My father steps forward, holding his large hand in front of him for a shake. I watch closely as Bheka takes his hand, both men squeezing each other as tightly as they can, as though the winner will return home with the better deal. I’ve seen this behavior before, but it never fails to amuse me.
“Come with me, and we will talk in private,” Bheka says, locking his dark eyes with my father’s.
My father nods then looks back toward me. “Stay with the others, and don’t touch anything,” he says.
I give him an assured nod, but I can’t deny that I’m peeved he would think that I would mess around at a place like this. I mean, I didn’t take my camera, just like he said. What trouble could I get into? The only thing I want to do here is to have a drink of water and chill out in the shade, like Bheka suggested.
My father walks together with Bheka away from the group, their desert robes blowing lightly in the wind.
I squint through the sun as I watch them leave, not knowing that this would be the last time I would ever see my father alive.
Chapter Three
Carter
They never told me she was twenty-one. I would’ve considered someone pushing thirty to be a suitable wife, but twenty-one feels like I’m corrupting her youth. When I was that age, I was delivering mail on a bicycle every morning at five. That was before I found drugs, guns, and beautiful women. That was before the mafia.
I straighten the black silk bowtie against my crisp white collar. I swear they used to starch these shirts until you could barely move in them, but now you’d be lucky if the cleaner even bothered to starch it at all. I’ve had to put in a special request so that my collar wasn’t as floppy as wet paper on my wedding day.
It’s amazing that I’m even getting married at all. I don’t know the first thing about domestic life, but I was assured this had little to do with romance.
Thank god.
I’ve never considered myself the romantic type. Even at forty-one, I’ve avoided getting locked down to a woman like I was avoiding the plague. I’m just not cut out for it. I’m too brutal and emotionless to handle the softness of a woman’s heart.
I wonder if Honey knows what she’s getting herself into. I was told that she was just in this for the business aspect, but I’ve seen women catch feelings for men who they shouldn’t, even after being warned about it extensively beforehand. I’m not really in the mood for a starry-eyed woman to waltz into my life with her dainty hands out, as though she expects niceties from me. Honey will be getting none of that, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t expect them either.
I glance at myself in the vanity mirror on the oak dresser. I really should’ve shaved before the wedding, but I didn’t have time. This was all very last-minute, but once I learned of Michael Dormer’s death in the Kalahari Desert, I knew that the subsequent power void would cause serious trouble for everyone if I didn’t act fast. Merging my mafia with the Dormer mafia appeared to be the best move.
I never knew that Michael had a daughter until now. I’ve met the man a few times, but he was always alone when we had our meetings. He was one of the few mafia bosses I knew who ever amounted to anything. These days, they drop like fruit flies in the winter, unable to keep up with the changing times.
It used to be that you could sit behind a desk in a shoddy apartment and call the shots without having to worry about the cops or any type of law enforcement. Now, you have to run guns or drugs across borders and cover your ass like a paranoid methhead so that the military doesn’t pump you full of led. The times have changed, just like they always do.
Whoever Honey is, I hope she wasn’t kept in the dark about her father’s dealings. She can’t be terribly experienced at twenty-one, however, so I am concerned about how helpful she’ll be with regards to business. I don’t need her getting in the way of things during this tense operation. I need a woman who is going to stand by me as my loyal wife and grab a cup of coffee for me when I get tired.
Maybe I need a secretary instead.
Well, it’s too late for that now. I glance at the clock to find that I only have five minutes to finish getting ready and appear at the altar. To be late to my own wedding would be a disgrace, and it might even result in the cancelation of the entire event. I can’t afford for that to happen with all that’s at stake.
I take one final look into the mirror, smoothing back the thick, dark brown hair over my scalp. It’s overgrown on the top, but I like it that way. Overall, I look better than I have in months, but that might just be the suit doing all the heavy lifting. The past few months have been rough on me, with several operations going bust and trusted people turning on me left and right. I’m hoping that merging with the Dormer mafia is going to alleviate some of that stress. Dormer is trusted, and they have good connections.
I slip out of the dressing room, past two covertly armed guards positioned by the door, and slide into the hallway. The wooden soles of my Italian shoes make soft clacks against the wool carpet as I make my way down the main hall toward
