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“What’s this?”
“It’s an itinerary for you to visit your sister next week. I’ll be going to England next week so I figured you could see her while I’m out of the country.”
“Thank you,” I said breathlessly.
“You’re welcome.”
Like he promised, Daimon drove us to my father’s home and we celebrated Christmas together. I had asked him about his family, but he grunted and told me to mind my own business. I knew there was something there, something he wasn’t telling me, but also knowing Daimon, it was best I didn’t push. I was preparing a simple pork roast and watched as Daimon and my father were watching a movie my father loved so much called, Il Mercenario.
“This is it! This is the scene between Paco and Curly. The music is what makes it an amazing showdown,” my father said, excitedly, edging forward on his armchair.
“It’s pretty intense,” Daimon said, completely taken in.
“I know,” my father murmured.
Leave two men alone with a classic spaghetti western and they’ll end up bonding. My father seemed to have forgotten what Daimon had done as they sat, mesmerized by the 1968 classic. I’d watched it so many times that I was catching myself quoting it as it played in the background.
Studs: Polack! You play around with me. I’ll see that you’re gonna get murdered. You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned!
Kowalski: I wear gloves.
Studs: I don’t see them. I don’t see them!
Kowalski: I took them off, because without gloves, I shoot better.
I played out this whole scene only because my father would have Sofia and I act it out for him.
“I see you like these movies too.” Daimon surprised me as he wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Do you mind?” I said, through my teeth.
“Not really,” he murmured with his rough low voice.
“My father might see us,” I hissed.
“That’s the point, my beloved. We’re in love, remember?” he teased quietly in my ear, his deep voice making me wither.
“Your father pressed play again. I think he wants to re-watch it,” Daimon said as he finally released his arms from my waist.
“He does that,” I said as I turned around still holding my butcher knife.
“Are you threatening your husband on Christmas Day?” Daimon laughed.
“Think of it as an incentive,” I smiled.
Daimon’s eyes shifted; he must have heard my father getting up. He reached out and took my hand that held the knife and pulled me in for a kiss. I struggled, but his lips latched on tightly.
“Sorry kids,” my father said as he stood at the door of the kitchen. Daimon pulled back and grinned. I swear he was Lucifer himself.
“It’s okay, Dad, Daimon was just playing,” I gritted out.
“Sorry,” Daimon said, not really meaning it. My father turned around and headed back into the living room.
“You want to kill me now, don’t you?” He wiggled his eyebrows and left to join my father. I was left in the kitchen still holding onto my knife. I reached up unknowingly and felt my lips. His heat still lingered. Bastard!
I served dinner, which my father ate happily. I sat watching him eat and actually enjoying his food; it was the first time I saw him do this since my mother had died. My father was no longer sick and he could finally live a full life. Seeing him healthy and happy made what I had done feel like the right decision. I knew in the end all that mattered was my family’s happiness and Daimon provided that. Yes, he needed me too, but because of his money, I was able to finally make right what I had done wrong all those years ago.
“Are you going to eat?” my father asked, holding onto his bread.
“I’m eating.” I smiled.
“You look like you’ve lost weight. I want to see you eat all the food on your plate,” my father grunted.
“I told you. You lost weight. You better be eating,” Daimon bit out.
“Listen, you two. I'm fine,” I said, taking a mouthful of pork roast.
Once we ate, I cleaned up, and then finally sat down and readied my gift for my father. Daimon had given me a credit card with my name on it, which I could use as I pleased. I felt uncomfortable every time I used it, but I had no other choice. It wasn’t like I had money of my own to spend. Every dollar I made, I paid bills, either for the house or for Sofia. Before Sofia had left, I gave her a few thousand dollars to help her through her time at Yale. I knew it wasn’t enough, but I still wanted her to have her own money.
My father sat down in his armchair and smiled; actually, he giggled as he opened up his gift. It was the sweater he wanted. I watched as his eyes twinkled. It never took much to make my father happy.
