He reached down and grabbed the stroller handle with one hand, his other hand reaching out to take my arm.

“We have to move,” he whispered to me.

“Adrian, wait,” Camille called out, but her voice was drowned out by the roar of traffic on Michigan Avenue.

We turned our backs on her and began to walk quickly across the grass.

I looked back once.

Camille was standing by the bench, her phone already pressed to her ear.

“She is calling Salvatore,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“I know,” Adrian said. “We don’t have much time.”

He pushed the double stroller over the curb and onto the paved path.

The autumn wind blew cold off the lake, stinging my cheeks.

“Where are we going?” I asked, struggling to keep pace with his long strides. “My car is parked three blocks away.”

“We can’t go to your car,” Adrian said. “Salvatore’s men will watch the streets. They know your license plate.”

“How do they know that?” I asked.

“My grandfather has eyes everywhere, Maya,” he said, his face grim.