111

ALEXANDER

My father’s mafia penthouse at the edge of the city was different than I remembered it.

The rows and rows of leaning coconut trees that spread out into a neat circle from the entrance successfully shielded the penthouse from view, unlike the old bramble-covered fence that made the eight hundred square feet of land feel more like an asylum than a luxury escape house.

Priest’s black Cadillac idled outside the nettle-latticed gates that opened after a few beats of security processing before the coffee-colored man slid the car into the gritty lane of the compound.

“Ah, smells like home dun nit?” Priest chuckled as I glanced around the shadowed grit lot of the penthouse, the blue glimmer of the pool lights casting warped fluorescent shadows across our faces before he killed the engine and got out.

The smell of wet clay and wild lilies did not smell like home. But somehow, I doubted it did to the copper-haired man either.

Shit, what the hell was I doing here?

“Come on out son. It’