Forty minutes later, Nora finally gets the Lestons to stop packing.

“We have to go, Mom,” she insists as her mother remembers yet another thing she forgot to take. “We have bug spray at the compound, I promise. And whatever else you need, we’ll order and have it delivered for you. We don’t live in a complete wilderness, you know.”

Gabriela seems mollified by that, so I help her close the huge suitcase and haul it out to the car. The thing weighs at least two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and I grunt with effort as I lift it into the trunk of the limo.

In the meantime, Nora’s father brings out a second, smaller suitcase.

“I’ll take it,” I say, reaching for it, but he jerks it away.

“I’ve got it,” he says sharply, so I step away to let him handle it on his own. If he wants to continue stewing, that’s his business.

Once everything is loaded, Nora’s parents climb into the car, and Rosa goes to sit in the front next to Lucas. “To give the four of you more room,” she explains, as though the back of the limo can’t easily accommodate ten people.

“Do all these cars need to be here?” Nora’s mother asks as I take a seat next to Nora. “I mean, is it really that unsafe?”

“Probably not, but I don’t want to risk it,” I say as we pull out of the driveway. In addition to the twenty-three guards split between seven SUVs—all of which are currently idling on this quiet block—I also have a stash of weapons under our seat. It’s overkill for a peaceful trip to Chicago, but now that there’s trouble, I’m worried that it’s not enough. I should’ve brought more men, more weapons, but I didn’t want Frank and company thinking I was here to do a deal.

“This is insane,” Tony mutters, looking out the back window at the procession of cars following us. “I can’t even imagine what our neighbors are thinking.”

“They’re thinking you’re a VIP, Dad,” Nora says with forced cheerfulness. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it must be like for the President, always traveling with the Secret Service?”

“No, I can’t say I have.” Nora’s father turns back to face us, his expression softening as he looks at his daughter. “How are you feeling, honey?” he asks her. “You should probably be resting instead of dealing with this craziness.”

“I’m fine, Dad.” Nora’s face tightens. “And I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, honey,” her mother says, blinking rapidly—I presume to stop herself from crying. “Whatever you wish, my love.”

Nora attempts to give her mother a smile, but fails miserably. Unable to resist, I reach out and drape my arm over her shoulders, pulling her against me. “Relax, baby,” I murmur into her hair as she nestles against my side. “We’ll be there soon, and you can sleep on the plane, okay?”

Nora lets out a sigh and mumbles into my shoulder, “Sounds good.” She seems tired, so I stroke her hair, enjoying its silky softness. I could sit like this forever, feeling the warmth of her small body, smelling her sweet, delicate scent. For the first time since the miscarriage, some of the heaviness in my chest lifts, the dark, bitter grief easing slightly. The violence still pulses in my veins, but the awful emptiness is filled for the moment, the painful void no longer expanding within.