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The woman ignores my irritated tone with her response.
“Oh, he’s in the back with Boyka. I can take you there after we take you to bed upstairs.”
How much is he paying these women? We’re still struggling to get Jalousie off the ground and he spends all his money on Slavic hookers.
“Not interested. I have a meeting with him.”
“Are you sure?”
I don’t dignify them with a response. I walk past the girls, keeping my eyes away from their bodies. Where the hell is my father? I pass the long hallway with the family portraits and follow the loud music and the louder giggling from near the pool. The familiar sound of pool jets betrays papa’s location.
He’s in the fucking hot tub again, I know it. He spends all fucking day in the hot tub, dishing out orders and expecting work to happen without him lifting a fucking finger. It’s a fucking miracle anything gets done around here.
My father chuckles loudly, and I brace myself before approaching him. He’s the boss and you don’t question the boss, even if he’s your father and even if he cares more about partying and women than our family — than our future.
When I enter the back patio, the pungent smell of tobacco and marijuana surrounds me. Judging by the bottles of vodka on the ground, the piles of cigarette butts and the other piles of detritus, they’ve been at this fucking party since last night.
Fuck. I put the cigarette tucked behind my ear into my mouth and approach my father’s outdoor speakers, unplugging them and stopping the little dance party happening around his hot tub. Three women, each wearing next to nothing with their tits out belly dance for him while he chuckles loudly, his fat stomach causing waves in the hot tub. When the music stops, they stop too and look up at me indignantly.
They don’t have to ask who I am. The ones who don’t know Van Doukas can tell that I’m related to Sal. I have my father’s eyes, but thankfully, I don’t have his overweight body or his bald head. The girls make booing sounds at me, but I brush them off.
“I’m here for our meeting,” I say sternly to papa.
He chuckles and nods. “Yes. The meeting. I almost forgot.”
Almost? He doesn’t look like he’s fucking prepared for a meeting.
Papa dismisses the girls, except for one — Boyka. She slides into the hot tub next to him, twirling his thick plumes of chest hair around her fingers and sliding his freshly cut cigar between his lips. Nauseating. Papa coughs after a puff and taps the cigar over the edge of the hot tub.
“You’re early.”
“I’m twenty minutes late.”
“Oh?”
“Papa, you said it was important. Shouldn’t we conduct this business alone?”
None of the girls are dumb enough to rat on Salvatore Doukas, but unlike my father, I don’t see the sense in taking risks.
Boyka’s hand moves down my father’s chest and I don’t want to imagine what sorry shriveled part of him she touches next. I just want my orders so I can get the fuck out of this bachelor pad.
“I’m getting old, Van,” he says. “I’m getting old.”
He didn’t call me down here to bitch about his old age. I furiously puff on my cigarette, waiting for him to get to the fucking point. Papa grunts as Boyka touches something… sensitive. Cristo…
Watching my father grunt through a hand job might be the only thing worse than watching him stick it to a woman.
“Do you mind postponing your fucking hand job until later?”
Boyka’s hand rises guiltily from the water and I choke down bile. She really was touching the old fuck. I shouldn’t swear at him or set him off. Papa might seem old, but he can have me killed. Any of my brothers would do it if he gave the command. Tread carefully, Van.
“Maybe I should leave,” Boyka says, giving me a flirty glance as she plays with her tiny pink nipples.
“Yes,” I snap. “Please get the fuck out of here.”
Papa scowls. “Be respectful, Van. Boyka is a very dear—”
“I said please.”
