“Whereas Mick the Tick?” Roz said, staring at him. “Now that’s a nickname.”
Mick’s smile remained, but it was fading fast. But that was why she had come: to see what kind of man she was getting herself involved with.
“That’s your nickname, right?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“What does it mean?”
Mick considered her. “What does it mean to you, Rosalind?”
She loved the way he pronounced her name. And she would have let it slide. But she couldn’t. Ever since she read that he had such an odd nickname, it bothered her. It sounded gangster. Like Sammy “The Bull” Gravano. Like “Machine Gun” Kelly. This was important to her. “Could it mean that you have some sort of tic?” she asked.
Mick wanted to smile, but he could see the concern in her eyes. “No. I have no tic.”
Then it was what she had hoped it wasn’t. “Could it mean you’re like a ticking bomb? Like a ticking time bomb, temper-wise?”
He knew she was bright. But was she tough enough to handle it? “Yes,” he said. “That’s what it means. If someone is loyal to me, they have no problem with me. If someone crosses me, then yes, I explode. That’s what it means, Rosalind.”
“From when you were a kid? Or is it still applicable today?”
“It had more meaning when I was younger man. Because I had more rage then. But I cannot lie to you. I still have my moments.”
Roz was willing to bet that was a grand understatement. She sipped from her drink. Then she considered him. “If you ever hit me,” she said, “I’ll hit you back.”
He smiled. “I understand.”
“You think you’re a ticking time bomb. Hit me. I’ll show you ticking.”
He laughed. “You have nothing to worry about I assure you.”
She smiled. And nodded. “That’s alright then.”
“So my nickname does not scare you?”
“It would have been nice if you had a normal nickname like Biff or Skip.”
He laughed.
“But since you’ve already warned me that you’re no angel, I wasn’t expecting angelic.”
She kept it real. He liked that. He missed that.
Roz considered him. She had missed him too. “You do look exhausted, though, Mick,” she said.
A bullet tearing through Pomp Valance’s head suddenly flashed across Mick’s mind. He quickly dismissed it. “You look well rested,” he said. “That’s what matters to me.”
Roz smiled. “Thanks. Riding around on a private jet helps. Reclining in your luxurious bedroom doesn’t hurt either.”
The idea of her in his bedroom was a turn on to him. “Were you comfortable?”
“Very. I sat on your lounger and nearly fell asleep in a matter of minutes. And I wasn’t even tired.”
“I work very hard. When I come home, I need complete rest. That bedroom, my home, gives me complete rest.”
Roz nodded. “That’s what a home should do. But it’s such a big place for one person. Or is there a family living in there too that you haven’t told me about?”
“A family? No,” Mick said. “I have children, but they do not live with me.”
Roz looked at him. She was genuinely surprised. “You have children?”
“Yes.” He was surprised by her surprise. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“I Googled you. Everything I read, there was never a mention of any child anywhere.”
“It’s not something I speak about. And part of the financial agreement I have with my children, and their mothers, is that they do not speak of it either.”
That sounded strange to Roz. “Why can’t they speak about it? You aren’t ashamed of them, are you?”
“No. I assure you it’s not that. It’s for their own protection. The less association they have with me, the better.”
Roz didn’t understand. “What does that mean?”
“Did Google mention my past?”
“The racketeering trial? Yes. But you were exonerated.”
“But that doesn’t mean I was innocent. I have never been innocent. I have a past. I have enemies.”
“And these enemies might come after your children. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I doubt if it will come to that,” Mick responded. “They know me. But, out of an abundance of caution, I don’t parade my children around. I keep my private life private.”
“How many are we talking about? How many children do you have?”
Mick hesitated before answering. “Five,” he said.
“Five?” Roz was floored. “My goodness. That’s a lot.”
“One is not my biological son, but I promised his father, who died, that I would look out for him. His name is Shane. He’s ten. But my four biological children are all grown.”
“And gone?”
“They have never lived with me, but yes. They’re all living their own lives.”
“Does the ten-year-old live with you?”
“No. Never have. He lives with his mother.”