Garron does a slow jog toward the group, looking much more put together than before.
Smiling and throwing his head back, my father embraces Garron with a big hug and a pat on the back. “My boy! You look well, lad.” He holds his shoulders while looking him over. “How’s your mother?” he asks softly.
Garron bobs his head. “Not too bad. She’s living comfortably with the time she has left, thanks to you.”
Patrick swipes his hand in front of his face. “Ah, It’s nothing. You’re family!”
Garron goes down the line of my father’s crew, giving each man a fist bump while dad looks around.
“Where’s that kid, Dax?” As if he were summoned, he pops in through a side door. “Daxton! My boy. Come, let’s have a look at ya!” He motions for the straggler to come over to the group.
Dax walks over, locking eyes with me; he knows I’m not too keen on tardiness. He stands before my father, significantly taller than him, but Patrick has more mass around the middle.
“I like that you're still standing, even after what happened.”
Dax tilts his head forward.
“Tell me, did the party responsible get what they deserved?”
Dax puffs out his chest slightly.
In response, Patrick slaps him on the back. “Wonderful! Man of few words… I like this guy. Bet he keeps all the best secrets.”
He motions for his men to take up residency on the chairs in the lounging area. My men immediately stand, clearing the table of cards, and rush out of the way. Smart move.
Garron walks up with a small wooden box, offering hisfather-figurea cigar, then proceeds to light a match.
My phone vibrates in my front pocket. I discreetly check to see what it is. It’s a message from her.
Cindel: Cassie is dead?! Why didn’t you tell me?! Am I now the permanent manager?
I shoved the phone back into my jacket pocket, not wanting to handle two nuclear fallouts at once. Later, I tell myself.
My father removes his suit jacket and tumbles back onto a too low chair. Clumsily, he attempts to cross his opposite ankle over his knee before finally relaxing against the eggplant-colored seat. The woodsy aroma wafts around us as he experiments with the smoke, to create unsuccessful ringlets.
“A little birdie told me you found a hidden Lombardi. What have you learned so far?” My father takes a methodical toke of his thick cigar.
“Yes… I did find a Lombardi, however, I haven’t learned much. I’m working on that.” I feel like I’m ten again, standing in the kitchen as my father chastises me for yanking the head off of one of my sibling’s dolls.
“Your sister thinks you’re fucking this up,” he proclaims, holding the smoking stick between his yellowed teeth.
Of course she would say that to him. Ever since mom died, she’s been just as unhinged as he is. If anything, she’s worse! My sister doesn’t care about the business side of things. I bet she would be just fine with watching it all become ash. I may be the big brother, but when she makes up her mind about something, she can be scary as fuck if you get in her way.
“She doesn’t need to be involved in this,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, but she does and she is.”
I hear whispers around me from my crew. He hasn’t even been here for five minutes and already he’s trying to make me seem incompetent.
“I just need a bit more time.”
He places his suspended jade shoe, back down to the floor. Then, placing both hands on his opened thighs with the stogie between the fingers of one hand, he leans in. He speaks softly at first, but gradually his voice rises to an untethered shout. “How about this… I’ll keep your sister on a leash, for now… but I will be staying here until I have FUCKING VENGEANCE!” Spit flies from the mouth of his beet red face.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, ever so slowly. “Yes sir.” I look down at the floor, instinctively.
Like a switch has been flipped, he goes back to lounging and puffing on his smoke. “Ah! Please tell your sister we’ll be having dinner tonight at seven sharp, and for your sanity and mine put a fucking tail on that Lombardi cunt!”
After being chummy with my crew, drinking my whiskey, and smoking my Cubans, the brute of a man finally makes his way up to the loft suite, positioned on the second floor of the boxing club. Once out of ear shot, I swung at the first bag within reach, giving a jab, cross, hook! Anger bubbles deep within me, I’ve lost my touch, and I let him get to me too easily.
