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“Why are you getting married, anyway? You already are.” He slumps back down to the chair as I return to mine.
“We’re renewing our vows.”
“Why?”
“Do you want to ask me something I can answer?”
“Okay.” He points to the glass of Scotch before me. “Can I try some?” He smiles cheekily, and I take the tumbler, turning it in slow circles as I regard him. Then I push it across the desk and sit back, watching as he takes it coolly, all Billy Big Bollocks. He takes a healthy mouthful.
And chokes.
“Man, that’s disgusting.” He gives the glass a filthy look and pushes it back across the desk to me. “Does all alcohol taste like that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m never drinking it again.” He sticks his tongue out and wipes at it with his palm. “Gross.”
“Only real men can drink Scotch, kid. You’re not a man. But you will be one day.”
“Am I staying with you and Mom until then?” he asks, fiddling with his knot, trying to loosen it.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, hoping for the answer I want and actually need, not only because he’s not safe with Hilary and Derek. Daniel’s “father” is minus one kneecap and his marriage is on the verge of collapse.
“I like it here,” he says, but it’s reluctant. “I miss Mom . . . Hilary . . . my other mom and dad, but”—he shrugs—“I dunno.”
The kid’s not even fourteen yet, so it’s no surprise he’s struggling to express his emotions. “You feel bad,” I say, taking my drink. Guilt. It’s written all over his face. He feels guilty for wanting to be here. Take away the crime, of course, and what you have is a mansion with all the trimmings—gym, tennis courts, a pool, cinema room, and a whole lot more. But it’s all irrelevant. No kid can survive with only material things. In addition, he has Esther, who faffs and feeds him, two Vikings to take on, who are, apparently, shit hot at Call of Duty, and an army of other father figures around him. This isn’t a regular life, but when it’s stable, it’s a good one, and it’s obvious Daniel likes being here. Plus, and what may top it all, it’s the safest place for him to be.
“But if I go back, I’d feel bad for Mom. My real mom.”
“Your real mum is a warrior,” I say, winking, unwilling to tell him that it would break Rose if he chose Hilary and Derek over her. Rose would accept it. But it would kill her. Having Daniel here was never going to be ideal, but I’m working on it.
He smiles. “What happened to your dad?’
“He died.”
“I heard he knew Al Capone.”
I laugh, and I can’t deny it’s slightly nervous. Who the fuck told him that? “Al Capone was before my dad’s day,” I say reaching for the drawer and pulling it open. “My dad would have wiped the floor with Capone.” I place the photo of Pops on the desk, smiling at the sight of him—his cream suit, shades, his customary brandy and cigar, his full head of hair, albeit silver.
“That’s him?” Daniel asks, claiming the picture and studying it, looking a little awe-struck. “He looks like a movie star.”
It’s exactly what I thought the day I first saw him getting out of a flashy Merc in a dirty old alley in London. “That’s him. The infamous Carlo Black. I called him Mister.”
Daniel’s eyes shoot up. “And you’re kid,” he says, his lips stretching into a grin.
“I’m kid.” Fuck me, I have a lump growing in my throat. I clear it and throw back more Scotch, my glass pausing at my mouth when I hear the dogs in the background going ballistic.
“Granny Esther let them out to feed them,” he says, and I smile at his fond reference to my mother. Fuck, I hope she’s keeping them away from the cake.
“Why are they barking?”
“They don’t like the priest,” Daniel says.
“Father McMahon’s here?”
“Granny Esther’s feeding him too.”
I laugh under my breath. Everyone around here will be as big as a house if Mum has her way. I reach into my inside pocket and pull out my phone when it rings. “Go throw the ball for Cindy and Barbie for a while,” I order him quietly as I stare down at the number, ready to take the call. Ready to end this. “Don’t get your suit dirty.”
“Sure.” Daniel jumps up and speeds out of my office like a whippet, slamming the door behind him.
I flinch and answer my phone. “Leon.”
“Your gorgeous jet ski just exploded into a million pieces,” he says, sounding mesmerized. “Fuck me, D-Boss.”
I’m not surprised. There was enough C-4 to take out a cruise liner. “The time? Exactly.”
“Exactly twelve twenty-one.”
“Good.” I neck the rest of my Scotch and slam my glass on the desk. “Lock up and get your arse over here.”
