He takes a seat across from me in one of the chairs I have angled in front of my desk as he clears his throat. He reeks of cigar smoke and cheap perfume, there is no question where he was prior to this impromptu meeting. No wonder my mother ran away from him; he is a fucking sleazebag, among much more depraved things.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Father?” I say, trying not to vomit at the sound of that word:father.Armando is a sorry excuse of a father. He could give a fuck about me or my happiness. The fact that I must swallow my pride and break bread with this man sickens me.
“Can’t a father see his dear son when he is in the neighborhood?” he asks as he signals to one of his henchmen to pour him a whiskey.
I watch as the nameless idiot begins to fumble with the decanted selections that I have on the bar cart I keep in my office. Distracted by this fool’s utter incompetence at detecting which of the amber liquids are, in fact, whiskey, I get up from my desk, dismissing him from his failed attempt at being my father’s bartender.
I grab the crystal decanter as I pour whiskey into two glasses. “I’m the only son you have left, remember? Cut the bullshit, what do you want?”
I know how much he hates that I am the son he is stuck with. My older brother was his pride and joy. When he died, it sent my father into a tailspin, which forced me here, into the city I swore I’d never come to. He loathes me just as much as I loathe him. It’s a fucking miracle we both haven’t killed each other …yet.
A vindictive grin forms on his fat fucking mug as I hand him his whiskey. “Always so hostile, just like your mother,” he scoffs, lifting his glass, as if that is his idea of a cheers.
I grab his wrist, still extended with the glass in hand as I tower over him, reminding him that he doesn’t scare me. My demons are far darker than his could ever be.
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother, you piece of shit.” I release him from my grip with such force that some of the whiskey rises to the top of the glass, spilling onto his hand. I spit at his feet before retreating to my chair.
I can see the anger I have summoned in him, but he is a coward; he won’t act on it. If he knows what is good for him, he will let my outburst go and cut to the fucking chase, if he wants to get out of here as he came in—in one piece.
He reaches for the folded handkerchief in his suit pocket, bringing it to his freshly spit-shined shoe. “Touchy subject, I see.”
I scoff at his comment. The moment he killed my mother, he stole my life from me, making it more than a touchy subject. It became fucking war.
He returns the handkerchief to his pocket as he continues, “Anyway, I stopped by because I wanted to see how the arrangements are going for the firm’s Halloween Gala.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting out a satisfied sigh, only adding to his already obnoxious demeanor.
Marked Inc. has always hosted an over-the-top gala on Halloween night. It’s a way to schmooze with prospective clients and keep up appearances. It’s also our biggest night to move product. While the city is busy trick-or-treating and distracting the cops with acts of mischief or drunken bar fights, we make our moves. Running some of the finest drugs this side of the Hudson.
Gala night is a distraction. In this line of work, almost everything is a ruse. It’s easy to get away with murder when you don’t know who you are looking for or at. The Devil is quite literally in the details here at Marked Inc., and the annual Halloween Gala is a huge part of our success in being elusive.
“Yes, the gala is taken care of. Afraid I can’t handle a little carnage?” I purposely let the wordcarnageroll slowly off my tongue, hoping that it will jog his memory a bit.
“I know you can take care of it, Carmine. I just wanted to check in, that’s all. Also, if you are referring to the tragedy that happened, that was forever ago. It’s time we move on and not let our name be dragged in the mud more than it has been already,” my father says, trying to clear his throat. I clearly struck a nerve.Bingo.
“The arrangements for the gala are going the same as they always are. I’m in the middle of hiring some new talent that will aid in what we can provide our clients and future clientele,” I say with a sarcastic grin.
“Wonderful. I trust that the new hire will be safe in your hands,” he says, sipping a fresh whiskey he poured himself this time.
Oh, will she ever be safe in my hands.
Wait until my father finds out I will be having a Ricci in this office. He may croak on the spot. Ha, if only I could be so lucky, that would make the rest of my to-do list a hell of a lot shorter.
Well, one can wish.
“If that’s all, Armando, I have some loose ends I would like to tie up before I close up for the day,” I say, trying to hurry him out of my office.
“Armando? Really, Son? Ah, cold as your mother, too.”
This fucking bastard, he just can’t help himself.
I ignore his arrogant remark, I’ll have my time to get back at him, but today is not the day. When that time comes, it will be fucking glorious.
“Bye, Father,” I say with enough sarcasm that I practically sound like a giddy schoolgirl.
“Bye, Son. Men, let’s go!” Barks my father, as his two pathetic pets follow.
Finally, I sit down and grab the paper I took from Lizzie. Usually, I have my staff reach out to the new hires and deal with all that bullshit, but it is vital that I take care of this one myself.
I stare at the name and number that Lizzie jotted down on the Post-it. Reveling in the name that graces the paper.
