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“He doesn’t like Sicilians, son. He is a swastika tattoo away from a Nazi.”
I prepare us two whiskeys and sit back down opposite my father. Leaning back in my wingback chair, I rub my jawline and hum. “True.” I raise my glass, saying, “cheers.” I take a generous mouthful before setting the glass down.
When my mother swallows hard as though she may vomit, I measure her up. She is oddly quiet, holding her stomach in a protective way. “Are you well, Mother?”
She smiles stiffly, even for her. “Very.”
I shift my gaze between my father’s even stare and her hooded one, sensing a significant issue in their relations. Body language screaming they are amid an argument. Not something I have time for.
I note her tired eyes, dots of blood speckling the whites. “Are you hungover? Do we need some kind of rehab for you?”
My father folds his arms across his chest. “Your mother has always been a drinker, Clay. You have far more important things to take care of than—”
“Than my mother?”
“I am sitting right here. And I do not have a drinking problem compared to themenwho have started their whiskeys at 7.am. Thank you very much.”
Butch barely reacts as she climbs to her feet and flattens her dress down her thighs before wandering from my office with a slow sway. “Excuse me.”
Frowning at her mannerisms, I watch her leave. I don’t like that. Pressing my intercom, I speak to it. “Que, get my mother some water and take her outside for fresh air.”
Finished with that disruption, I return my attention to my father. “My police informant, Marius, sent over a list of known Patch Members and Prospects that we may find living in the compound. Only ten or so actually reside there on a regular basis, it seems.” Readying myself to deliver a regretful truth, I sip my whiskey. He sips his. I chase the burn with the facts. “You will not be needed. In fact, I would prefer if you were not actively a part of these kinds of operations.”
Blue eyes stare blankly at me.
I go on, “You may be stronger than most men, but you are not swifter and not stealthier.”
Unimpressed, he says, “Never missed a meeting.”
A meeting.A hit.Such words are synonymous with large scale execution in theCosa Nostra.My father has been by the Don’s side for half his life, offered his greatest years, and his sons to the Family agenda. Now, though, he has earned leave.
I stare at the man who had little to do with raising me, but with whom I share blood and unparalleled respect. “I know you haven’t,” I acknowledge smoothly. This has nothing to do with his capabilities. “That’s the way Jimmy ran things. With you both at meetings. A presence. Intimidation. I don’t need you on the frontline anymore,” I declare. “Moving forward, my face is the only one theyneedsee. And you’revaluableto me in other ways.”
He grips his glass, his eyes cast down, losing focus within the pool of brown liquid. I’ve undermined him. I know. But this is the way it must be. I won’t put him in danger in his sixties. “I’m a liability, is what you mean, son,” he firmly states.
“In this case, yes,” I admit with due esteem holding my tone. Then I chuckle. “You barely fit in thatdamnchair, and you’re going to sneak around a compound at night? Climb through windows? I think not. The plan is this, we fly to Dubai in a few days. That will give me time to organise safe passage and reinforcements while we are there. I leave the women and children there. Bronson, Max, and I fly back. We require only the minimum number of men on this—four others, perhaps. We get in and out of the compound undetected. We finish it. And we fly back to Dubai to get the women. Do I have your support in this?” I ask, wanting the last word on major operations that rely entirely on his sons to be spoken by him.
He assesses me. “And you bring Dustin out with you?”
“Yes. We retrieve him from wherever he is hiding and bring him backaliveif we can. To the gym. Where we finish this once and for all.”
Setting his whiskey down, he leans back. “You have my support. But let me give you some advice, son. You should not run theCosa Nostraalone. You will drown if you do it all. Who will you rely on?”
“Am I not relying on you as we speak?”
“You are seeking council,se?But you need more men. You needloyalmen,”—He points to the wall, waving his finger, a Sicilian mannerism deeply engrained— “out there.”
“I understand. I intend to make these alliances at the matches I’ve organised. The Irish, the Family, the entire District underground will be there.”
He nods his approval, blue eyes fixed on mine. “Allow me to run those events for you, son.” He pauses, and the silence thickens with the kind of sentiment my father rarely shows me. Over the last few years, he has changed, admittedly. He is dedicated to his family now, to my brothers, his grandchildren… I consider myself outside of those properties.But… his eyes fixed on mine, soften, and my chest tightens.
I don’t have time for this…
My muscles coil, wanting to leave the room under this new energy. I clasp my hands. “I need to manage these events,” I ground.
“Clay,” he starts, his tone a foreign empathetic timbre. A sombre drawl so entirely unfamiliar, I’m thrown as to who is addressing me. “I know I wasn’t there for you.”
What the hell is this?
