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Shit.
“Please, mister,” sobs the waiter, throwing beseeching eyes over my shoulder. “I think he’s going to kill me!”
“Oh, he’ll do much worse than kill you,” says Aiden calmly. “I should know. I trained him myself.”
“Jesus, JESUS!”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, turning out his lights with a well-placed elbow to his temple before rising to my feet to meet my old mentor.
He’s leaning against a counter, ankles crossed, eyes narrowed, with his lit cigarette held loosely between his fingers. Cool as British fuck, but I can tell he’s pissed as fuck too.
“What the hell are you doing, Edier? This is a social gathering, not a backroom brawl.”
“Show’s over,” I snip back.
“The show never should have started in the first place. What happens when Santiago finds out about this? It’s his daughter’s eighteenth birthday, for Christ’s sake.”
“Finds out about what?”
My father appears in the doorway, dominating the space with his regimented censure, and dropping the temperature in the kitchen down to around minus fifty.
Cursing under my breath, I watch him take in the two unconscious men at my feet, my bloody fist, and the knife in my hand.
His expression tightens. “What happened?”
“Nothing that won’t disappear from this kitchen in the next five minutes,” says Aiden, diffusing the situation briskly. “There was a minor disagreement over the wine list. Your son was only too happy to put them straight.”
“Edier?” My father transfers his glacial glare my way. “Care to elaborate?”
“The Chablis didn’t agree with me,” I reply tonelessly.
The resulting silence stretches on and on until I’m tapping my knife against my thigh in irritation.
“Go back to the party,Pá. We said we’d sort it, and we will.”
“See that you do.” With one final glance at the waiters, he disappears back into the hall, just in time to miss my slow, mocking clap at his departure.
“I think that’s the most he’s said to me in six years.”
“Try listening for once.” Aiden chucks his packet of smokes at me. “If you did, you might hear whispered words in those cold, empty spaces.”
“Maybe I have selective hearing when it comes to his bullshit.” I take one and slot it between my teeth before chucking the packet back at him.This isn’t the first time Aiden’s tried to address the growing abyss between me and my father, but some things cut too deeply to ever be stitched that neatly. “Growing up with Joseph Grayson was like living in a soundproofed room.”
“Then, you should have shouted louder.” He’s thoughtful for a moment, smoking away, until one of the waiters stirs with a moan. “I’ll tell Rick’s men to drive these fucking idiots to the nearest hospital… Here.” He tosses his lighter at me. “Since you’re so keen on lighting fires these days, I suggest you keep it.”
It’s an old chrome Zippo with the faded initials ‘J.K.’ engraved into one side.
“I can’t take this. It was your father’s.”
“His memory is more than a lighter, Edier,” he murmurs, heading for the door. “Sort this shit out with your old man, or that silence is all you’ll have left. What does your ma think about it?”
“Says she’s living in hope, but she’s living in ignorance.”
“Christ, you’re just as bloody stubborn as he is.”
“Are you calling Sanders, or shall I?” I say irritably.
Aiden sighs and flicks his cigarette butt into the sink. “Fix your hand, while I fix your mess, and then we’re re-joining the party. The only thing getting spilled for the rest of the night is my whiskey.”
