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“Claws, can we focus on Nero, please?”
“He was in her office. I overheard their conversation. He said he was at school checking up on his future stepson.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “He means Eli. Apparently, he was speaking to Ms. Foster about Eli. And he threatened Ms. Drysdale. He said she owed him money and if she didn’t get it to him by Christmas, she’d be in trouble.”
“Sounds like the smartest person you know has a bit of a gambling problem.”
“It was her ex. I don’t know why she’s responsible for his debt or why Nero came himself instead of sending a soldier, but it was disgusting. He said he could pimp her out if she wanted to pay off the debt sooner.”
Thinking about it makes my skin crawl all over again. Daddy would’ve never allowed this in the Triumvirate. He always said the skin market was out of bounds.
“She should consider it,” Antony smirks, sloshing his drink as he leans back into the sofa. “Nero pays his girls well for the shit he makes them do. And he likes to do the shakedowns himself. He relishes lording it over the plebs. But she’s not our problem. I’m concerned about Captain America. It sounds like Nero has taken an interest in him. And he knows our little secret.”
“He won’t tell.” I have to believe that.
“Meow,” Queen Boudica agrees.
“You know we can’t take that chance.”
“You’re not hurting him. You’re not touching him,” I growl.
“I’ll do what needs to be done to keep this family safe.” Antony glares at Noah. “That includes you too, now, Dark Horse. I’m giving the two of you until Thanksgiving to sort him out, or I’ll invoke a more permanent solution.”
Eli
My favorite guard is on duty again – the comedian who calls me Your Highness. This time I slap a hundred-dollar bill in his hand and tell him not to give me any trouble. He skips my pat-down and I get to keep my phone with me.
Dad’s in a good mood. He hums into the mouthpiece as I settle into the hard plastic chair. “This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you on a school day.”
“We have some things to discuss. Mom says you’re getting a divorce.”
He sighs. Lines crisscross his forehead, and I notice again how much weight he’s lost. There’s no Southern cooking in prison. “For better or worse, Eli. That’s the vow she took. But she’s decided this counts as worse than worse. With the appeal coming up I can’t risk upsetting her, so I’ve agreed. I can’t fight her and my creditors.”
I get it. This is the price she’s demanded for working on his appeal and pretending to the media we’re one big, happy family. Southern women stand by their men, even when they turn out to be scumbag body-brokers like Walter Hart. Just like everything else about our family, our united front is another lie – just a mirage used to broker deals and get a leg up in the world.
Dad squirms in his seat. My silence makes him uncomfortable – Walter Hart believes that everyone adores him, that he’s cleverer than anyone else, that he’s in control of every situation, but his self-worth doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. “You don’t want to hear about your old man and his troubles. I’ve come up with a plan for you to take over the business. We’ll reinvent ourselves under a new name, new everything. It’ll be brilliant, you’ll see—”
“Dad,” I clear my throat. I’m not here for him to pull my future out from under me. “Last time I visited, I told you about Mackenzie—”
“That bitch giving you trouble?” His eyes narrow. “I still have connections, son. I can make sure she doesn’t bother you—”
“No!” I cry out. His eyes open in surprise. “I mean, that’s not what I’m here about. Seeing her has made me think about the past, and I have some questions about things I don’t understand. Mainly, why you were so opposed to our friendship in the first place. Why did you and Howard Malloy fall out?”
“We had a deal go sour, son.” Dad laughs. “That’s how it goes in business. You’ll learn when you’re in the real world.”
I carefully slide the folded photograph I printed out from the pocket of my jeans. I hold it up in front of the glass, in such a way that my father’s body blocks the camera in the corner from seeing the image. “Who’s the guy in this picture?”
When Dad sees the photograph, his jaw tightens. I know that look. It’s the look he gets when he’s been caught in a lie or someone cuts through his facade. It means he’s in damage control and a load of bullshit is about to fall from his mouth.
“Where did you get this?” His voice is even, but I can see the vein throbbing above his temple.
“A friend found it in an archive of deleted photographs on your computer,” I say, turning the photograph toward me so I can look at it, even though I know exactly what it shows – my father sitting in a plush leather booth at some club with a cigar in his mouth and a woman on his lap wearing a dress so tight I can see her religion. He leans in to talk to a man with a hooked nose and eagle eyes that match his brown designer suit, while another scantily-clad woman drapes herself across his shoulders. I tap the other man in the picture. “My friend knows this guy’s name – Brutus August. Apparently, he was high up in the August crime family when this photo was taken five years ago. Care to explain why you’re buddies with a crime boss?”
“Son, you need to tell your friend to stop digging around in the past.” Dad leans in close, the corners of his mouth pulling back into a smile that’s more of a snarl. The skin on my neck prickles. I know this version of my father, and I hate him. “If that picture comes out in the media or makes it into my appeal, I’m up shit creek without a paddle.”
I lean forward and slam the picture against the glass. “I’m trying to help you. But I need you to tell me the truth.”
Dad leans back in his chair. That cold smile never leaves his lips as he taps the edge of the counter. He makes me wait for several moments before he answers. “That man was my contact. He put me in touch with the right people in my line of work. Interested buyers and such.”
“Buyers for body parts on the black market.”
