Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I stopped in my tracks in amazement.
‘Dad!’ I wanted to shout, but I didn’t want to bring the attention of the whole restaurant to me. Seconds later he was at the entrance door and before I could do anything else, he slipped out without looking back. My father’s behavior was so strange I couldn’t help but feel slightly alarmed. I regretted not calling out to him.
He’d told me he wouldn’t be able to make dinner with me because he would be working late, but here he was, waiting to dine with someone else. Perhaps it was a client but, even so.
At that moment, I heard Samantha call out to me. When I turned around, I found all my colleagues watching me curiously, probably wondering why I was just standing in the middle of the restaurant staring stupidly at the door.
I returned to the table slowly and sat down.
“Zola, we were just wondering why the gorgeous man-boy was brought to your house in the first place,” Steven cried.
I looked around the table. “What?”
“The man-boy?” Steven repeated impatiently. “Who was he?
I pushed my worry about my father aside. Today was my special day. No doubt I would get an explanation from him later. “Maybe …” I began with a mysterious smile. “Dante was in my house because he was part of the mafia, but afterward he was killed in a terrible gang war. Maybe that's why I've never seen or heard from him ever since.”
The table went quiet.
Then Stella spoke up. “You’re weird, Zola.”
“Maybe not,” Steven said softly. “Maybe she’s just creative. Her style has always been interesting after all. So … does this human god even exist?”
“He does.” I nodded.
“Really?” Samantha asked doubtfully.
“Really,” I confirmed.
“And the bit about the mafia?”
I smiled at her. “My dad is a criminal defense attorney, you know?”
Her mouth fell open. “Wait, oh my God. She's of Italian descent y’all. She might not be kidding.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Did he really die?”
“No idea.”
“Oh! Okay, let’s move on. I think Zola is having way too much fun at all of our expense.”
The conversation moved to something else and I took the opportunity to pull my phone out of my pocket and look for the message I was certain my father had sent to me before he hurried out. The moment I saw the words that he had written fear gripped me.
Don’t approach me, he’d written. Don’t act like you know me.
My eyebrows furrowed with confusion. What? Don't approach me. Don't act like you know me. What the hell was going on?
I put the phone away and thought back to our conversations recently which had been about how a new criminal defense case had taken all of his time. He didn’t seem eager to tell me much about it so I hadn’t pressed him for details. All of my annoyance from earlier disappeared. I quickly excused myself from the table and I called him as I walked away.
His phone began to ring but the call was then abruptly disconnected. My heart fluttered with fear. What kind of mess had my father got into? Willing myself not to panic I rushed outside and got into the first taxi in the queue.
The driver met my gaze through the rearview mirror and I gave him my father’s home address. He nodded and pulled away. I couldn’t just sit back and wait as we headed toward my father’s house. Instead, I tried calling him again. Over and over until eventually, he picked up.
I was so relieved I nearly collapsed … and then I was furious.
“What the hell is going on? “I yelled. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“Where are you? You’re not back at the restaurant, are you?” he asked urgently.
“No, I just left.”
“Good,” he said. “Come home. I need to talk to you.”
Consoled that he was alright or at least he sounded so, I took a deep breath and released it. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”
I slumped back into the seat and watched the passing streetlights as we rode through the city. It had been more than three months since I’d last visited him, precisely on his birthday. Even then, I’d had to drag him out of the office for a night out. I loved what I did too, but his obsession with work was unfathomable. Until now I still hadn’t found the courage to suggest to him that perhaps his obsessiveness had something to do with my mother and could be resolved with some therapy.
We arrived at the house and I paid the driver and got out of the cab.
His housekeeper, Catalina, had gone home for the night and as was always the case, he was home on his own. This had concerned me when the time for me to move out had come, but he'd managed to convince me I couldn’t stay with him forever. If anything, he was the one who was worried sick about me being on my own.