Page 140 of Dirty Game
We intentionally only invited thirty people. Keep things small.
My bride deserves the day of her dreams, one without bloodshed and old vendettas and that’s exactly what I’ll fucking give her.
In the next room, Dante sits on the bed, legs dangling, shoes too new and stiff for his feet.
He holds the ring bearer’s pillow like it’s a bomb he’s been told not to touch.
The rings are platinum, double thick, one for me, one for Rosalynn, neither engraved, neither soft.
He stares at them with the same intense curiosity he brings to everything, like he’s waiting for them to explode.
He’s close to six now, but most days he feels older.
He calls me “Papa” now. Not “King.” Not “Varrick.”
That’s her influence.
I’m still not used to it but I thank her everyday for being the soft woman she is.
He also deserves the world. One I will gladly die for.
I walk over, kneel until my head is level with his. “You know your job?” I ask.
He nods, solemn. “Give you the rings. Don’t drop them. Stand still for the pictures.”
“Good,” I say. “You remember what happens after?”
He smiles. “We go to the party. Eat cake. Then… then Rosa becomes my mom.”
The words hit hard and I almost forget to breathe. I ruffle his hair, which he hates, but he endures it. He’d endure anything, this boy.
“You like her?” I ask.
He thinks about it, then shrugs. “She’s nice. She knows how to do math in her head. I like when she reads to me at night. Sometimes she lets me sleep in the fort.”
“She’s a good mom,” I say, and even as I say it, I believe it.
He nods. “I know.”
I stand, straighten his jacket, fix the tie that’s already gone crooked.
He looks like a miniature assassin, all black and white, not a trace of childhood in his face.
He’s my son. God help him.
“Wait here,” I say. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me or Cyrus.”
He nods and patiently waits.
I step into the hallway, corridor lined with original oil paintings and furniture so expensive it looks uncomfortable.
Moving through the villa, every step mapped and measured, every corner covered by security cams and men I trust to bleed for me.
Korrin stands at the top of the stairs, arms folded, eyes scanning the courtyard. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.
He’s come around to Rosalynn and I appreciate his trust in me.
Downstairs, the main hall is being transformed—red roses, white lilies, glass vases taller than most men, every surface scrubbed and polished.
