I kept Noah’s arm firmly linked through mine, steering him through the dense huddle of Harvard department chairs and university donors.
“You spoke brilliantly up there, sweetheart,” I told him, adjusting the silk lapel of his jacket to disguise the trembling in my fingers.
“I only spoke the truth, Mom; you were the one who worked double shifts at the medical lab so I could attend the summer math institute,” he answered softly.
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Before I could reply, the crowd parted with an unnatural, sudden chill, as if an icy draft had swept through the warm oak corridor.
Vincent Moretti stood five paces away, his six-foot-two frame cutting through the academic crowd like a warship entering a quiet harbor.
Two private security details in dark earpieces lingered near the marble pillars behind him, keeping the curious public at a distance.
Sophia trailed three steps behind her husband, her face caked in heavy powder that failed to hide the sickly yellow pallor of her skin.
