Chapter 12
James
Saturday nights are poker nights. A tradition we picked up from our friends, the Davenports. However, we put a Hamilton spin on it.
We hold it in Gideon’s pub, The Famous Cock, after closing hours. And yes, that really is the name.
The pub sits on a corner just off the high street in Primrose Hill.
Its old brick exterior glows under the yellow wash of streetlights.
Inside, the place is all dark wood and low beams. The air carries that particular smell of ale, wood polish, and fish and chips, which is the pub’s specialty.
The crisps and nuts sold as bar snacks are my weakness.
The simple, no-fuss pub fare is a welcome change to the high end cooking I sample all day.
By the time we gather, the bell for last orders has rung. Except for a couple of die-hard regulars who’d rather keel over at the bar than go home, the rest have drifted out.
The main room lies quiet, except for the occasional clink of glasses being stacked behind the bar.
The private dining room where we meet sits at the back, warm and dimly lit. A heavy oak table dominates the space, surrounded by mismatched chairs which Gideon insists add character. A green felt cloth covers the center of the table, poker chips stacked in neat piles, cards already waiting.
This space is also ventilated, so we can smoke our cigars.
I came here straight from the restaurant. It’s a relief to not have my chef jacket on. It’s another kind of armor, much like the fatigues and dog tags I wore as a Marine.
People see the jacket and the authority that comes with it. They rarely look past it. Which means, I don’t have to reveal what I’m feeling. I stay in control.
Once I take off the chef jacket, I’m no longer The Ice Commander—yes, I am aware of the nickname.
In this slightly run-down dining room, I’m simply James, the oldest of the Hamilton siblings.
Tristan, our uncle, joins us. He’s my father’s younger brother. With graying temples and a passion for fitness, he's much younger and more vigorous than his forty-nine years.
He’s the one person I’ve confided in more than my parents.
With four brothers, and a sister our house was always full. My parents adopted all of us. The shared experience brought us closer.
When Lyra, a distant cousin, came to live with us in her teens, folding her into the family felt natural. She became the second sister none of us knew we were missing.
Beckett, my middle brother, pours whiskey into a glass, then slides it in front of me.
I snatch it up and sniff, then take a sip. Notes of toasted oak, caramel, and cloves swirl over my tongue. I swallow it down. The liquid burns a trail of heat down my throat to my stomach.
I allow the warmth to pervade my limbs. Feeling well fortified, I meet his gaze.
I’m close to my siblings. I want to know about their lives. They expect the same access in return. It’s something I’m working on.
I’m almost as uncomfortable when I think about my curvy sous chef.
Her reaction to seeing Angelina in my office was revealing. She’s someone I've dated occasionally. In the last two months, I haven’t thought of her once.
All of my time has been taken up with challenging a certain stubborn woman on my team.
I could have sworn I saw a flash of jealousy in my sous chef’s eyes, though she made a quick recovery. Woman’s cool under pressure. It’s one of the things I find attractive about her.
She took me by surprise when she apologized.
I hadn’t expected that. It shows a strength of character. Another thing I find appealing.
“Everything okay at the restaurant?” Gideon places his cigar down in the ashtray.
I train my gaze on him. “Of course, why do you ask?”
“You seem preoccupied.”
Bennett scans my features. “Must be a woman.”
“Astute observation. One I agree with.” Tristan fixes me with a considering look.
They continue to stare at me, until I have no choice but to admit. “It is a woman. But not the way you're thinking.”
None of them reply. The silence stretches. It’s uncomfortable. If I break it first, it puts me on the defensive. But when the three of them continue waiting for me continue, I realize, I don’t have a choice.
“It’s my new sous chef. I hired her two months ago.”
“You’re attracted to her?” Beckett throws down his cards. Clearly, our conversation is more interesting.
Given I haven’t made sense of it for myself, there’s little I can share with them at this stage. I also don’t want to lie to my brothers.
“It’s complicated,” I finally offer.
Tristan barks out a laugh. “Isn’t it always?”
I scowl. He isn’t my legal counsel for nothing. Man’s got a mind which thinks a hundred steps ahead of anyone else. I’m not sure I want to know what he’s gleaned from my body language and the little bit I’ve revealed.
Also, it’s time to change the topic.
"Don’t the rest of you have something else to gossip about?" I place my unlit cigar between my lips.
“You mean, like Michael Sovrano being back in town?” Tristan takes the segue, but the look in his eyes tells me I haven’t heard the last of this from him.
“Didn’t he relocate his family to Italy after his wife passed away?” Beckett scowls.
“Now, that’s true love,” Gideon drawls. “I feel sorry for the ol’ chap.”
Michael’s a family friend. He used to be head of the Cosa Nostra but went legit after he got married.
His wife, Karma West Sovrano, started the renowned, eponymous designer label. She passed away from a heart ailment a few years ago. Michael, poor guy, was overcome with grief. Of course, there are persistent whispers that she isn’t actually dead, that he took her to Italy to care for her.
“How about we talk about something closer to home? Like you being insistent on killing yourself free diving, despite my trying to talk some sense into you last month?” Beckett lights up his cigar.
“You freedive? Isn’t that dangerous?” Tristan’s voice is curious.
"I'm careful. I practiced with an instructor until I was confident I could do it safely. And I do it in an Olympic-grade swimming pool with lifeguards on duty. So no, it's not dangerous."
‘Course, you’re supposed to freedive with a buddy watching you, a safety protocol I ignore because I’m confident in my abilities to stay under water for long periods of time while holding my breath.
And lifeguards aren’t always on duty when I dive, which suits me fine.
This is a routine that’s holy for me, and I don’t want anyone intruding.
Being underwater is one of the few times I can truly relax.
You'd think, for someone who needs control as much as I do; free diving would be the ultimate test of giving it up. But that's precisely why it works.
“Why do you put yourself through it?” Gideon surveys his cards.
I choose my words with care. “In the kitchen, I control everything.
Every temperature. Every second. Every movement.
But underwater, I can't control anything.
My heart rate. The oxygen in my blood. The pressure.
The physics." I look around the table to find my brothers are listening with rapt attention.
"My need to be in control in the kitchen feeds on the illusion that if I just manage enough variables, nothing bad will happen.
But underwater, there are no variables to control. "
"So, your brain stops trying?" Tristan’s brow furrows.
"Exactly." I crack my neck. Thrice. "It forces my mind to stop running scenarios.
Stop cataloging threats. Stop calculating probabilities.
There's just the descent. The silence." I tap my knuckles on the table.
Thrice. "When I surface, the compulsions are quieter.
Sometimes, for hours. Sometimes, a whole day. "
"That's why you do it." He sits back in his seat. "Not for the adrenaline. For the reset."
"Yes." I look down at my cards. "It's the only time my mind is truly quiet."
There’s silence for a few seconds as they digest what I shared; only because my brothers are the only people I truly trust in this world. Enough to share a little more than I would with my brigade. Almost as much as I shared with my platoon.
I tighten my hold on the cards.
I take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to feel my arms, my legs. I flex my feet in my shoes, reminding myself of where I am. With my brothers. I am safe. My shoulder muscles relax.
"You going to light up that cigar?" Tristan nods at the cigar between my lips.
"Nope."
"How it helps you not smoke, I don’t understand."
"Reverse psychology." I shrug a shoulder. "If I know a cigar or a cigarette is within reach, it seems to calm my anxiety around where my next smoke is gonna come from."
"The same way you have a different woman on your arm each week. But when they want more than just casual dating, you dump them."
My grandmother’s voice reaches us from the entrance to the room.
I swallow my groan. Margot has the ears of a bat. She’s also known to be ruthless when it comes to business. I look around the table. All of my brothers seem surprised.
Guess they didn’t know she was coming either.
I set down my unlit cigar in the ashtray and rise to my feet, taking her hands in mine.
"Margot.” I kiss her on both cheeks and catch the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. It’s a fragrance I’ve always associated with my grandmother.
As always, her five-foot, four-inches figure is impeccably dressed. A designer pink pantsuit, a green scarf draped neatly at her neck, a handbag that likely costs thousands. Her stiletto heels were made specially for her in Italy by a designer who caters to only a handful of celebrities.
She’s in her early eighties. Yet, with her perfectly-styled silver hair, unlined features which are perfectly made up, and the firm line of her chin, she could easily pass for someone in her fifties.
She also has the kind of work ethic that puts me to shame.
I remember calling her Granny and being reprimanded in no uncertain terms. That was when I was five. I learned my lesson.