Page 2
Two raps. Pause. One more.
Dad.
Out of pure habit, I check the security monitor just to be sure. Not that Ramsey would know my father’s special knock. Nor would he bother trying to impersonate anyone but himself. The prick has too big an ego for that.
Once, I found that ego weirdly endearing. Now… fuck him.
As predicted, I open the door to find Charlie Reyes standing in the hall with a bakery box in one hand and a tentative smile on his freckled face.
He looks older lately.
Maybe it’s the way his shoulders aren’t quite so stiff anymore. Or his relaxed posture. He’s not weaker. Just… less braced.
I pretend to scowl.
“Morning,” he says.
“You’re late,” I say.
“It’s seven-thirty on the nose.”
“Exactly.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s right. You used to be up at five.”
“I still am.”
“Well, I’m not. So, seven-thirty will have to do.”
“Retirement has changed you already,” I say, and he snorts.
I step aside and let him in.
He sets the bakery box on my kitchen island and looks around as if reacquainting himself with the space. He probably is. I can’t remember the last time he came here. When he was a general, he stayed away to keep Vincenzo from coming around. Lately, though, I’ve been the one too busy running a pack to spend time. Or maybe I just can’t bring myself to go to that house anymore. Too many painful memories inside it.
Guilt tugs at me, but I shove it away.
“I forgot how much light you get up here,” he says, blinking at the view.
When my mother got sick, he closed every curtain in the house. At first, it was to keep the light from bothering her eyes. After she died, it was because he couldn’t bear the way it illuminated what was missing.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Of course not.” I watch as his gaze swings from the window and catches on the large canvas hanging above the fireplace. Where bright streaks of cobalt blue are run through with neon yellow paint slashes. “It’s… cheerful.”
I arch a brow. “Careful.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and opens the box he brought. The scent of sugar and fried dough fills the air. Cannoli. My favorite.
He pretends not to watch for my reaction, but I know seeing me smile makes him feel better. Even if it is over something as simple as a cannolo.
We move around each other with a familiarity that feels comforting. He gets us both a plate. I pour him coffee. Black. No sugar. He snags three napkins. One for me, two for him. We sit at the small table by the windows where the sunlight warms my arms and legs. The city stretches beneath us, steady and stubborn.
For a few minutes, we just eat.
It’s unhurried.
I try to soak it in, the ease of being able to sit here with my dad. No phone dinging, demanding he report to Vincenzo. No crisis for me to solve after one of my idiot friends pissed off the wrong person. No tension between us that we’re fighting on opposing sides.
