Chapter 5
Parades
Aleks
Dash texts early. Too early.
Puck Pad Thanksgiving Parade Invitees
Dash:
Be here or you suck.
He shares his location and I stretch, “Fuuuuccckkkk.”
It’s early enough that Central Park West is still mostly quiet when we arrive, barricades half set, cops sipping coffee like this is just another morning. No crowds yet, no balloons, just the city waiting for all of that to start their tradition.
We get there before Noelle on purpose.
Dash lets us in, and it’s evident in his excitement that this is a reveal.
“Okay,” he says, hands in his pockets, looking around like he’s seeing it again through our eyes. “So. This is the place.”
Marshall lets out a low whistle. “You didn’t mention it was a whole damn building.”
“Didn’t want to oversell it,” Dash says, dry.
Faulker moves toward the front windows, clocking the width, the ceilings, the way the light settles. He understands real estate the way other people understand simply surviving.
“This isn’t a random find,” he says.
Dash shakes his head. “Costello’s friend owns it. Bought it years ago and now he’s in Europe and ready to sell, but quietly. Didn’t want to list it, didn’t want strangers dragging brokers through it.”
“So, you slid in,” Marshall says.
“Short-term rental,” Dash corrects. “Sixty days. Furnished. Option to buy if I want it.”
“How much?” Marshall asks the question I wouldn’t ask, but yeah, it’s got to come with a massive price tag.
“Seventy-five a month,” Dash says easily. “To buy, we’re talking fifteen. Depends on how hard I push, but Costello already vouched for me. I’m in if I want to be.”
That part hangs in the air.
He nods to the stairs, “Galley is on the second floor.”
“Galley,” Marshall chuckles as we all follow.
“What sold me wasn’t just the space,” he says. “It’s the location.” He gestures up. “Parade’s a bonus. Roof deck’s ridiculous. But this—” he turns east now, toward where the city drops away, “This is the part that matters.”
“Pembrooke’s straight across the park,” I say, already knowing where his head is.
“Ten minutes,” Dash confirms. “Less if you cut through at Seventy-Ninth. Close enough that it’s normal. Not hovering. Not inconvenient. I don’t want her feeling like I built a shrine around her job, but I also do.”
Faulker nods. “You want her close.”
“I want her comfortable,” Dash says, pouring coffee. “I want to see how she feels walking into this place. If it feels like too much. If it feels right. I’m not buying anything permanent without that.”
I watch him as he says it. The way his voice stays steady, but his shoulders don’t quite relax.
“She’s coming later?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “She was up writing at four. She’ll come by once the parade gets loud enough to distract her.
My mom and sisters, Paul, Moretti, Claudia, and Savannah, and their families will be here for the parade.
Koa and Nalanie may show with his folks and her grandmother.
They flew in at two this morning. Then off to The Bridgeview. ”
He didn’t mention, Tsarina, thank God.
The doorbell chimes. “Okay,” Dash slaps his hands together and rubs them, “I don’t want to freak her out. She thinks I rented this place for the holidays for my family. I want it, I just need to know if she could too.”
No one jokes. No one fills the space.
We drink our coffee and let the house settle around us, knowing the real verdict won’t come until Noelle walks through the door and Dash can sense if she feels like it’s a home or a statement.
“Holy shhhh,” one of his sisters says as they walk in. “I thought you got an Airbnb, not a freaking mansion.”
“We’re celebrating.” He laughs.
“What exactly?” Celeste asks.
“Briar making the Dean’s list, you on high honor—”
“I’m always on high honor,” she says.
He looks at his mom, and she tells her. “But you just took over the number one spot in your class.”
“Really?” She beams, and their mother nods.
Briar holds out her fist for Celeste to tap. “So that little AI-using snake Ralph can suck it.”
Faulker chuckles as we all step away from the railing where we’re all watching them. “Can’t wait to have kids.”
“You’d be a good girl dad,” Marshall smiles.
“Oh no.” Faulker shakes his head. “I will be a boy dad only. One dick to worry about, not dozens.”
“Not sure that’s how it works.” I snicker.
We’re all on the roof, it’s unreal. From the dark stone slabs underfoot to the glass railing disappearing into sky.
Heat lamps hum softly, fighting the bite of late fall air.
Central Park stretches out in front of us, a wide green pause in the middle of the city that reminds you that not everything is about making money.
Below us, the sidewalks are packed, and the parade route coils and waits.
Savannah shifts once, settles against me, her tiny, gloved hand pressing against my chest like she’s testing whether I’m real. I am.
“You can’t move when they’ve dressed you in a straitjacket.”
“It’s a snowsuit,” Noelle laughs.
“I know what snowsuits are,” I look at Savannah. “This is a bit much, isn’t it?”
She makes a face like she’s got something to say, but then her eyes dart up over me, and she goes still. I glance back and see it. Not even the balloon yet. Just massive, colored fabric.
Her fingers curl into my jacket like she wants to climb to get a better look.
“Alright, little bit, let’s move for a better view.” I turn and do just that.
She makes this slight, surprised sound, and then she’s tucked against me, arms around my neck, little boots swinging, and then her face presses into my shoulder like the view might hurt her eyes or perhaps her feelings.
This is the first time I’ve held her, and I don’t want her to cry. “Don’t blink, it’s times like this you should always remember.”
When more of the balloon comes into view, Savannah inhales sharply and then laughs, fingers digging into my shoulders like she’s anchoring herself to me.
“You’re too young to feel like you have to hold on, but the perfect age to learn who you can trust. Everyone here Malyshka, will make sure you can reach for the sky without you ever having to be afraid of being swept away. We got you.”
She lifts her head, eyes big, smile growing, and I cannot imagine being a parent like what my brother and I had, battered and abused, or like Mikhail, an extension or tool instead of being terrified to see them in harm’s way but putting them there purposely.
“You’ll be a good father one day,” Faulker says.
“My children would loathe me,” I state.
“What the hell makes you think that?” Moretti chuckles.
“I’d have them in one of these straitjackets until they were my age, carry them around so they could not be harmed.”
“You raise them to let them go,” Marshall informs me, as if I don’t get the gist of it.
“Exactly why that will never happen.”
I hear giggles behind me and glance back. One of the girls who was with Sofie Fairfax last night is holding up her phone.
“Delete that,” I sneer.
“No,” Noelle gasps. “That’s gold.”
“Gospodi,” I mumble.
Marshall sets his phone face down on his lap, leans back against the heated leather seat, and looks out the window like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “You think they’ll have real food?”
“Real food?” Faulker chuckles.
“I want my mom’s homemade stuffing and lumpy gravy.
Green bean casserole, and turkey my uncle cooks in the fryer.
” He clears his throat, like he didn’t mean to sound homesick.
“They’re probably all at my aunt’s by now,” he adds.
“Everyone talking over each other. My dad trying to act unemotional about football, which he pretends not to prefer over hockey. What about you guys? What do your families do?”
Faulker exhales a quiet laugh. “My family treats meals like state functions. Multiple courses. Assigned seating. Generational recipes that haven’t changed since someone wore a crown unironically.”
Marshall turns, interested. “Wait. German royalty is a thing?”
“Was,” Faulker corrects. “Very much was. Titles, estates, expectations. For them, Thanksgiving is less turkey, more roast goose or venison. Potatoes are done six different ways. Bread that takes three days to make, always made by the staff. Then everyone politely discusses politics they absolutely agree on.”
“And you?”
“I eat. I nod, though, silently disagreeing on most of it. Then I disappear into one of the wings of the house and hide until dessert,” Faulker says. “Black sheep perks.”
Marshall grins. “Your home sounds intense.”
Faulker snorts. “You asked.”
Marshall shifts, looks to me. “What about you, Killer? What’s your family Thanksgiving like?”
“My brother’s military, if we’re together, we eat when we can. Whatever’s hot. Usually, pelmeni or borscht. Black bread. Pickles. Something strong to drink.”
Marshall frowns. “No turkey? No stuffing?”
This kid... “You do realize Thanksgiving is an American tradition, yes?”
Marshall opens his mouth, then closes it and chuckles, “Okay, fair.”
Faulker leans in, clearly enjoying himself now. “Germans and Russians didn’t steal land from Indigenous people and make a whole holiday to celebrate it.”
Marshall winces. “Jesus.”
“I’m just saying,” Faulker continues. “Different cultural baggage.”
Marshall thinks about that for a second, then laughs despite himself. “Okay, okay. But when all the crap over there ends,” he gestures vaguely to me, “What are Russians and Ukrainians eating together?”
I shrug. “Whatever survives the destruction.”
Marshall cringes. “Brutal.”
“Honest,” Faulker states.
The car slows as they pull up to The Bridgeview, lights warm through the windows. Noise already spilling out.
Marshall straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. Fake family dinner. I can do this.”
Faulker smiles. “It’s not fake. It’s found. Some of us prefer this. Others,” he lifts a shoulder. “Lucky.”
I open the door and slide out. “We eat. Be decent. Don’t ask too many questions.”
Marshall grins. “So basically, Thanksgiving.”
“If you say so.”