The timid question drifted through the quiet piano music and the faint clinking of glasses inside La Belle Étoile, the most exclusive restaurant in downtown Chicago.
Victoria sat alone at a corner table, wearing a deep-blue silk dress. In front of her was a half-eaten steak, while her phone displayed spreadsheets filled with property deals and financial projections.
At fifty-three, Victoria had built one of the largest real-estate empires in the Midwest. She had turned abandoned warehouses and forgotten lots into luxury towers. In business circles she was known as brilliant, relentless, unstoppable.
Warm, however, was not a word anyone used to describe her.
She looked up from her screen, mildly irritated by the interruption.
And then she stopped breathing for a moment.
Two boys stood beside her table.
They were thin, their jackets far too light for the cold rain outside. Their sneakers were worn nearly through at the toes. The older boy looked about twelve. The younger couldn’t have been older than ten.
Both carried the same guarded expression children develop when life has taught them that kindness is uncertain.
A waiter hurried over, clearly flustered.