Page 83 of Slots & Sticks
Dad shifts from foot to foot, adjusting the distribution of his weight. “Yeah. He asked me to be here.”
“I see.” Renee purses her lips and squints at the screen. After a long, uncomfortable moment, she sits up straight, plasters on a winning smile, and rises to her feet. “Come on in. I’m sorry you had to walk up here. Next time, give me a call and I’ll bring down the scooter.”
Dad sighs and shakes his head. “That’s not necessary, Renee.” The defeat in his tone is palpable. He’s convinced that this is about to be his last day in the building. I swear to God I will go feral if it comes to that.
Dad shuffles through into Sergio’s office. I follow behind him and try to ignore the owlish way that Renee’s neck pivots as she tracks our progress. Does she know what’s about to happen? Or did Sergio keep it secret from everyone?
Sergio is on his feet by the time I close the door behind us. He shakes Dad’s hand even as he ushers him into one of the chairs. “It’s good to see you, Ranger. How are you holding up?”
Dad winces and adjusts his posture. He has to sit a little bit off-kilter in most chairs, especially when they have solid wood seats. Sitting upright puts pressure on the nerve in his hip that’s still healing from when—
From the accident. I can’t let myself imagine the details of what he went through, trapped in a burning, overturned bus with my—
I shake my head sharply in an effort to clear my mind. I can’t go there. I can’t ask him what it was like to go through that, even though I want him to talk to someone. He needs to get that weight off his chest, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry it for him.
In answer to Sergio’s question, Dad bobbles his head from side to side. “Pretty well. It takes a lot of effort to get me through the day. Physical therapy’s going well, but my balance is still off. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about all that. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
I sink onto the edge of the other chair. Unlike Dad, my posture has nothing to do with nerve pain and everything to do with the fact that I’m poised to fly off the handle if necessary.
“Of course.” Sergio circles back to his chair, takes a seat, and steeples his fingers. “You’ve always been direct. I’ve looked up to you for a long time, you know, which is why—”
The speaker in the corner crackles. Renee’s voice pipes through a moment later. “Dante, to the executive offices. We have a situation.”
Sergio emits a guttural groan and slumps forward. Ten seconds ago, he had the air of a CEO, professional and in control. Now, he grips his hair and lets his head loll on his neck. “What the hell? I didn’t even know he was in the building.” He mutters a few sentences in bitter Italian, which I don’t understand on a linguistic level, though his tone gives away the general meaning of his rant.
The space feels colder than usual, recycled air whistling through the vents. Every step thuds in my chest. I can taste metal—old panic, new rage. Sergio’s door looks like everyother door in this building and somehow manages to feel like a gallows.
Dad and I exchange a glance. I shrug. He shrugs back.
After a solid thirty seconds of grumbling, Sergio sits up, smooths his hair back into its original coiffe, and steeples his fingers again. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
In a voice drier than stale biscotti, I say, “We were wondering why you called us here.”
“Right. Actually.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I only called Ranger.”
“Then you should’ve thought about how he gets here,” I say, level. “And who gets him home. You don’t get to isolate him because it’s neater on your calendar.” I wave my thumb back and forth between me and Dad. “We’re a package deal.”
He huffs. “I see that. Anyway, I know that with the accident, you have a lot going on.”
Dad bobbles his head again. “Not so much.”
“Well, you’re grieving,” Sergio argues. “And you’re injured.” The stubborn set of his jaw suggests that he’s not going to listen, no matter what Dad says.
Dad matches Sergio’s stubborn energy with a smile. When I was little, I used to think that Dad was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. I wasn’t entirely wrong—he’s laid-back, but he’s most certainly not a pushover. “I’m doing much better. Dot and the team are taking good care of me.”
“Of course. So, we want to make sure you have time to heal—”
The door of the office flies open, and Dante comes barging in. He looks pissed. “What the hell are you doing?” he snaps.
Sergio stiffens in his chair. “Running the team.”
“Is that what you call it?” Dante stomps over to the desk and jabs his son in the chest with one finger. “Looks like you’re running this team into the ground from where I stand!”
“Dad…” Sergio casts a helpless gaze in our direction. I’m not sure if he wants us to back him up, or if he’s embarrassed that his father is chewing him out in front of an audience.
“Get out of my seat,” Dante says.
“It’s my—”
