
