Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
EAMON
Ileave the Black Sheep with enough time to grab a shower and some lunch before meeting up with Garron and Dax at the Bay Boxing Club. My father should be arriving shortly based on the live flight tracker.
Cindel caught me off guard today, showing up early like that. Each time she turns up, those easy eyes of hers make my job that much harder. It would be simpler if she wasn’t around to see the destruction I leave in my wake.
Steam fills the shower as I stand beneath the stream, watching the droplets roll off me and onto the tile floor. I need to clear my mind. My hand finds my dick, recalling memories from earlier this morning. Squeezing gently, I glide over the head back and forth until I find my release.
Time is a fucked-up construct. It was only a couple years ago I was present in my life and shockingly happy. I had a purpose and felt like I was grounded.
Now, I would freely lob off my own hand to go back during a time that stood still. Keeping business and pleasure separate, my apartment was on the other side of town off Liberty Drive. Unless I intended for that person to suck my dick, no one came here but me.
I dress in a black button-up and tan slacks, forgoing the formal business jacket for my father’s arrival.
I like to give him the middle finger in any subtle way possible.
I close the clasp on the band of my Rolex and make my way to the main room.
Thanks to the designer, my kitchen has top of the line appliances, microwave drawer, and my favorite: a countertop ice ball maker for my whiskey.
Hell, even the fridge has a television in it.
I open the stainless-steel doors to find a couple bottles of water, a withered apple, and expired leftovers.
I don’t like cooking or being in the kitchen; it was never a part of my repertoire.
I do know that everything works mainly, because my last partner was an excellent cook.
During that season of my life, I barely wore pants.
I was either fucking or too well fed, to bother with slacks and a belt.
I pull out my phone to place an order from one of my regular takeout spots.
Maybe I should send for someone to at least stock my fridge.
I shake away the idea, with the realization that this kitchen will never see activity like it had before.
Grabbing my keys, I look back at the large empty sink in the island which at one time would have been filled faucet high with dishes.
It was once used, cluttered, and chaotic, but full of laughter too.
Now, it’s devoid of everything. Lifeless, clean, and quiet. I hate this place
Parking just outside the steel building, I quickly make my way inside.
One of the larger grunt workers who goes by The Barber, holds the side door open for me upon approach.
He earned his name by having at least two straight razors on him at any given time.
Last time I saw him in action, he managed to peel back a man’s scalp from his hairline to the nape of his neck, before his victim finally expired.
We always get the information we need thanks to The Barber’s fine craftsmanship.
Glad to have him, because I’d never want to be on the receiving end.
Inside, five men are poised around a small table engaged in a game of Gin Rummy.
Smoke bellows up from another area in the back, as a few of my crew members dismantle and clean their pieces.
Garron is shirtless and laying into one of the hanging bags just off the side of the ring.
Walking up to the side of him, I grab a towel off a chair and throw it into his face.
“Clean yourself up. Patrick should be here any minute.”
He starts wiping away the sweat from his brow then, patting his armpits. He nods in understanding.
“Where’s Dax?” I scan the room to see if maybe I missed him, in this club full of bodies. I requested they all be present for today.
“Not here, sir. I can text him.”
I put up my hand, refusing his help. Garron takes that as his cue to go freshen himself for my father’s arrival. Frustrated, I retrieve my phone and shoot off a text to the tardy man in question.
Moments later, the large doorman opens the ingress to welcome my father.
Patrick Murray is flanked by six men on each side, most as big if not bigger than The Barber.
My father oozes money, never sparing a cent when it comes to displaying power or wealth.
I’m sure there’s at least two Range Rover limousines parked outside as we speak.
He stands in front of me with his smug face, tailored ivory Giorgenti suit, and handmade green, leather shoes.
It’s funny to think that not too long ago he would use a shoe like that to whoop me, now he looks weak from this side of the room.
His thinning skin is speckled with dark patches, while the scar along his temple, from a deal gone wrong, is still pink and defined through his fine hair.
I don’t care for the way his men study me, seeming to size me up.
This is my turf, he thrust this onto me when he left; he doesn’t get to show up and reign the same as he once did.
The once playful roar of voices settles down as father and son, position themselves before one another like some form of standoff. A thick eyebrow lifts on his face as he takes in my outfit. Clearly not pleased I forgone the jacket. I fight back a grin.
“Dia is Muire Duit!” My father exclaims as he reaches for me, grabbing each side of my head and giving me a little shake.
“Da…” I force myself to nod respectfully.
Garron does a slow jog toward the group, looking much more put together than before.
Smiling and throwing his head back, my father embraces Garron with a big hug and a pat on the back. “My boy! You look well, lad.” He holds his shoulders while looking him over. “How’s your mother?” he asks softly.
Garron bobs his head. “Not too bad. She’s living comfortably with the time she has left, thanks to you.”
Patrick swipes his hand in front of his face. “Ah, It’s nothing. You’re family!”
Garron goes down the line of my father’s crew, giving each man a fist bump while dad looks around.
“Where’s that kid, Dax?” As if he were summoned, he pops in through a side door. “Daxton! My boy. Come, let’s have a look at ya!” He motions for the straggler to come over to the group.
Dax walks over, locking eyes with me; he knows I’m not too keen on tardiness. He stands before my father, significantly taller than him, but Patrick has more mass around the middle.
“I like that you're still standing, even after what happened.”
Dax tilts his head forward.
“Tell me, did the party responsible get what they deserved?”
Dax puffs out his chest slightly.
In response, Patrick slaps him on the back. “Wonderful! Man of few words… I like this guy. Bet he keeps all the best secrets.”
He motions for his men to take up residency on the chairs in the lounging area. My men immediately stand, clearing the table of cards, and rush out of the way. Smart move.
Garron walks up with a small wooden box, offering his father-figure a cigar, then proceeds to light a match.
My phone vibrates in my front pocket. I discreetly check to see what it is. It’s a message from her.
Cindel: Cassie is dead?! Why didn’t you tell me?! Am I now the permanent manager?
I shoved the phone back into my jacket pocket, not wanting to handle two nuclear fallouts at once. Later, I tell myself.
My father removes his suit jacket and tumbles back onto a too low chair. Clumsily, he attempts to cross his opposite ankle over his knee before finally relaxing against the eggplant-colored seat. The woodsy aroma wafts around us as he experiments with the smoke, to create unsuccessful ringlets.
“A little birdie told me you found a hidden Lombardi. What have you learned so far?” My father takes a methodical toke of his thick cigar.
“Yes… I did find a Lombardi, however, I haven’t learned much. I’m working on that.” I feel like I’m ten again, standing in the kitchen as my father chastises me for yanking the head off of one of my sibling’s dolls.
“Your sister thinks you’re fucking this up,” he proclaims, holding the smoking stick between his yellowed teeth.
Of course she would say that to him. Ever since mom died, she’s been just as unhinged as he is.
If anything, she’s worse! My sister doesn’t care about the business side of things.
I bet she would be just fine with watching it all become ash.
I may be the big brother, but when she makes up her mind about something, she can be scary as fuck if you get in her way.
“She doesn’t need to be involved in this,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, but she does and she is.”
I hear whispers around me from my crew. He hasn’t even been here for five minutes and already he’s trying to make me seem incompetent.
“I just need a bit more time.”
He places his suspended jade shoe, back down to the floor.
Then, placing both hands on his opened thighs with the stogie between the fingers of one hand, he leans in.
He speaks softly at first, but gradually his voice rises to an untethered shout.
“How about this… I’ll keep your sister on a leash, for now…
but I will be staying here until I have FUCKING VENGEANCE!
” Spit flies from the mouth of his beet red face.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, ever so slowly. “Yes sir.” I look down at the floor, instinctively.
Like a switch has been flipped, he goes back to lounging and puffing on his smoke. “Ah! Please tell your sister we’ll be having dinner tonight at seven sharp, and for your sanity and mine put a fucking tail on that Lombardi cunt!”
After being chummy with my crew, drinking my whiskey, and smoking my Cubans, the brute of a man finally makes his way up to the loft suite, positioned on the second floor of the boxing club.
Once out of ear shot, I swung at the first bag within reach, giving a jab, cross, hook!
Anger bubbles deep within me, I’ve lost my touch, and I let him get to me too easily.
My father’s men took off to enjoy all that Boston has to offer, while I go back to business as usual.
Once we open the doors, paying members trickle in over the next hour to work on their techniques through practicing drills. I have some fish to fry, so I am out of there before Patrick wakes from his nap.
I push open the door, walking promptly to my car.
“Need us, boss?!” Garron jogs toward me, through the parking lot with Dax a few steps behind.
“No, I’ve got this on my own. You two… do whatever the fuck you both do when I’m not around.”
Garron salutes me as I slide into my white Audi.
As I’m driving, a text comes through.
Sis: Nice job making Daddy mad. Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?
At the traffic light, I write back.
Eamon: No. Stop putting your nose where it doesn't belong!
Immediately, a message comes through.
Sis: Whatever do you mean?
Followed by a smiley with a halo emoji.
I lobbed the cell phone down to the passenger seat’s footwell. Fuck.
I didn’t really know where I was heading, but I knew it wasn’t The Black Sheep. I didn’t want her to see me, not when I was wound so tightly. She wouldn’t be safe.
I find myself back in my living room overlooking the harbor.
Yachts and fishing charters bob in the reflective water just outside my executive suite.
The panoramic ocean and city views just weren’t as breathtaking anymore.
I pull the floor to ceiling curtains closed, encasing myself in darkness before making my way to my room.
This bedroom is my favorite; it’s the only room I told the designer she couldn’t lay a fucking finger on.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, it has gray wainscot walls, dim lighting, and a low-profile bed.
I kept it simple, no wall art; allowing the dark moody vibe to take center stage.
Small wooden dressers adorn each side of the tufted, upholstered headboard.
The ceiling reflects the earthy tones covering the bed.
That mirror sure did make for some fun times.
Without much thought, I find myself throwing open drawers and stuffing clothes into a duffle bag from my closet.
Between family shit, business, and my quest for answers; I couldn’t stand to be here a minute longer.
All those memories came rushing back like a wave and I’m tired of choking on the salted water.
I’m going on a little trip and will only return once I have clarity.