"Don't you mean, that I'm a grown woman who doesn't need her dad anymore?"
"No. I meant what I said."
I giggle a little at that. "I will always need my dad."
"Good," he states, gesturing to a seat. "Sit. To what do I owe the pleasure of my favourite person?"
Walking over to the spot opposite his desk while he moves back to his chair, I mull over how to delicately have this conversation. Resting my hands in my lap, I smile at him and inhale a breath of courage.
Mafioso.
When that word taunts me again, I decide to just get it all out. All my questions. Show all my cards.
"I want to ask you what you know about Max's family. About the Mafia. About Jimmy Storm. I want to know how to ignore what you know. . . about them. Because I've seen things. And I'm wresting to keep my concerns suppressed. I'll never let go of Max. No matter what you say or what I see." I pause for a moment, always having known those words to be true but never having said them aloud before. Clearing my throat, I continue, "I just. . . want to know how you handle it."
He stands up slowly and then heads straight for his cabinet, pulling out a bottle of scotch. He pours himself a drink before making his way back to his seat. Instead of drinking it, he entwines his fingers in front of him. "What have you seen, Cassidy?"
A man die at my own hands.
A woman looking at my boyfriend with true fear.
Blood and bruises and secrets so terrifying I don't even ask for them to be shared with me, afraid of what I may hear and the apathy attached to the way I may hear it.
I drop my gaze to my fingers and pick at my nail polish.
"He is not a bad man," my dad says. He nods as if convincing himself too. "I wouldn’t call him a good man either, but I'm not sure there is such a creature. . . Women are good. Men are. . . apes in shoes. We all do what we must to protect our own." He reaches for the glass, sipping the harsh liquor a few times before setting it down again . "I don't ignore it, Cassidy. . . But I don't know enough to make judgements. For a long time now, I have trusted in his ability to make the right decisions. He's clever. And he stands beside Jimmy Storm."
I wrinkle my nose in confusion, having thought he was talking about Jimmy all along. "Wait, who?"
"Luca Butcher. . . " He pauses with his thoughts, rubbing his hands down his cheeks and entwining his fingers at his chin. "How do I explain this to you? Do you know what the District was like before Jimmy Storm flew in from Sicily?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Drugs." He leans back in his chair. "Poverty. High unemployment. We are far away from the capital and the Eastern States didn't care enough to aid in infrastructure or pay us many dues. Ninety percent of the mines employed fly-in-fly-out workers from other countries or the other side of Australia. We had a tiny budget for public servants - police, nurses. No one wanted to work here, so we had poor trades and poor doctors. There was so much violence in the streets. Bashings. Breaking and entering."
My body feels strange, like my heart can't decide whether to beat uncomfortably fast or slow down. I have known for a while that the District is built on corruption; stitched into the lining of most prosperous families' pockets is that truth. It just sounds so concrete coming from my dad's mouth. "But there is still violence," I say. "Lots of it."
He smiles tightly. "Not on our streets. Not in our homes. Can you imagine if people started breaking into houses under Jimmy's watch?"
That elderly lady's distraught face flashes behind my eyes. Her harrowing cries ring between my ears. And a name - his name - finally claws out from the depths of my subconscious.Marco.
"People die under his watch," I blurt out, feeling my face pale as the truth whirls around me like a frosty breeze.
Marco is dead.
This man is dead, and he has people like me that love him - miss him. Max's cold stare bores into my mind, his impatient dismissal when all along he had known. . . had maybe even done the deed himself."The brother you want!"Xander's words blister my ears, demanding my attention. "One that can hack a guy's head off and sleep soundly at night!"
My lungs strain for air, but I try to hide it, sneaking in long, vibrating breaths.
Is Max capable of such an act?
"Not our people," my dad states. "Remember that. Not honest, hardworking people. Our employment rates are the best in the country. Jimmy secured our residents a huge tender for employment on the mines. He cleaned up the streets. He has given us wealth. Safety. I decided a while ago that I would accept the good in that man until I saw the devil in him."
So Marco wasn't an honest, hardworking person? Is that what I am to believe and hold on to like a fricking lifeline? I let that sink in, move through my body, and expand my chest, filling it with fresh air.
Blinking at my dad, I ask, "So what do I do?"
"I suggest you do the same. I didn't want this life for you. I fought very hard to keep you out of it. But you fell in love and the rest is history. I know love. And I'd never deny it for you nor push you away from it."