Richard
The old man shuffled closer, his shadow stretching long across the plush carpet. "My boy," he began, his voice a low rumble, "you don't call, you don't write. Sometimes I wonder if you hate me, or if you're just following orders a little too damn well."
Hugo Costa. My father. A prominent figure in the Italian Mafia, with a presence that could curdle milk and a gaze that could pierce steel. Ever since my mother passed, a chasm had opened between us, a void no amount of forced family dinners could fill.
"It's the job, Dad," I muttered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "But hey, if seeing more of me is what you crave, maybe we can arrange something."
His icy blue eyes, the same shade as the California winter sky, locked onto mine. They held a depth of emotion I couldn't decipher. "So I hear you're still tangled up with the blonde. The actress wannabe? Seriously, Richard, what are you thinking?"
