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Flattening my tie, I walk towards the cigar lounge on the far side of the house, paging Que to bring my mother to me as I go.
* * *
Within a few moments,her voice proceeds her high heels. “Well, what a lovely invitation to receive.”
I lean back, nursing my liquor, watching her approach in a white blouse and navy satin pants.
This room is dim, intimate, and perfect for deemed privacy. I’ve not used it since Jimmy died. He used to have gatherings between these walls. The kind that ended in lust-filled exhibitionism. I liked it then. Now, I want nothing more than to watch my little deer in any capacity.
Through the sliding doors to my left, an outhouse with a sauna stands and I’ve taken my fair share of women in that space, even under the eye of Jimmy’s strategically placed surveillance.
I make a note to take Fawn there, have her spread her pretty, white thighs, sweat and come while I watch.
Returning my gaze to my mother, I say, “You have been asking me for a drink for months now. I’ve been busy. So, I am making time for you.” Nodding to the opposite sofa chair, I order her to sit.
Que heads towards the raised corner bar, readying himself to be at my disposal for beverages witha twist.
Across from me, another whiskey waits, and within the brown pool is a concoction consisting of a few things, namely sodium pentothal—otherwise known as truth serum.
I’ve used it in the past in interrogations; theCosa Nostrahas used it throughout history.
Its street name is a lie. It is not a magical serum that forces the user to spout the truth through fighting lips. It is, however, a sedative that relaxes the brain and inhibits clever thinking. It fogs. The facts are easy to recall, whereas it’s far harder to construct a lie when under the influence.
She slides onto the ruby-hued sofa and reaches for the short glass, eager to start drinking.Good girl.“What has brought this on, Clay?”
“I wasn’t pleased with the way you spoke in the meeting a few days ago,” I reprimand with a hint of distaste. “I wasn’t happy with the way youappearedeither. Is my father treating you well?”
“He does his thing.” She stares into the translucent dark liquor, thrilled by it. Her old friend. “I do mine. Clay, you have far more important things to concern yourself with.”
I deadpan. “I concern myself with whatever I choose, Mother. And right now, that is you.”
“Well, I thought you wanted me to lay off the alcohol. Always so concerned about me. What has caused this sudden change in your disposition?”
She isn’t a fool.
Remember who she is.
“I do not like you drinking. I do… find myself often protective over you… But Fawn is pregnant,” I offer as a way to explain my change of heart, my desire to discuss my future, discussmotherhood.“I’m making an exception tonight while I find myself in a position I never thought I would be in. And perhaps, you are the only person to understand my predicament. I never wanted children,” I say, lifting my ankle to rest on my knee. “I was contented with my brothers producing heirs for theCosa Nostra.”
She folds one thigh over the other, sipping her whiskey. Her eyes rest on my face easily. “I’m pleased you put the girl to use, Clay.”
I clench my jaw; she is not worthy to have an opinion on Fawn. My lips slice into a smile that is entirely lethal. “She is not like you,” I say, bearing the acid on my tongue as that was phrased as a compliment.
“I’m like you.” She rocks her top leg over her other. She’s comfortable in a man’s space. She knows it. She’s stared at the misogyny in our business with venom pursing her red-painted lips. It must have bred hatred in her. “I should have been born a man.”
“I don’t enjoy children.”
“Neither do I,” she says matter-of-factly. “You were barely a child to me. Raised by theCosa Nostra.It was only your brothers who were children to me. But you won’t be stuck with your children, Clay. She will. You won’t have to concern yourself with them. Just make them. You can come and go as you please and fuck whomever you want. That is your right.”
I sip my whiskey, wishing for a cigar, but I won’t smoke inside anymore. Reaching up I rub my jaw, contemplating her words. They are full of bitterness. Her tone, masking a true motivation. I let the time, her contentment, and her deemed status as my equal pass between us as she drinks.
Finally, I say, “That’s not what you want me to do.”
“Yes. I do,” she presses, with a smile that is anything but wholesome, curved in a way that suggests she cares little about Fawn; only what Fawn can give us. “I’m glad you’re not falling all over her like your brothers’ do for their women. It makes me so disappointed. I’m glad you’re more like me.”
“Not like my father?” I pry, watching her liberally enjoy the liquor. “He was never around either. You want me to be like him and—”
“No, Clay. Your father is soft. Your father was never around because he spent most of his life grovelling over—” She smiles wryly, and I glance at her half-empty whiskey. “Never mind. You, you have always been more like me. Not soft for anyone. We’re the same.”
