Leashed by Luxury: Daddy’s Mob Dream for Me

VI. Dinner & A Show(Girl)

Joles trips over the long tangle of balloon tinsel on her way to the closed-off kitchen, clearing her throat and keeping blue eyes on her bluer ballerina flats.

"You two match," Angel murmurs.

I elbow him while pulling up my stupid little club dress. "Except her dress comes from Marshalls."

He honks my ass, calling me a snob.

I swat his hand away, whispering, "Cut it out!"

He snorts. "I thought your whole problem was you were here first. So obviously she knows you f**k me."

"Yeah, like once a year!"

"Tell me about it."

"Whose fault is that!"

He shakes his head, cuffing my neck, trying to knead out the tension. "Bambola, you said you wanted her to stay. I told you I wanted calm. Don't be like this. I'll take you to bed tonight. No interruptions."

I scowl up at him. "You think all I care about is getting dicked down? If I wanted that, I have a roster of--"

"Okay, okay. Just simmer down. She doesn't really care. They don't really have monogamy for men in France. You've gotten changed together. She's ridden me a thousa--"

"Now you stop." I huff, crossing my arms. "Bragging bastard..." I bend to snatch back my panties and shoo upstairs for a shower. I feel him crotch-watching me the entire time. Shouldn't stomp; he likes the jiggle too much.

# # #

Twenty minutes later, I descend the steps in much looser attire: mint skort and a Garfield shirt. Tied my hair into a fat braid so I can swing it instead of at them. I hug my elbows. I don't want to feel like she's the new girl again and I'm chopped lingerie. I know Daddy hasn't even endorsed anything to prove that, but it's awkward. Like bowl cut, bucktooth, bottle glasses awkward.

But Joles is a peace sweeper. When I come through the kitchen door, she cheers, "Tchin Tchin!" like clinking glasses, and uncorks a bottle away from everybody. She stands in the corner, over her raincoat, so the champagne spray foams in an amicable arc.

"Yay," I say as if I've been assigned more homework, eyes panning to Angel.

He's sitting at the head of the table, twiddling a glass lighter that looks more like a cologne bottle. I get him one every Father's Day. Forgot I even shipped him one. Vintage Murano, the listing said, hand blown in Venice.

"Grazie," he says as I slide into a seat next to him.

The butane bulb's green with little thumb nub handles. We bow our heads, trying not to snigger about how it looks like the cacti print on my panties. "Prego."

When Joles disappears from the dining room back to the kitchen after pouring us each a glass, I murmur, "You haven't told her, have you?"

He shrugs, saying, "We talk as much as me and you these days. She knows what the doctor said last year, but one glass won't--"

"Don't," I insist, swiping his glass before he can. Maybe it's extra cruel to drink in front of him, but I gotta to keep up with this shitshow charade of celebration.

"Last call," he says, picking up the whole bottle.

I jostle it from his lips though he gets one swig. "More like it'll be your last house call soon. What is wrong with you?"

"I kid." He wipes his mouth. "I don't even get the shakes anymore."

"You're not supposed to get them ever."

"Then what were you doing a half hour ago?"

My eyes narrow. "You're not funny."

"Not allowed to drink, joke, have s*x. What will my Naria let me do then, ah? Maybe you'll let me off my leash tonight to go owl watch or play Mancala in the park?" He pinches my waist. "You want me to act closer to dead than--"

"I want you to live." My throat tightens, seeing how his olive tint is more green than bronze in the backdrop of evening windows. "Why is that so hard for you, to be a decent human being?"

His lip curls as he looks down into his empty cup like he got a bad lime. "Why do you have to be such a--"

Joles returns with trays of eggplant and grilled octopus. The doting "daughter," the good girlfriend. She serves us cucumber water and linens, smiles and go-nowhere stories about puppies and strange puddles she saw at the grocer's plaza off 476.

After a while, her smile dims, realizing no one's returning her mirth or anecdotes. Just sizing up suction cups and watermelon radishes that look like gaping flytraps. Pretty pink and green as spring, but carnivorous as winter for the Donner Party.

"Ehm... I am glad you and Papa...put aside your differences," she tries, turning to me and over the same strip of shallot for the umpteenth time.

"Oh, naw, don't worry. I'm just here for the heirloom salad," I laugh, showing off the pickled mustard seeds between my teeth. As if also to say, There'll be no more kissing.

She giggles but it sustains just to fill space. Then, refilling her champagne: "Papa says you're going to work at his club. How did you like it?"

His fork clatters and his eyes inflate like, You weren't supposed to say that yet.

"I'm going to what?"

"Oh là là," she says more to herself, napkining her nails. "I 'ave the worst timing today... I'm sorry, guys." She blushes, holding her cheek. "I just mean..." Her hand shakes, refilling my glass. "He said vou met at Il Vespro today. And they need help. Or events. So I just thought, assumed..."

I know she's trying to Band-Aid her statement and I make no move to filter it.

Angel eyes the bottle like he could really use it right now. To arm or anchor himself. "Naria," he exhales, throwing the cloth into his lap. "It's just a little proposal. Nothing to get bent out of shape about."

"Who said I was?" My gaze sharpens. "You're the two who're all jumpy." Like you know something sinister, something to pull at my purse strings.

They bate their breath. I think of Ra saying he'd want to see me soon, "under much more pleasing circumstances."

"Well, I'm sure I blew my 'audition' anyway, blowing chunks and all." I roll my eyes and twirl my fork uselessly in a stomach-settling bed of lettuce.

"Nonsense. You're perfect for--"

This time, Joles halts him, thrusting her glass to her lips like, You ought to zip it, too.

"It's just..." he fumbles. "You're beautiful. You're experienced. You're here in town anyway."

"Are you doing a John Mulaney bit? Say 'sike' right now." You think flattery will work on something you have to trump up like neglectful parents do boarding school?

"I was just going to ask you, sometime...if you'd like to meet my partners."

"You better have turned gay in the last five minutes."

"Na-ri-a," he groans in syllables. "Be serious. You don't even know if it's bad yet."

"Then why are you padding it all like Tampax? Can't be good."

"Is a million dollars not good?"

"Yeah, right."

"Right, right," he emphasizes the wrong way. "Obviously not all at once. Overseas money. Odd jobs until...a contract."

I glug straight out of the neck of the bottle, just to rub it in. Plum my teeth like his most Saturday nights I was growing up. "Are 'meetings' what you call orgies? 'Overseas accounts' the hip, new term for international trafficking? My god, Angel, you will never change. Still don't have the balls to inform me anything. Everything is a backroom deal for me to get backdoored. What, you need money for your stupid spudding liver? Just SHOOT STRAIGHT next time, and I'll decide which jobs I wanna take, what little coins I'll wanna toss in your coffer purse!"

He gnashes his fangs, and we're glaring at one another, snarling across the walnut table like two chained dogs. I know if Joles wasn't here and he had one more drink in him, he'd backhand me.

"Felice Festa del Papà! Father's Day, just how I always remember it." I excuse myself from the table before he can lunge at or lecture me. But at least I'm considerate enough to take the poison with me.