Page 16 of Southie
I said my goodbyes to Mrs. Daugherty, who once again warned me not to be out late at night in South Boston, and promised to stop by her place tomorrow, which had turned into weekly visits sometimes two or maybe three days a week.
I made the trek from the bus stop to the gym in the cold Boston night air. The heavy snowfall had stopped, but the nights remained just as cold. The brisk, frigid air stung my face, and numbness set in on my exposed skin. I’d gotten used to the frigid winter nights and learned my lesson about not dressing for the weather.
Flexing my fingers in my purple knit gloves and winding my matching scarf tighter around my neck, I strode faster towards the gym. Tonight, I’d find out what was going on with my father.
After my mama died, he became a mean bastard. I just assumed the grief was eating away at him, and I was the closest person to lash out at. But he’d never taken out his frustrations on his fighters before now.
That honor fell to me.
Something was up, and I wanted to know what.
I walked to the front door of the gym and tried to open it, but he had already locked it. I checked my watch for the time to make sure I hadn’t gotten it wrong before I exited the bus. A locked door at this time was strange. Premier Boxing didn’t shut down until nine-thirty during the week and even later on the weekends. It was only eight, and theopensign on the black tinted picture window in the front of the brick building was shut off, which was unusual.
I looked around and the streets were empty except for my father’s black Escalade parked out front and a blacked-out Suburban parked behind him. Usually, fighters came and went all day, and cars packed the front.
How did I not notice it’s a ghost town?
I pulled my key out and unlocked the door. Although he didn’t want me at the gym, he hadn’t taken my set of keys back. I was sure he’d now confiscate them since I’d gone against his wishes, showing up here after he’d told me not to.
Although my father had locked the door, he hadn’t set the alarm.
An unusual sight brought a tinge of uneasiness when I entered. The single overhead light over the center ring illuminated the open space in an eerie glow. The only other light came from under the office door. He was still here even though the place was empty.
The uneasiness remained as I ambled toward the office, determined to find out what was going on. The closer I came to the office, the slower my steps became despite the determination I felt. He was keeping something from me. Whatever was bothering him had to be bad because of his treatment of the fighters, but the question of why continued to plague me.
I reached for the doorknob but hesitated before opening it.
I sucked in a cleansing breath and exhaled, steeling myself as I entered his office without knocking.
There was a sizable man sitting in the chair across from my father, who was sitting behind his desk with a scowl on his face. Two other men stood on either side of the one sitting.
I gasped. They all faced me, surprise and curiosity sketched on their faces.
The two standing guys ogled me. Their cold, dark eyes gleamed with lust as their gazes traveled down my curvy frame, and a shiver of disgust moved through my body. They couldn’t see much through my heavy coat, but my dark blue skinny jeans perfectly fit the wide hips and thick thighs of my tall frame.
I faced my father. The look in his eyes when we made eye contact was one of fear and anger. I’d expected him to be angry at me for being here, but I didn’t understand the fear. My dad was fearless.
What the hell did I walk in on?
“Johnny, Sean, go wait for me in the truck,” the large, sitting man said.
My eyes made contact with his striking green ones. He spoke with such authority. The power he exuded dripped off him like sweat. The accented deep raspy sound both shocked me and almost caused a moan to slip from my lips. His voice made me want to ask him a question just to hear the lovely sound when he responded.
I’d been around fighters all my life. His chiseled jawline, the slight crook in his nose, and his cauliflower ears signaled he was a fighter. He was young, but he projected the power of someone twice his years. Too much power.
Who is this guy?
From his designer shoes to his blazer and slacks, the man’s fashion sense was impeccable. Not department store designer impeccable but Italian fashion house impeccable. I recognized designer clothes having photographed numerous models for various magazines and fashion houses as an understudy with my professors, and as a freelancer in Georgia and here in Boston. This fine ass man in front of me looked as though he bathed in money.
He was wearing a custom-tailored Zegna navy blazer paired with a white designer dress shirt undone at the collar, simple navy dress slacks paired with an $11,000 stainless steel Rolex on his left wrist, and chocolate leather Berluti slip-ons graced his rather larger feet. The man was a walking high-end fashion magazine cover model. Unless he had a personal stylist, to say his fashion sense impressed me would be an understatement.
The amount of effort he put into his appearance alone was very noticeable compared to the two men with him. From his clothing to his hair, there wasn’t a stray stitch or strand of hair out of place. While the other two men dressed in nice suits on the higher end of any normal department store brand, they weren’t anywhere near what he was wearing.
Not only did the two men not match the one sitting in fashion, but they also didn’t project his power. This man was the one in charge.
His brows pinched together when neither man moved.
“What?” the one standing to his right asked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard him right.
