He scoots up to the bar and takes a stool. I sit next to him. “Happens to the best of us,” he offers as condolence, and waves down the bartender. A few seconds later I’ve got a tumbler with a finger of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich single malt in my hand. Spada swirls his in his glass, takes a careful sniff, then a sip. Then he lifts his glass, inviting a toast.
I answer, tapping my glass against his. “To your dad,” Spada says, catching me off guard. I mumble a response and take a drink of the whisky. It’s so smooth that I can barely tell when I swallow it.
“I was truly sorry to hear about your father,” Spada goes on. I nod, trying to seem gracious even though this is the last thing I want to talk about right now.
“Thanks. It’s been a rough time for the family.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. I had a previous engagement last weekend.”
I nod, not sure what to say. As many condolences as I’ve accepted over the last two weeks, I’m still not sure how to respond to them. “Thanks.”
“Cancer, was it?”
I nod again. “He was sick for a while.”
Spada shakes his head. “Fucking awful disease. Can’t just take your life—it has to take all your dignity, too.” He takes another drink from the tumbler then lifts it for another, wordless toast. I tap my glass against his, take another sip. It seems like a waste to drink this stuff too fast. “Damn shame,” he finishes, shaking his head.
I can’t tell if he’s serious or just saying what he thinks I want to hear. “Yes,” I say. “He was a good man.”
“That he was.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence; I take another sip of the scotch.
I’m not sure if it’s the movement I see out of the corner of my eye, or if my ears somehow manage to pick up the sound of Sarah’s voice, but I turn quickly, just in time to see Sal backhand her. She flinches, taking a step back. Instantly I start to move toward her. No fucking way I’m letting him get away with that shit. That’s no way to treat a woman—
“Let it go.” Spada’s hand on my arm stops me. I try to jerk away from him, but his fingers tighten, hard enough to leave bruises.
“You’re kidding me,” I grit out.
He gives me a look of quiet tolerance, like I’m a three-year-old throwing a tantrum in the middle of a Walmart. “Nick. Nick, I know you want to jump to her rescue, but it’s not your business. You don’t tell a man how to deal with his woman.”
I look back toward where Sal and Sarah are standing, my teeth clenched so hard it aches into my temples. She has the back of her hand pressed against her mouth, and Sal is still up in her face, his mouth twisted and ugly as he spits words at her. Spada’s hand loosens slightly on mine and then tightens again when I move closer.
“Seriously? You let him act like that here in front of everybody? Wives? Girlfriends? Daughters? You’re gonna stand here and let him do that like it’s okay?”
Spada glances toward the two of them. I can see his eyes tighten just a bit in response, like maybe deep down somewhere, Sal’s actions do have an effect on him. Then I remember seeing Sal’s wife, back in the day, one time when she had on too much makeup and it still didn’t cover the dark blotch under her eye. And in that moment I want to backhand Sal himself, or pull out a gun and pop him one between the eyes.
I don’t have a gun, though, which is probably fortunate for both of us. Spada drags his gaze back to me and says in a low voice, “Sal brings in good money. He’s one of my top earners, and he deals with things.” He turns back toward the bar. “He can do whatever he wants.”
I clench my teeth again. This time I hold back the words that want to come out. They won’t do any of us any good. Instead I just nod and down the rest of the scotch. I don’t dare turn to see what’s up with Sarah; if Sal’s hitting her again I won’t be able to control myself this time, no matter what Spada has to say about it.
There’s a faint sound, and Spada pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s ringing, a snippet of some old Sinatra song playing on repeat as the ringtone. I shake my head a little. Sinatra. Stereotypical much? But Spada’s never really been known for having an innovative mind.
“Right now?” he says into the phone. Then he grunts. “Fine.” He puts the phone back in his pocket and finishes his tumbler of scotch.
“You have a good evening, Nick,” he tells me. He pats my shoulder and moves away, across the room.
I want more than anything to turn around and see what’s going on with Sarah. But if I do, and Sal’s still hitting her, or even still in her face and screaming at her, I’ll probably do something I’ll regret. Well, not precisely regret, but something Spada won’t approve of. And things Spada doesn’t approve of aren’t going to get me where I want to be in this organization.