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Rook vomiting on the carpet.
Me chuckling after I sprayed whiskey in his face.
Empty eyes, staring upwards.
The look of happiness on Rook's face as we flew over the city.
A quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise.
The house was silent for a brief moment before laughter spilled from the back room. The smell of burning tobacco and spices hit my nose, mixing with the lingering smell of vomit.
"You should've seen her face. The old bitch didn't know what hit her." A pause for dramatic effect, or an inhale of a Cuban cigar. "The old hag had some fight in her, I'll give her that."
The sound of men chuckling, men who clung to my father's coattails because they knew he was shooting upwards within the family.
They were laughing about killing her.
"Should'a fucked her first," a smoke-laden voice grumbled. Benny, one of Nero's men who'd also become attached to my father like a damn leech.
"That's disgusting. She's too old." I didn't recognize the feminine voice. Didn't need to. My father's dick was a revolving pole––the woman would be gone before I could learn her name.
"A pussy's a pussy," Benny answered, and the room descended into an awkward silence.
My father broke it, "A dead pussy's all I care about!" and the men rolled with laughter. The clink of glass, the flicker of a lighter.
Disgusted, I passed rows of packed boxes and forced my feet towards the stairs, silently moving upwards. Coulter had texted me to hang out tonight but I needed to be alone.
I'd waited with Rook while the paramedics and police arrived. Watched as they tried to revive his nana, then as they rolled her away in a body bag. Shame burned through me.
Then I stood by helplessly as they took him from his home. He was too young to be on his own, they'd said, even after I protested. The only possession he took––a gym bag of clothes.
I would text my connections in the morning, make sure he had a good home. I already had contact with a man who would help him get on his feet. A man who was familiar with our world, who would teach him not to be so naive.
"Knight? Is that you?"
I ignored my father, even when I heard the padding of my mother's feet coming closer.
At the sight of me on the stairs, just passing the ofrenda for the Virgin Mary, she called out. "He's home."
She wanted me to see my father. How he blatantly displayed his whore out in the open now. To give me a reason to hate him, just as she did.
Didn't she know that I already had plenty?
"Come here, apple," my father responded, and the men chuckled disdainfully at the nickname. It was the label my mother had given me years ago, and my father had picked it up, misunderstanding it.
I scowled at my mother as I strode past her, and the room disrupted in loud praise as I entered. "Way to go, son!" My father stood, shoving away the woman on his lap. "You're just like your old man. A chip off the old block." Putting on a show for the rapt audience in the room. Heavy hands on my shoulders, his grin wide with arrogance. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
I stiffened as he hugged me, waiting until he released me to step back and out of his reach. All eyes were on me, admiration in their gazes. Even Benny, who was hard to impress unless, apparently, you were an elderly woman fighting for your life, gave me a satisfied smirk.
"You did good, boy." My father scooped up the woman, her giggle grating as she curled up in his lap. He took another puff of his cigar, then, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Silence filled the air as everyone stared at me expectantly.
I looked around, taking in the tabletops filled with half empty bottles of champagne and vodka. Their eyes halfway lidded.
Already celebrating. Already halfway drunk.
Waiting for me to speak. To tell a joke, just like my old man.
