He’s attractive in a more seasoned way than his sons, but it’s easy to see where they get their godlike good looks. My attention goes deeper than the surface, past his hair that’s cut short and combed back to reveal a widow’s peak, his chiseled features and sleeves rolled up to show tan forearms sporting a Rolex on one arm and a simple masculine bracelet on the other. I read people—it’s what I do. So I narrow in on his eyes, a light hazel color that he obviously didn’t pass on to his sons, a slightly unfocused, glass quality to them.
Mr. Dolce clinks his glass against mine and takes a sip. “Like what you see?” he asks.
“I was just noticing how much you look like your sons,” I say, forcing a laugh, my whole body on high alert. As well as he holds himself, he’s drunk, or well on his way there. Not that I’m surprised—it’s got to be around two in the morning by now, and he’s sitting up alone. He must have had a drink with Royal earlier, and that’s why Royal came back smelling like whiskey. He was probably already drinking, and if I had to guess, I’d bet he hasn’t stopped. Suddenly, I’m not just edgy because he’s a rich guy and the father of the boys who torment and fascinate me.
He’s an intoxicated older man, and though I’ve had plenty of practice avoiding those, this isn’t one of my mom’s hookups. This guy has power. Not just because he’s an adult or a man, either. He’s filthy rich, and more than that, he owns Faulkner. He took down an entire family, the founding fathers of the town, who had plenty of money and power to fight him. And they were a big family, with cousins and uncles and distant relations all over the place. Through bribery and inside deals, he put his own family in their place and claimed the town as his own. He can do anything, have anything, that he wants.
Royal’s words flash through my head—You’re just his type. Almost legal.
If he wanted me… Well, I’m sober and could probably take him, but if I couldn’t, there’s not a damn thing I could do about it afterwards. No one would believe me. I wouldn’t even bother calling the cops whose salaries he pays, taking it to court before a judge he got elected, to convince them. The mayor himself kisses this guy’s ass. Maybe he’s a mafia boss himself. He’s quiet, but power lurks inside him, even scarier because it’s hidden like a secret.
This guy raised the three monsters who run the streets and enforce his rule like hired thugs. I know better than to say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but I also know that no kid can grow up unscathed by their parents’ influence. Even the father I’ve never met affects me, whether I like to admit it or not. I’ve internalized his absence, categorized it as part of my worth. Every day I see ways I’m like my mother, and I consciously make an effort not to fall into the same traps. Everything I do is colored by her influence, and at least some of what those boys do is colored by Mr. Dolce’s.
The question is, which part?
“Don’t be shy, have a seat,” Mr. Dolce says in that New York accent that sounds so sharp compared to the southern accents I’m used to. There’s something about it that commands obedience, just like his son’s. I can see where they got their alpha dominance thing. I want to walk away, but something holds me there, some edge in his voice that says he won’t stand for any bullshit. I’ve never had a problem disobeying authority when I needed to, but this guy… He’s not just an adult, an authority figure. He’s like a fucking god.
It strikes me, too, that this is a great chance to get a different perspective for Mr. D. I’m not just talking to the sons of his enemy. I’m in the belly of the beast, after all. I’m staring at the living heart, the head, of the family. I sink onto the very edge of the chair, making sure I have a direct line to the door if he makes a move. Instead, he sits down behind his desk, leaning back and studying me as intently as I studied him when I walked in. “So,” he says, slowly circling his glass in the air with one hand. “You’re Royal’s little plaything.”
I cringe at the term. It’s bad enough when Royal uses it. Hearing his dad use it, knowing that he told his dad something like that about me, is all kinds of creepy.
He chuckles at my expression. “My sons don’t do a lot of dating,” he says. “Or whatever you kids call it these days. I’m sure you know that by now.”
Maybe not dating, but they do plenty of fucking around.
“So being Royal’s plaything, that’s as close as you’ll get,” Mr. Dolce says. “It’s a privilege most girls at that school only dream of.”
I bite my tongue so I don’t tell him exactly what I think of his astonishing ability to patronize a perfect stranger.
He stares at me for a long moment, like I’m supposed to answer.
“Well, I’m sure I’m flattered,” I say, forcing another smile.
“You should be,” he says. “You know, I pictured you as a blonde. You actually look a little bit like my daughter. The hair, I think. Her eyes were darker, though, like Royal’s. And she dressed better.”
Okay, then. He’s a straight shooter, I’ll give him that. Considering the mind games his sons play, it’s a bit refreshing. Most adults spew nothing but bullshit, empty platitudes and fake niceties. This guy doesn’t pull any punches.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I say, finishing the shot of whiskey and setting the glass on the desk. “I should probably go back to bed.”
“Stay,” he says, waving a lazy hand and pouring me another shot in the bottom of the fancy glass. “I insist. I usually only see my sons’ girls on their way out in the morning.”
“Lovely,” I mutter.
“Oh, don’t get worked up,” he says. “Royal doesn’t bring girls home like the other two. That’s why it’s nice to finally meet the one he’s been spending time with, see what she’s made of. What she’s after.”
I know he’s just looking out for his son, but it’s still offensive.
Or it would be if it weren’t one hundred percent true. While I’m not after money, I walked my ass down here looking for answers. For dirt. So I can’t exactly complain when he calls me on my shit.
“I just want to understand him,” I say honestly.
Mr. Dolce chuckles and rises from his chair, coming around the desk. I scoot back in mine instinctually, putting space between us. He stops right in front of me, parking his ass on the edge of the desk, so I’m at eye level with his crotch. Resting his hands on the edge of the desk next to his hips, he leans down toward me. “You darling girl,” he says with a patronizing smirk. “Dolce men are too complicated for the likes of you to understand. There’s only one thing you need to remember. Give us what we want, for as long as we want it. When we’re done, keep your mouth shut, let us forget your existence, and your life can go on as you like.”
I swallow hard, knowing a threat when I hear one, even if it comes from smiling lips and is delivered in a purr of a voice. I grip the arms of the chair, cursing myself for sliding back in it, so I can’t dive out of it without getting real fucking close to Mr. Dolce, close enough that he can grab me. But if he expects me to give him what he wants and keep my mouth shut, he’s in for a surprise. I don’t give people anything they haven’t earned, and even then, only when I want it.
Mr. Dolce leans back so he’s not in my face and picks up his whiskey glass again. “You look alarmed,” he says. “Isn’t that what all the girls at school do for my boys?”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself, that they’re Royal’s boys, not his. But they are his boys, Royal included. And he’s right. That’s all I’ve heard since I started at Willow Heights—how you have to obey the Dolces, that if they call, you have to let them do whatever they want to you. And though they must have fucked nearly all the girls at school, I really don’t hear much of it from the mouths of those girls. So they must be keeping their mouths shut, letting other people do the talking and spread the gossip. Even the Waltons, who are apparently gunning for the position of official girlfriends, have never told me they fucked the Dolces.
The closest anyone’s come is when Gloria told me how to recover from a blowjob from all three of them, obviously lying when she said she hadn’t been in my situation. And that was a private conversation between the two of us, and she knew I wouldn’t talk. Suddenly, I wonder how much of the gossip about the Dolce boys is even true, and how much is rumor and speculation based on what an outsider sees. They saw the Dolces take me to the basement, and everyone assumed they ran a train on me. They did nothing to combat that rumor, even though all that happened was one blowjob. They let their lore grow.
If I hadn’t seen Duke and Baron double-teaming a girl, I’d wonder if it was all fabricated. And even that was one girl. One time.
Again, frustration wells inside me, and I get that feeling that every time I find out something, I end up even further in the dark than I was before. Do I know anything real about them at all?
“I should go,” I say. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Oh, but we’ve barely started,” Mr. Dolce says, leaning forward and bracing his hands of the arms of the chair this time, caging me in. “Just because you’re my son’s plaything doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, too.”