In the world of criminals, trusted friends are few and far between.
As I reach the office door, the eerie quiet on this side of the mansion is enough to confirm I came to the right room. My father, a man of intimidating calm and confidence, prefers quiet in his domain. Lost in his phone, he fails to acknowledge my presence when I walk in, likely lost in a business deal.
“Daddy,” I say, trying to grab his attention, but his focus is elsewhere. I roll my eyes as he continues to text away with nothing more than a grunt. “Donnie said you needed me,” I add, louder now as I move closer to him, finally stealing his attention away from the phone.
My father looks at me—observing me from head to toe before giving me a mixed reaction: repulsion and annoyance. “Malia Alya,” he says, disapproving.
I know it’s because of the outfit I’m wearing; I’m guilty of showing a lot of skin. I don’t understand what the problem is, since I’m in my home. But I imagine a father doesn’t want to look at his daughter walking around half-naked most of the time.
“Has anyone else seen you like that?” My father asks, raising his voice.
I roll my eyes again, my typical response to his disapproval. Not much gets under his skin, at least not that he allows others to see. But my choice of attire today sure seems to have done the job.
“Malia.”
“I have clothes on,” I motion to my short shorts and tight crop top.
“Fucking where?”
“Relax, I was in the gym.” I can’t help but giggle at his repulsed expression. I don’t have many soft spots, and neither does the man in front of me, but I was daddy’s little girl.
“Like that?”
He’s stalling. My father’s posture stiffens as he glares down at me. I glare back with green eyes that match his. The way I’m dressed is nothing new, and his carrying on like this means I won’t like whatever he has to say.
“Did you need to talk to me about anything besides how I dress in my house?”
He knows I’ve caught on to his game, but he isn’t finished yet. I was already in a foul mood, and he isn’t helping.
“I can’t take you seriously right now,” he sighs. “God, I will not have any men left if I must kill them all for looking at you.”
My father has a slight English accent that tends to get thicker the more irritated he becomes. Though he’s lived in America most of his life, I imagine it was something he gained from his parents growing up.
“I can handle myself, Daddy.”
“I am sure of it.”
I wait a moment before speaking—hoping he’d get to the point so I can be on my way. But this seems to be a spoon-feed type of situation.
“What do you need, Daddy?”
Yes, I am a twenty-five-year-old woman who still calls her father “daddy.”
“Your brother seems to think you can help us with a situation.”
I watch his body language, but he is the master of covering his true thoughts. I can’t read much. Besides, he’s also assessing me.
“I’m listening.”
“We have a federal agent hell-bent on taking us down,” my father confesses.
“Aren’t our hands deep in their pockets?”
“Yes, but not this one,” he said, crossing his arms back into his usual stance. “He blames me for the death of his parents.”
We’re used to seeing murder and revenge in this life; we aren’t taught empathy. Not a day goes by when some poor soul isn’t begging for his at the end of one of our barrels. Cutting someone’s lifeline becomes almost second nature, but despite being born into this life, not everyone’s cut out for it.
“Are you to blame?” I ask though I know the answer.