Page 10 of Driftwood Daffodil 3

I smirked while Marty struggled to get my floppy form in the vehicle. It was like trying to thread a needle with a cooked spaghetti noodle. He’d get my torso on the seat and my legs would hang outside.

When he pushed my feet in, my body rolled off causing my arm to fall out the door. Every correction he made seemed to make things worse. Marty grumbled out a few choice words while I got to watch frustration etch across his face. It was marvellous.

Eventually he growled up at the sky and glared at me. “Do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”

“Yes, Marty, yes I do.” Gio should’ve prepared this man better.

“You know what?”

“What, Marty?”

He raised his fist and shot an angry finger out to point at me. “Someone needs to beat some sense into you.”

This guy was talking about beating sense into someone? That was a case of irony if I’d ever heard one.

He folded over me and growled, “I hope Gio gives it to you good.”

And ragdoll effect was over.

My foot never shot into someone’s balls so fast. One kick and my heel landed square in his groin. Unfortunately, that gave Marty all he needed to shove my ass in the car and shut the door.

GIOVANNI

There were three places in my house that were forgotten by most. My mother’s room, the greenhouse in the back where she used to garden, and the main floor library. My father refused to go in the first two—or so I thought until recently—and the third I’d only seen him in four times, typically for some kind of meeting.

I, however, spent a lot of time in this room. The rustic interior and mahogany shelves were my refuge from the ghosts that haunted these halls. It was the one place I didn’t smell death.

There was no blood staining the floor, or drowned out screams buried in the walls. Just the sweet smile on my mother’s face while she read The Little Prince to me. This room was where she was still alive. And right now her memory was being sullied by the stench of a cigar.

My father looked up as I walked into the room. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to rip that cigar out of his hand and burn him with it.

“I don’t like being kept waiting, Giovanni.”

Well, I didn’t like him sitting in that brown leather armchair. That’s where she used to sit.

“What do you want?”

My words may have sounded a bit short. My father’s arched brow told me that. But I hated the way he sat there, with a cigar in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, as if he owned the place.

He set his glass down on the small table next to his chair and sat forward. “You care to try that again, Giovanni?”

That was his way of telling me to show him some respect. Well, fuck that.

“Did I stutter?” He was just going to give me some more bullshit crap to do for Aldo. Why the hell would I kiss his ass for that?

Needless to say, my father wasn’t impressed with my response. And he wasn’t the only one. Saul, who was standing in the right corner of the room, stepped forward.

“That is no way to talk to your boss.”

“He’s not my boss yet, is he?” I snapped back at him. “I haven’t taken theOmerta.”

Did he forget that little fact, because I didn’t.

“No, I suppose he isn’t, but he is your father.”

“Sure.” I snorted. “You might want to tell him that.”

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