On the day the Sorrentos came to Chicago for the banquet, the city had its first rain of the season.It was not the damp, clinging rain of Port Saint Giovanni, but something cold and clean that stung the skin. When the butler stopped the car at the hotel entrance, someone opened an umbrella over me, but I still caught the scent of dry dust turning wet. After three years in Chicago, I had grown used to it.The banquet hall was on the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. Light poured from a massive chandelier over hundreds of guests in evening clothes. The Sorrentos had been seated near the windows, a good position, but not the main table.Before the banquet, their butler came to summon me after ringing the bell three times. I was on the living room sofa, trimming leaves from a vase of white camellias. It was not deliberate. The Rizzo florist changed the estate arrangements every Wednesday.“Ninth Miss,” the butler said from the doorway, still using the super
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