Leashed by Luxury: Daddy’s Mob Dream for Me

XIII. Daddy's Ghoul

I don't cry but my ducts feel full. Like there are li'l ducks floating above the waterline, waiting for the fountain to spurt from the corners. Grumping back to my room, I keep my lip buttoned even if it's quivering out grumbles. Rounding the threshold, I dive back into my bed, enfolding myself in Daddy's deadweight embrace.

He hiccups awake as I nuzzle deeper into his stubbled neck. "Wh-- Bad dream?" Sleepy blinks.

"...Sorta." I sniffle, knowing I'm playing it up a bit, but I need that warmth so bad. What he may offer anyway, but I want to be sure as solid gold.

He kisses the crown of my hair. "What about?"

"…That you were mad at me." A lump in my throat impedes more explanation. Close enough. My sugar daddy does sound mad at me--or at least severely disappointed and bewildered. And he doesn't even know the worst of it. Who I'm sleeping with in all ways. And I don't care if I'm acting like a trite trollop. Getting under to get over Daddy's old wounds and new ones, digging the void vaster. I'll give him a chance to prove Gio wrong, me right. I'll nest as his little doll if just to stroke my ego...and other parts. Stay home tonight, as he insists, because I can't face Giovanni...or the rational side of myself. Don't want to... Is it any worse than drowning myself in drink like Daddy?

Angel sighs, rubbing my back, whispering, "I don’t even have time to be mad at you anymore, bambina. Or the energy."

That waters my eyes more and I point the pools up at him as if accusing. A pitiful puppy.

"I know, I know," he groans, thumbing down my bangs. "I'm no good at consoling. And you've done nothing wrong. I just mean..."

My fingers curl into his shirt, clutching by the heart, bringing up comforting wafts of cologne.

"I don't know what I mean. But don't be scared. Just...mindful."

My mind throbs with the reminder that this could be manipulative, a preamble to when he asks worse of me with the silent, 'But I'm sick...' But I want to be shielded, too, swaddled--even if it's in his webs. "I am... I will be." The words come out small and wiggly as worms I'm puking up. I do have dreams like that. That I'm coughing up sequins and coins and sand and rope.

"Mia brava ragazza," he murmurs into my hair and I hate how much it soothes me. Like tea and a blanket, a pretty plush stuffed under my elbow... Makes me feel brave for doing jack s**t. As my lungs refill, prickles of apprehension tickle around my ribs. My good girl, he says. His obedient plaything. His porcelain doll burnt Vatican brown. I don’t associate the phrase with Joles this time, even as I hear her giggling downstairs amid twinkling coin collection sounds.

He’s not holding her right now. I haven’t even seen him peck her in my presence this visit… A sign of respect during theis delicate time? I'm becoming the tables-turned favorite, dare I hope?

The fuzzy feeling free-falls as his phone lights with midnight texts. His eyes wander, but his hands remain.

He says, “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the park and we can feed the geese like back in the day. You’ll get that gelato. I won’t complain when you inevitably drag me to a boutique or flea market.”

“Wow,” I giggle, jiggling the water beads before they egg-break down my face like Dalis. “You must really not be doing well.”

He tickles my sides, barbing, “Brat,” flat with a smile. Then, “Thatta girl. Save the waterworks for the lake’s spring.”

I exhale emotion, inhale the scent of his shirt: chestnut and detergent. Gradually nod off, thinking of swans and pinecones. Swaths of ants swimming in fig jam jars. Snuggling on picnic checkerboard, cloud shadows gathering between splayed arms and legs. Listening to the cicada songs, stomach-down on the sheet, crunchy grass poking through old woven fibers as Angel prods and praises and pumps me from behind.

Blowing a dandelion into the breeze that’s sprinkles get snatched up and chewed on by an oily blackbird… Something akin to peace. Ephemeral as (each of) us. This (day)dream, it’s still the moon crescent I want to hammock in.

###

I wake to paragraphs of apologies from Giovanni. Yet I don’t text more than a curt “Thank you.” as pine needles tickle what my platform Y2K sandals can’t protect.

Daddy coughs into the fist he feeds squirrels with.

I don’t call it out. If my countenance does, that’s another story. Speaking of stories, I’m also not bitching about him playing the Art of War audiobook while we toss Raisin Bran and trail mix to whatever woodland’s around.

“You got me acting like an old man, after all,” Daddy murmurs next to the cautious, hopping cardinals.

“Well, get used to it. You’re gonna be old for a long time,” I pray into the ether.

“Aye aye, capa.” He salutes as reinforcement.

I squint, trying to blur how sharp and bruise green his cheeks shadow under certain light.

Before I can comment something positive, a “Hellooo,” hops out behind me. I twist around.

Emmi twirls a bamboo parasol with Chinese egrets and metallic stars.

“Oh, um,” I squeak instead of “hi,” stuck on Daddy’s texts last night.

Reading my confusion, Emmi collapses her ombrello halfway to point at the courtyard beyond the hedges. “Rafaelle’s hotel and trattoria,” she clarifies.

And my brows bundle up. Of course Angel would conveniently take me here: a woods with nothing remarkable for the intended purpose. Guess he’ll be feeding me to Ra or his munchkin in a mesh T-shirt dress.

“You forgot something yesterday,” she says, sliding something off the handle of her sun protection.

In my palm, she deposits my pearl bracelet. Resurrected like Gesù. Restrung good as new. Now with a charm weighing down the middle. The initials I V etched in embossed ivory. The microscopic gold moon and stars surrounding it specify that it must mean Il Vespro.

If she was hard to hate before…

If I thought Angel’s schemes and shady club were nefarious before…

They should have jeweled me a bespoke silver lock after swallowing the key.

I should have known.

But I just bite back the dread, say, "Oh my god, you shouldn't have!" when she brags she gathered every saltwater stone herself. Swept the seats and heavy curtains. Indented hand and knee to backfire whatever good luck she was telling me about yesterday. Oh, aren't I fortunate? Favored by the gods?

I'm starting to think I'm their favorite prey to poke at with sticks and celestial staffs.

Angel pauses the military diatribe groaning on in a droning decible. He leans down to look at my upcycled omen. "Did you lose something?" he asks, and I can't tell if he's that far out of the loop from age or arrogance, getting secretly sauced, or has that much gall to play so deadhead dumb. "Well, that was awfully nice of Emmi to return in. Leave her li'l mark. See, you're already part of the place." He latches to my back, whispers, "Look. You've got a girl friend. A family. Our worlds are melding. Mending. Isn't that sweet?"

"Awfully," I agree through semi-clenched teeth. "Melting. Smelting. Like lock and key. Lock and key." This smile is already giving me lockjaw. And that's before Daddy suggests, while we're here, around the nieghborhood, why don't we see what Ra's up to? Get Naria that gelato that totally is what I've been hung up on, not Daddy's plans and actions coming across more saccharine.