I look quickly around the large function room. I met a lot of these people when I was younger, when Dad would take me to ‘work’ with him.
I used to love it when he brought me along for a ride in his limousine, what he called his ‘office’. It wasn’t until I found out what he actually did that I stopped asking if I could go.
Truth be told, I hate it here. I just wear this sham smile, maintain this pretend poise, so Dad doesn’t get on my case about it later. Ironically, I’m just doing what everybody else is.
The women, of course, do it best. It takes an especially skilled woman to survive a marriage to a gangster. These are the kind of men who can go from placid indifference to boiling rage in just half a heartbeat. These are the kind of men who are never wrong. These are the kind of men who all keep girls on the side.
The bartender clears his throat. “Why don’t you rescue him? Duncan, I mean.”
I notice that some of Duncan’s easy charm is starting to fade as his patience frays. Soon he’ll get bored of this.
“Nah,” I say to the bartender. “He looks fine.”
I stick my tongue out at Duncan, bring a big grin to his face.
Eventually the crowd around him disperses as they pick up on his signals, and he swaggers over to me, his wide shoulders swaying, and a sexy smirk prying his lips to the side.
He’s got a soft but neat shadow on his face tonight, lining the iron cut of his jaw. His black, careless hair only serves to emphasize his brilliant blue eyes, but also brings out something of a boyish quality in him, something that can’t be quashed by the fighting scars.
He sits down beside me, and then tucks his head my way conspiratorially. “Never thought I’d fucking get rid of them, Dee, Jesus Christ.”
“You wanted this,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows.
“I never wanted this,” he says, gesturing at everything in particular.
“Don’t lie to me, Duncan. You always wanted to be the best.”
“In the cage,” he grunts. “None of this sparkly shit. I don’t need it to fucking sparkle.”
Idly he fiddles with his cufflinks; he’s unused to them. For his first time wearing a full three-piece suit, he looks damn fine in it, though.
The suit slims his muscular body, streamlines him, smoothes him out. It’s the inversion of his usual, rougher, less refined and more boxy dress sense: An old leather jacket that highlights his broad shoulders, jeans and boots.
“You look good,” I tell him. “Seriously. You should wear a suit more.”
“You look better,” he says, meeting my eyes. I feel zapped by energy still, every time our eyes connect. He leans into me and whispers, “You look very fuckable in purple.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you’d been working on your adjectives.”
“I’m a fighter, not a writer.”
“Yeah, well keep your voice down, the bartender knows Dad.”
Duncan spins around, eyes the old man who asks him if he’s having anything.
“No,” Duncan says. “Nothing for me.”
“Don’t drink?”
“Got a fight coming up.”
“What, tonight?” the bartender jokes.
“Alcohol affects your body for days after consumption,” Duncan tells him matter-of-factly, his voice low and uninterested. “I’ve got a fight in days.”
“Right,” the bartender says, moving quickly up the other end of the bar.
“So, how are you liking your big night?” I ask Duncan.
“I never fucking asked for this. This is for your father.”
“I know.”
“He wants to trot me out like a fucking show dog.”
“I know, Duncan,” I say. I touch his arm briefly, quell the turbulent tide. “I don’t want to be here, either.”
“He wants to show you off, too.”
“No he doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “He only wants me to be here because if I’m not, everybody will talk. They’ll ask him where his daughter is, and he’ll get embarrassed he doesn’t know. Now, he knows. He can point at me when they ask him that.”
“You’re the brightest fucking person in this room, Dee, even if your father doesn’t see it. I caught Falcone’s boy looking at you.”
“Shut up,” I say. “Stop teasing me.”
“I’m not. He was staring, had a dirty fucking look in his eyes, so I had a word with him.”
“You what?” I ask in disbelief. “Duncan! You can’t fuck around here.”
I scan the crowd, pick out Falcone’s boy, a short man with his father’s cuboid head, and a neck that swallows his chin like quicksand. He meets my eyes, then catches Duncan’s, and looks away instantly, ears burning.