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“Well, Stitches is a nickname,” Stitches says, sipping from his gin and tonic. “My real name is Francis Ferro. I go by Stitches because I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” Ernest raises a condescending brow.
“Might as well be. I went to med school. But I left that lifestyle for a greater calling, you know what I mean? They call me Stitches ’cuz I can patch you right up if you get hurt—bullet wounds ain’t nothing to me, you know? This one time, Fabio, he got shot in his baby toe. It was blown right off. We put that thing on ice, and then I grabbed a needle and thread, and how long do you think it took me to reattach it? Take a guess!”
Ernest merely stares at him, looking at us with a face that questions if he’s wandered into an insane asylum.
“No, really, take a guess!” Stitches waits another few seconds, but when Ernest still doesn’t play along, he rolls his eyes and swats a hand. “Aye, you’re no fun! I had that little baby toe good to go within the hour. Let me know if you ever need anything, mayor. I’ve got connects with the black market for medications too. I hear from that Chadwick fella you’ve got some serious medical issues.”
I don’t even need to intervene watching Stitches piss Ernest off. He’s almost as good at it as I am. As he mentions Ernest’s medical issues, irritation sharpens his features. His almost-black eyes narrow and the muscle in his cheek can be seen working—I’d bet money Ernest is gnawing on his tongue, he’s so damn annoyed.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss my private medical situation,” he snaps.
I jump in. “Don’t think you have to suffer alone. I’m here for you, Ernie.”
“I’m also here for you, Ernie,” Stitches adds.
“We’re all family,” I say, pushing the mint julep Linq hands me into his hand. I throw my arm around him and begin walking toward the terrace. “Speaking of, how about I show you my grill? We’re going to be getting a lot of use out of it this summer for barbecues. Maybe you and I can grill out back sometime. Lots of father-and-son-in-laws enjoy that kinda stuff.”
“Don’t call me Ernie and get your fucking hands off me, Mancino!”
Ernest’s roar comes out louder and more aggressive than he means for it to—several people’s heads jerk in our direction with alarmed looks on their faces. Delphine’s coworker, Carlos, grabs his little girl’s hand and steers clear of Ernest, as she asks her daddy why the man in the tie is being so mean.
It dawns on Ernest a moment too late that he looks like the asshole. People are around with their families.
For the first time, Ernest stands before me looking frazzled. Salt or Pepa might as well have his tongue.
“Dad?”
Delphine enters the opposite end of the room alongside Medjine and Sasha. Her tone is equally as startled as the looks he’s received.
Ernest chokes out, “Delphi… there you are, sweetheart.”
“Was that you raising your voice?”
“What—well—I—” he stammers, another rarity for him.
I toss an arm over his shoulder. “Ernie just gets a little passionate sometimes. Don’t you, Ernie?”
I’ve never wanted to bust up into laughter more than this moment. It takes every ounce of composure I possess to maintain my bearings, to keep up my charade. The revolted expression that crawls over Ernest’s face, his nostrils flaring, when I put my arm around him again and call him Ernie is hilarious.
It’s fucking priceless.
If only we could take a photo.
The best part is the trap of it—he can’t react with another outburst, and he knows it.
Delphine eyes the two of us, almost more disturbed by my friendliness than by Ernest’s yelling. She approaches us, dripping of caution and discernment like only Delphine can. We await her judgment, aware it could go either way.
She could call me out for my acting. She could call Ernest out for his behavior.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says to him.
Relief eases the tension in Ernest’s expression. “Delphi, sweetheart, of course I would. I wanted to see you and my grandson.”
“Dom is taking his nap, isn’t he, Phi?” I ask, stepping over to her. My arm slides around her waist and I pull her into my side. The gleam in my gaze dares him to react.
Say something else, Daddy Adams. Act a fool one more time. Look at me with my hands on your daughter.
