Chapter 8: Chicago

"Tell your father the Corso daughter can marry whoever she likes," Ruggero said. "I'm not available on Sunday."

Tiberio stared at him.

"He'll call you out at the table, Ruggero."

"Then let him call."

"He'll say you dishonored his daughter and walked away."

"She walked away from me," Ruggero said, and he looked straight at me. "I'd like the chance to deserve her back."

I picked Rosa up from the young soldier's arms.

"I'm still going to Chicago," I said.

"I know."

"You can't stop me."

"I know that too." His mouth twisted. "I'm not going to try. I'm going to follow you."

Four days later, I stood on the thirtieth floor of Lakeshore General with my daughter on my chest and a view of the lake.

I had come in on my leave, just to see the trauma floor.

The director walked me through it himself.

He was a gray, tired man who talked fast and loved his hospital, and I liked him in the first five minutes.

"Eight beds, two bays, a helipad," he said. "And a chief who's about to save us a fortune in malpractice."

"I haven't signed anything."

"You called from a church, Dr. Tedesco. I've decided to count it."

I laughed for the first time in a week, and Rosa squirmed against me.

I rode the elevator down, and I took the cab to the apartment I had rented on Lake Shore Drive.

I opened my front door, and I stopped.

My hallway was full of boxes.

A crib stood in the middle of it, half built.

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