We all laugh.
Most everyone has a mild to no dialect, but the South Philly guys carry a much thicker Philly accent.
“Again,” Akara smiles, “just ask where they’re from. Saves me time.” He finally takes a seat on the mats and closes the circle. Looking around to each of us, his lips fall in a serious line. “You’re going to hate what I have to say about the charity event, but you get a grand total of five fucking minutes to complain. Then you’re done. I don’t want to hear anyone whining over the coms for the next three months. Don’t be that guy.”
Quinn nods repeatedly. Akara should’ve been his mentor.
I hang my arm casually on my knee. “Too bad Oscar’s already that guy.”
“Get back to me when you’ve been assigned to Charlie Cobalt. You’d start bitching if your client chose to experiment with hallucinogenics at a metal concert, and not even a day later, he takes an eighteen-hour flight to volunteer for the Red Cross on another continent. I’ve never even seen him tired or even yawn.”
“I’m sure he’s grown tired of you, Oliveira,” I say.
Everyone laughs again.
Quinn nods to his older brother. “You shouldn’t bitch about your client to Jo. All yesterday, she said I can protect Charlie better than Oscar.”
Oscar sighs in annoyance. Their younger sister Joana isn’t a part of security, and I’ve only met her once or twice around the gym. She just started boxing professionally this year, and the Oliveira brothers don’t want her to quit.
For as much as Oscar complains, there’s no one that could do his job.
Many have tried. He’s tactically strategic, and the perfect fit for Charlie Cobalt. It’s why he’s been on his detail for three years and counting.
Akara snaps his fingers to his palm. “You all ready for the news?”
Donnelly nods. “Lay it on us.”
Akara starts, “Moffy was really clear that he’s not allowing any of his siblings or cousins under eighteen to attend.”
“Epsilon is out,” Oscar says since SFE protects the young kids.
Akara shakes his head and pushes back his black hair. “Most of them will be at the event for extra security.”
I stretch out my legs and bare feet, my muscles cramped. We’ve never needed extra security for the CampAway, and that fact hoists dead silence in the air.
“We asked Moffy for more than seven days to background check the attendees. Which means that he’d have to close the raffle more than a week before the event,” Akara mentions the largest point of contention for security. “Moffy agreed to give us more time, but he printed out twelve pages of stats that Jane had calculated.”
I shake my head, my smiling forming. Wolf scout. I know what he did before Akara explains the rest.
“He predicted the profit loss for every extra week that we’d hypothetically close the raffle early. If we were to take fourteen days to background check the attendees, the event would lose about ten million.”
That’s not a little sum of money.
“Their lives are priceless,” Donnelly says. “Did you tell them that?”
“I did,” Akara says to all of us, “but you know Moffy.”
“He’s stubborn,” Oscar says.
“Selfless,” I add. “H.M.C. Philanthropies helps people.”
Quinn’s brows knit together. “Don’t the families just contribute their wealth to the foundation? Raising more money is chump change in comparison. He could even cancel the event and it’d be fine—”
“No,” the rest of us say in unison.
Akara leans towards Quinn. “All of the H.M.C. money is allocated to four areas: education, environment, LGBTQ issues, and mental health. Within those categories, Moffy built specific programs and initiatives, and not every one is given the same sum. Some programs rely completely on these events.”
“Like the CampAway,” I chime in. “All of the earnings go to One More Day.” Everyone knows the program Maximoff created. One More Day provides aid to low-income individuals in need of addiction rehab.
Oscar swishes his water. “Do we really want to deny people-in-need ten million? Just to have an extra week to weed out the hecklers, glitter-and-flour-bombers—possible murderers and rapists?”
Donnelly wants the extra week to ensure everyone’s safety, but I’m ready to tackle “murderers” and “rapists” every day, every hour.
“Tri-Force already made a decision,” Akara says, “and we agreed to Moffy’s terms. Seven days for a background check.”
Donnelly groans.
Oscar curses.
Quinn falls into deep contemplation.
I’m smiling.
Akara leans back on his hands. “It’s not the end of the fucking world. Any threats that get into the event, we’ll detect and isolate there. The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows trust us for a reason. We make few mistakes, and we never fail.”
Before they talked to Maximoff, the Tri-Force was adamant about changing the raffle. Now they’re gleefully content with his plans.
The guy has a way with people. I’m so impressed, my cock actually pulses.
11
FARROW KEENE
DECLAN LEFT HIS REPLACEMENT—WHICH turned out to be me—a short note. I hadn’t thought hard about Declan’s words, his warning, until the end of September. Until today.
Until Maximoff invited his three siblings and five of his cousins to mini-golf. Until everyone except Jane cancelled when they saw social media: paparazzi and crowds amassed, jumping onto the putt-putt green, like they caught sight of rock stars or English dignitary.
And then Maximoff firmly and concisely said, “We need to leave.”
We’d only been there for a half hour, and he’d spent the prior three hours coordinating the mini-golf outing for his family.
Being forced to drop set-plans that quickly would piss off most people.
Maximoff just pivoted and created a new one in seconds. He signed the golf balls and putters for the mini-golf facility to sell, and then he spent the next hour taking selfies with fans and Jane. I spent that time detaching overwhelmed, sobbing girls and guys off his waist.
When we finally climbed into his Audi, I expected Maximoff to sigh in exhaustion. Maybe express frustration. His mom would’ve been tired, a little upset.
Instead, he seemed just as prepared for anything, and he said, “Let’s find a pub. Jane will meet us.”
Declan should’ve written: Maximoff Hale will barrel through every circle of hell and come out unscathed.
He actually wrote: everything in Moffy’s life is short-lived.
9:12 p.m. we shake off paparazzi and discover a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub around South Philly. After I ensure the place is safe, we order our food and drinks at the bar. They say they’ll bring it to us shortly.
We claim a low wooden table in the very back. Cigarette smoke clouds the cramped, dimly lit area, and a soccer game airs on the only TV. Engrossing several old bearded men at a high-top table, plus the bartender.
I lean back on two legs of my chair and casually examine our surroundings, but I find myself looking at him.