Page 146 of Ricardo

“Sorry,” I say smoothly. “I meant not at the same table as Halbrook. They had a public disagreement over the transit appropriations package last year. It would be needlessly awkward.”

That is true.

It is also a fraction of the truth.

Owen frowns and scans his notes. “I don’t remember that being significant.”

“It was significant to Halbrook,” I say. “He is polite, but he remembers slights. Calhoun made him look bought in front of a committee camera.”

Lorenzo lifts his eyes from the spreadsheet.

Patrice glances between Owen and me, sensing the change in the room without knowing its cause.

Owen gives a small nod. “All right. We can move Calhoun to civic development.”

No.

I press my lips together.

No, no, no.

But I cannot say that here.

I cannot explain in front of Patrice and Owen that putting Frank Calhoun anywhere near Mario Conti creates an easy trap for anyone interested in making Conti Enterprises look like it bought its place in Chicago through political fixers and development money with too many shadows around it.

I cannot say that because I do not yet know how many people in this room understand what Calhoun really is.

Or who the Contis really are.

The Contis and Frank Calhoun cannot be in the same room together.

They must not know this or he would not be on that list.

“Put a hold next to his name,” I say.

Owen looks at me again. “A hold?”

“A temporary one,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I want to double-check a few overlaps before we commit him to a table.”

Patrice’s professional smile stays in place, but it thins a little at the edges. “We have several hundred names to place. If we put holds on everyone who has ever had a disagreement with someone else, we may still be seating people by the third anniversary.”

I give her a small smile back. “Then it’s lucky I only asked for one.”

Owen’s pen hovers over the page, unsure what to do.

“Put the hold,” Mario says.

Owen marks the page. “Of course.”

The meeting continues.

I continue with it.

That is the harder part.

It would be easy to sit in my alarm and wait for the moment I can speak to Mario alone, but there are still seventy-three names in the first three tiers, and the seating map has become a quiet battlefield of egos, alliances, marriages, grudges, affairs, donations, old money, new money, and people who pretend not to care where they sit while building entire vendettas over distance from the head table.

This is a language I know.