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She winks at me, then grins. “You could do with a bit of crazy to shake up your controlled, precise existence and force you to let loose and enjoy life. I know you’re The Boss, but spend some time as the hellion and the quiet kid too. I’d like to get to know all three characters you have hiding in there.” She lays a hand on my chest and then pats me like that’s a done deal.
Her words soothe something in me I didn’t even know was ruffled, a question I didn’t know I had. “That sounds oddly accurate.”
The quiet descends and stretches out between us, but it’s comfortable, our eyes locked on one another as the weight of my confession and her analysis sinks in. The fact that she’s so insightful but somehow not running honestly surprises me.
It forces me to think about myself some. She’s right. I have hidden a lot of myself behind my mask as The Boss. But that’s part of me as well. I’m not some melodramatic character from a movie, itching to let go of my position in order to retire to a quiet life. But I do want to be able to do . . . more.
She smiles. “Okay, let’s rewind to where we started. Tell me something that made you smile.”
She’s giving me an opportunity for lightness, recognizing that I’m uncomfortable with the unusual plumbing of the depths of my soul, my past, and my psyche. But telling her things doesn’t feel like exposing a weakness. It feels like bringing her into my mind, my heart, my past, present, and future.
I purposefully frown, screwing my face up like I’m thinking hard to even remember. “Ah, I did smile the time I put Don Rivaldi in his place for trying to start a coup in my town. That was entertaining.”
She laughs, semi-familiar with the incidents surrounding Don Rivaldi since it involved her bestie, Maggie. “An evil genius grin isn’t the same thing as a smile. Try again.”
I think back further, looking in my mental archives for what she’s asking, and then I remember. “When I beat my father at chess for the first time.”
“Ooh, that’s better,” Allie says. “Tell me!” she squeals, wiggling in her seat a bit like an excited puppy.
The echo of the smile from my youth ghosts across my face as I tell her the story. “My dad and I used to play chess after dinner every chance we could. It was our thing. He’d talk and impart wisdom. I didn’t realize at the time that he was grooming me to take over. I just thought he was sharing about his day with me. Edited versions, but sharing nonetheless.”
I think back to those nights in my father’s study. He had a classic study, all leather and oak, and the chess board had its own special table. The pieces were carved stone, obsidian and marble, the board inlaid with gold. It felt like a special board, a magic talisman to teach me wisdom. Maybe it did.
“We’d play, and he always won. I read books about chess strategies from the masters, learned different plays to counter his moves, all so I could be better. It felt like if I could win against the greatest man I knew, then I’d have really accomplished something. But whatever I did, I couldn’t beat him.
“One night when I was fourteen, I finally did it. I was so stupidly arrogant about it too, downright cocky as I strutted around with a big smile on my face and told Mom all about my win.
“But when I looked at Father, that was when I really smiled. He was so proud of me, not mad that he’d lost to a kid but proud that we’d both played our best and I’d come out on top. It took me a long time to realize how prophetic that was. I try to make sure he would always still be proud of me.”
She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair, her nails scratching my scalp deliciously. “I’m sure he would be. You’re quite a man, Dominick Angeline.”
Her words elicit a truly genuine smile from me, wide and as unrestrained as she is. “Do you play chess?”
Her laugh is infectious. “Normally, I’d say yes, but I’m afraid you’re gonna wipe the board with me in five moves.”
I chuckle, standing up. “I’ll take it easy on you,” I vow, taking her hand and leading her to my office, where my father’s chess board rests on a side table between two chairs. It’s just as it always has been, right down to the chipped bishop on the obsidian side, a product of my over-eagerness when I was seven. “It’s a game of kings . . . and their queens.”
She settles in the plush armchair, crossing her legs in front of her like a child, but there is nothing innocent in the way she looks up at me, her voice sultry and her intent clear.
