and Chris?" he asked, moving to the liquor cabinet.
"They pull guard duty when I need to handle business."
"I have my own men here."
"I see that," I agreed, then walked over to make my drink. My father was not someone who played host. And maybe in his position, I wouldn't either.
"Sit down," he demanded, glancing at Giana. "No, the other side of the table," he commanded as he took the head. He wanted her in the back near the wall facing the doorway, so her father would see her when he came in. My father wanted to watch Leon sweat. He got off on that shit.
I didn't wait to be instructed, taking the spot next to Gigi. I figured if I was the one right next to her, I would be the one my father commanded to put their hands on her if it came to that.
"So how has our little prisoner been behaving?"
"She's been a model prisoner," I lied easily, as I had been doing to him for years, my whole life, even. "Quiet as a mouse," I added, watching as Emilio and Chris bit into their cheeks to keep from smiling. "You'd almost think she enjoys imprisonment," I added, seeing Gigi's brows draw together slightly, not understanding why I would make that statement .
Until my father spoke, of course. "Well, where's the fun in that?"
I didn't know much about how my father interacted with women. My mother up and disappeared when I was young, so I never got to really study their dynamic.
I had no delusions about my father, though.
Chances were, my mother hadn't disappeared.
She was dead, tossed in the ocean or the woods somewhere.
That was how my father handled problems. With a bullet and a grave.
I had always assumed he would see women as a problem. He was simply validating something I had thought all my life.
He was rough with women.
Yet another thing I thankfully hadn't inherited from him. Maybe I had never treated women seriously, had always thought of them as temporary, but I had never treated one poorly, let alone hurt one.
"Always good to have fewer problems," I said, shrugging. "We always have a lot going on."
To that, he grunted, toying with his drink.
"So what do you think? Did the stupid bastard scrounge the money up, or what?" he asked, seemingly to the room at large.
But it was Giana who spoke up, surprising us all.
"I wouldn't count on it," she said, glancing over at my father.
"Your life isn't worth a couple grand?" he goaded.
"To him? Probably not."
"Oh, I would probably even pay a couple grand to get him back," he said, waving his glass at me.
I could feel Emilio's gaze on me, angry for me, but I had long since stopped being offended by my father's lack of regard. I just needed to stay in his graces enough to keep my position, so that when he died, I got the family. Everything else? It didn't fucking matter anymore.
In a strange way, I felt like Gigi and I were kindred there. I wanted my family legacy, she hers. And we would put up with damn near anything to get that for ourselves.
Time ticked slowly, marked by the grandfather clock wedged in the corner, that had been in our family as long as anyone could remember, but—like the rest of the place—in need of some love.
But my father just didn't have any of that to give.
Then, finally, we could hear the front door opening, making all of us—save for my father—straighten.
Beside me, Gigi took a slow, deep breath. I shouldn't have noticed the way it made her breasts strain the front of her dress, but I would be a liar if I said I didn't.
Leon walked in, the carefree gait of a man who was invited to dinner, not one who owed money to a mafia boss. He even took a second to offer my guards a nod and tight smile before making his way into the room, focus intent on my father.
"Lastra," my father greeted. "Do you have my money?" he asked, not one for small talk.
"Well," Lastra started and I could feel my eyes rolling already. "I have some of it. Unfortunately, it seems like our safe was robbed a few nights ago," he added, and my gaze went to Giana, knowing it had likely been her, to get what she needed to get out of town, to get away from us. That said, if it had been any significant sum of money, I was sure