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That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was the twelve Gypsy Brothers sitting around awkwardly sipping on coffees.
‘Ma,’ Dornan chided. ‘What the hell are you doin’ back here with this lot?’ His mother, a short, blonde woman in her fifties, raised one manicured eyebrow as she extended a slender arm to her mouth and sipped her coffee.
‘The boys have been filling me in on your latest endeavours,’ she said, her Queens accent as strong as it had ever been, even though she’d been in San Diego for the better part of thirty-five years. ‘Seems your father’s gotten himself into a dire situation.’
Dornan balled his fists angrily, glaring at the brothers. ‘Everybody,’ he said, deadly calm. ‘Get the fuck out of this room and into the kitchen. Now.’
Most of them appeared grateful as they dumped their cups on the coffee table and high-tailed it out of the room in a stampede of leather and heavy footsteps. Once the last Gypsy Brother had vacated the room, Dornan turned to face his mother. She made no move to stand as her son towered over her.
‘You know,’ she said, glancing down into her coffee, ‘I used to take you and your brother to the park when you were little. You liked the swings the best. When it was time to go home, you’d scream and beg me to stay.’
Dornan softened slightly; he never could stay angry at his mother, even though she did have a nasty habit of sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. He already had Emilio breathing down his neck with every step he took. He didn’t need his mother keeping tabs on the club as well.
‘I’d pick you up in my arms and carry you away. You were probably only three or four.’ Her blue eyes sparkled as she reminisced. ‘You used to yell, “Help! Mommy, help me!”’
Dornan’s mouth twitched up at the memory.
‘You looked nothing like me,’ she said, some of the joy having leaked out of her voice. ‘You were all your father. Still are.’
Something inside Dornan’s chest buzzed painfully as he crouched down in front of his mother.
‘Ma,’ he said gently, trying to catch her gaze.
Her blue eyes filled with water as she finally made eye contact with him.
‘Not like your brother,’ she whispered. ‘He was just like me. Just like me.’
Dornan recalled a small boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. A boy who never got old enough to leave high school before he was gunned down on his way from school as retribution for something Dornan couldn’t even remember anymore. A casualty of the war that never seemed to end.
‘Ma,’ he repeated softly, taking her free hand and squeezing it between his own palms.
‘I worry about you,’ she said plainly, her eyes still glassy. ‘You’re all I’ve got left.’
Such a display of emotion was rare from his mother; she almost always maintained a ruthless calm that served her well. Her reputation was that of a woman to be feared, a cartel queen who has earned her right alongside the king. But here, now, Dornan saw the fear inside his mother’s eyes, and that fear pulled at him.
‘You don’t need to worry,’ Dornan said, giving her hand one last squeeze before he placed it back in her lap.
He stood and turned to leave, her final words like a knife in his chest.
‘That’s what your brother said,’ she murmured.
* * *
His mother’s vulnerability had rattled him. Still, there was business to attend to, so Dornan did what he was best at: pushing away everything else and focusing on the task at hand. He’d become adept at compartmentalising things after Raph had died. If he didn’t push the dark things down into the abyss inside him, he’d be eaten alive by rage.
In the kitchen, things were finally happening. Emilio still presided over the head of the table, Julian by his side. Dornan’s men sat and stood around a spot beside Emilio that was obviously meant for him. Dornan glanced at the empty seat beside his father before taking a spot at the opposite end of the table, directly opposite his father.
‘What’d I miss?’ Dornan asked, folding his arms across the Gypsy Brothers crest that adorned the leather cut he wore.
His father turned his eyes up to acknowledge him before returning to the map in front of him. ‘Los Angeles,’ he said briskly. ‘Who else do we know who supplies?’
Dornan frowned. ‘That’s the thing about a monopoly,’ he answered. ‘Nobody else supplies, Pop. We’re it.’
Emilio didn’t look impressed.
‘We’ve got a shipment of meth coming, right?’
Emilio continued to stare at his son, a small shrug of his shoulder the only indication he had heard the question.
