I thought that following that one impulse after the hospital would be enough to calm the fire burning me . . .

It’s not.

She’s been in my head for the past eighteen hours.

I’m running on no sleep. I need a good workout or my focus scatters, but my schedule couldn’t allow one today. My grandfather flew in from Virginia after the resounding success of our first two months of campaigning, and my mother—who’d opted to quietly ignore the fact that I’m running—had no other choice but to welcome us for breakfast this morning.

I’m aware of early campaign troubles. Among them, my grandfather.

My grandfather was the tireless political engine that drove my father to the army, to the Senate, and later, to the White House. He pulled strings left and right and put my dad on George Washington’s white horse, but it was my dad who rode the horse like he owned it. The one who’d won the reelection by the biggest margin in history, keeping almost 70 percent of the country happy when polled about his first term. My granddad got him there, but my dad stayed there.

I don’t want my grandfather’s political engine to back me now—it would require sacrificing merit for favors during the appointment of my cabinet. That’s a sure way to keep the country from growing and blazing brighter than ever, and that’s what has been keeping us from irrefutably being the most powerful force in the world.

Habits need to be put aside, new ideas proposed, new blood brought in to freshen up the antiquated outlook on how to run America.

The world is changing, and we need to be on the forefront of that change.

My grandfather has made it no secret that he wants me on the forefront . . . but of one of the parties. Who like to keep the status quo.

I’m the last to arrive at my mother’s brownstone.

My mother sits in a high chair, regal in pearls and a white designer skirt and jacket. She’s a modern Jackie Kennedy, sweet and composed, morally as strong as titanium. There are strong resemblances between our families, the Kennedys and Hamiltons. To the point where the media has speculated, after Father’s murder, on whether the Hamiltons also have a curse on their heads that won’t let them carry out their bright destinies.

Mother sits as far away from my grandfather as possible, her hair still the same near-black shade as mine, her poise remarkable.

Big, brusque, and no-nonsense, Patrick Hamilton’s relationship with my father was a close one. Until my father was gone, my grandfather meddled and insisted I get into politics. The last thing my mother wanted was to see me do that.

“Get a life, Matt. Go and study anything you want, be anything you want.” Except a politician. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. In her mind, she wouldn’t be a widow, but instead a happy wife had my father not been president. In her mind, she’d have lived a happy life. She led one of duty instead, and she did it formidably, but no makeup and hairstyle can hide the shadows in her eyes regarding my father’s unresolved murder.

I kiss her forehead in greeting. “I’m sorry this is making you worry. Don’t,” I command.

She smiles lightly at me and pats my jaw. “Matt.”

Only one word, but combined with the look in her eyes, I’m quietly reminded that my father was one of five sitting presidents to be killed—all by gunshots. Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, JFK, and Hamilton.

I take a seat in the living room and she signals for Maria, her live-in cook, to bring us coffee.

“I had lunch with the Democrats,” Grandfather says as he sips his coffee. “They want you joining the primaries; they’re sure you’ll win the ticket.”

“I’ve already told them, I’m running independently.”

“Matt, your father—”

“I’m not my father. Though I do plan to continue his legacy.” I glance at my mother, who seems to be battling a mixture of pride and worry.

“Why won’t you at least consider the Democrats?” Grandfather insists.

“Because”—I lean forward, looking him dead in the eye—“they failed to protect him. As far as I’m concerned, I’m better off alone.” I stare him out. He’s not an easy man—but I can be as difficult as he is. “My father told me never trust your own shadow. I’ve kept people at bay, but now I’m choosing who I let in. And out. Out is my competition. I’m letting in my country. They deserve better than what they’ve gotten lately. I’m going to pave the path for that better.”

“Fuck, Matt, really!” Grandfather rants.

His temper is formidable, and my mother quickly steps in with her usual soothing charm.

“Patrick, I appreciate you voicing your opinions to Matt, but I’m not happy with him even running. Matt”—she turns and looks at me beseechingly—“we gave this country all we had; we gave them your father. We don’t owe anyone anything anymore.”

“Not all we had. There’s still Matt,” Grandfather says. “This is what Lawrence wanted.”

I keep my attention on my mother. I know this is her worst nightmare. She doesn’t want me to run. “I’m finishing what Father started—this is our legacy. All right?” I nod firmly, quietly asking for her understanding.

She’s not over what happened to my father.

She shakes her head with her signature stubbornness. “You’re still so young, Matt—you’re only thirty-five.”

“Yeah, well, my thirty-five years count as double.” I smile wryly and lean back in my seat, glancing at my grandfather. “I was closer to my dad than the vice president for a term and a half. I’m doing this, and when I get to the top, my cabinet will be appointed on merit, not political favors we owe.”

“Goddamnit, boy, you have a will of your own, but you need to look at the big picture here. The parties’ resources cannot be denied.”

“I’m not denying them. I simply trust that I have resources of my own to combat them.”

Grandfather sighs. He stands and buttons his jacket, then kisses my mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Eleanor.” He looks at me as I come to full height too. “You’re making powerful enemies, Matt.”

“I’ll be an even more powerful one.”

He laughs and shakes his head in disbelief, then pats my back and says, “I’ll support you then.” Grudging and grumpy, he leaves, and my mother sighs.