Page 12 of Oh Holy Knight

“So, you don’t think it’s disrespectful to propose to Carrie?”

He shakes his head.

“Nico, you love that girl and she loves you—everyone sees it and we also see the beautiful life you’re giving your brother’s daughter. You deserve to be happy too and it shouldn’t matter what day it is or what fucking season. If you want to ask Carrie to be your wife, then you do it and you don’t fucking feel guilty about it either. I told you once before and I’ll keep telling you so long as you need hear it—you paid your penance, son.”

Diverting my gaze, I stare mindlessly at my worn boots, hoping one day his words will actually stick. That I won’t always doubt my place in their life or second guess my happiness.

“Does your mother know your plans?” he asks.

I lift my gaze and shake my head.

“No, I haven’t told anyone.”

Besides, my mother would be the last person I tell—that woman can’t keep a secret to save her life. His lips quirk and a flash of white peeks out from his beard as he grins.

“Patty’s gonna be over the fucking moon,” he quips, talking more to himself than to me. He reaches behind him and pulls out his trusty little notepad. Fishing his pockets for a pen, he looks at me. “I gotta give her a call and tell her to come for Christmas.”

It’s not a holiday if all dad’s ex-wives aren’t sitting at the table trading war stories. I watch as he scribbles himself a reminder and my mind drifts back to Enzo’s impromptu visit. Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, speaking of calling people to invite them for Christmas, you might want to call Enzo and tell him about your plans.”

Standing, he shoves the notepad back into his pocket and narrows his eyes.

“Why does he plan on proposing to someone too?” he asks and tips his chin toward the door. We exit the chapel and as we meander down the hallway I reveal the bomb Enzo dropped once he and Anna were done getting chocolate wasted.

“He plans on skipping Christmas this year,” I say as we reach the bar. Dad’s feet come to a halt behind me as I lift my finger and signal for the new bartender to grab us two beers.

“The fuck you just say?” Dad barks, pulling out the stool beside me. He parks his ass on it and fixes me with a glare.

“Hey, don’t kill the messenger,” I argue. “The only reason I’m telling you is because as far as I know he hasn’t purchased a plane ticket yet.”

Gunther sets our drinks down in front of us and I slide a twenty across the bar. I may be dealing with my own shit, but I paid attention during church when Riggs revealed Gunther’s situation.

He stares at the twenty for a moment and hesitates before pushing it back to me and narrowing his gaze.

“Is this a test?” he asks, looking from me to my dad who is still dwelling on the whole Enzo thing.

“A test?”

He drags his fingers through his greasy hair and pins me with a hard stare.

“Lydia and Riggs told me no one with a kutte pays.”

“That’s right,” I say with a nod. “But I’m not paying you for the beer, I’m tipping you for the service,” I explain and push the bill back to him. “Take it.”

He swipes the bill and quickly shoves it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and I nod in response.

I’m so enthralled by the exchange that I forget all about my brooding father until I hear him yell.

“No one’s fucking skipping Christmas!”

I tear my head, watching as his knuckles whiten around the cell phone he’s got pressed to his ear. “That includes you, Vincenzo Alfonse Scotto.”

Yikes.

You know shit is serious when he uses the whole name.

He disconnects the call and tosses his phone onto the bar.

“You fucking kids are going to be the death of me,” he growls, shaking his head as he reaches for his beer. “Skipping Christmas…of all the fucking cockamamie things…”

One of these days I’ll learn to keep my big mouth shut.

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