“And what does any of that have to do with getting me out?” I ask as Mitch finishes the rest of his beer.
“Everything,” he says, setting his empty glass on the bar behind us. “Alan and my father went through the Academy together. They used to be partners in the Intelligence Division. But during an investigation into the missing daughter of the Mayor’s cousin, they went out to question a lead and got caught in gunfire. Dad pushed Alan behind their car just before bullets rained down in the street. He took the hit instead and saved Alan’s life. Alan always said he owed him ever since. He kept on at Dad to cash in his marker. It was a running joke between the two. Alan kept trying to find ways to give him money that he would never accept. Dad kept calling him a pain in his ass, saying he should’ve let him take the hit so he didn’t have to put up with his sorry ass.”
“Everything okay here?”
We all jolt at the booming voice. Caught up in the tale, the three of us didn’t notice Steve Valentine himself walk over to our huddle. He signals to the barman and calls for a whiskey.
“Everything’s fine,” Mitch assures him.
Except it’s a lie—one in a long line of many—and I’m tired of it. “Everything is not fine.”
“Oh?” He looks at me, his brow arching and tension gathering in his big frame. It fills him until his entire body appears to increase in size. “Care to explain?”
“Mitch was doing just that. He was telling us the history of the Rossiters and how you saved Alan’s life.”
“Was he now?” Steve takes his drink from the barman, rumbling a thank you before turning hard eyes on his son. “And why would he do that?”
Mitch lets out a huff. “Because Jake just encountered Adam Rossiter in the parking lot.”
Of course Steve knows of my involvement in the King Street Boys. Knowing the connection between him and the Rossiters, Mitch would have sought his counsel on the matter of my extraction. Not that Steve ever mentioned it, or even alluded to his knowledge. I’ve no doubt it’s why he always looks at me as if I don’t measure up to his high standards.
“That punk Ross is lurking around the party?” he asks.
“Apparently,” Mitch replies. “So we thought it an appropriate time to explain some history.”
“We?” I say, my voice loaded with sarcasm.
Steve ignores the friction in the way only a father of four dominant children can. “Adam Rossiter won’t touch you,” he tells me, his tone rich with authority and assurance.
Not if I have anything to do with it, but the image of Ross pointing a mock gun at Mac is in the forefront of my mind and it gives me chills. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
Steve’s gaze narrows in question. “Who are you worried about?”
“Mac.”
“Why are you worried about him touching Mac?” His eyes seek his daughter across the room at the same time mine do. She’s by the door of the kitchen now, talking with the staff. “Ross lives in Melbourne. Has done for most of his life. He likely has no idea who she even is.”
I clear my throat, a flush heating the line of my cheekbones. Henry fidgets on the other side of me. “Can we talk in private, sir?”
The frown on his face deepens but he nods. We leave Mitch and Henry and move off to a quiet corner of the function room.
“Say what you need to say, Romero,” he instructs and takes a sip of his whiskey.
“I’m worried about Mac because he saw us together in the parking lot.”
Steve’s eyes darken a fraction because it’s obvious why we were in the parking lot together. Surely my relationship with his daughter is the worst kept secret in the history of the world.
“I see,” he mutters.
He does. And the problem with him seeing is that our relationship has never been rightly addressed. I’ve always felt uncomfortable talking with Steve, knowing there’s been no verbal acknowledgement of said relationship. I’m not sure he knows how much Mac means to me, but it’s time he does. Right now seems a good a time as any to man up and clear the air.
“I’m sure you do,” I reply. “I know I’m not the son-in-law you want for your little girl.” My hands clench with nerves. Having Steve’s hardened gaze directed on you is not easy to bear, but I press on. “I’m not a gentleman. I’m not refined. My choice of career is not distinguished or noble and my past is something I’m not proud of. My edges are rough, my tattoos are visible, and my language is colourful. I’m a drummer in a band, granted it’s a successful one, but it’s still a band. Our lifestyle is unstable. We’re only as good as our last hit, and everything we’ve worked for could topple at any moment. I’m not good enough. You know that. I know that.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he says in a prickly tone.
Shit. I’m an idiot. Rule number one in a relationship: never point out your faults to the father of the girl you love. I’m botching this up worse than a lost beat in an instrumental. “Okay, I will.” My eyes find Mac for the millionth time that night. She’s talking with Quinn now and though it appears she’s paying attention to what her assistant manager is saying, her gaze is on us, watchful and inquisitive. “I’m a good person. I’m loyal. I have manners and respect. I’ll do everything I can to make Mac happy, and I’ll protect her with my own life. I love your daughter, sir. I always have.” I pause before adding the final nail in my coffin. “And I asked her to marry me.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line but his expression is resigned, as if he expected this all along. “And her response?”
“She said yes.”
Silence reigns for a long moment. I grit my teeth, but I don’t dare break it. I barely draw a breath if I’m honest. I’ve just laid it all out for him. God knows what he’s thinking. Likely that he wants to put a bullet in me. Preferably at close range. If I had a daughter, it’s what I’d be doing. It’s to his credit that he’s not reaching for a gun right now.
“It seems to me,” he eventually begins, “that there’s something you should probably know.”
My shoulders draw tight, bracing. “And that is?”
“Mitch explained to you that Alan owes me a favour?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“I called it in, son. For you.”
Emotion blasts through me as if a bomb exploded in my chest. For a moment I can’t see, I can only feel, and it’s too much. It’s the first time he’s ever called me son. I’ve always just been Romero to him, the annoying young kid who broke his daughter’s arm and stole her away. Instead of kicking me to the kerb, he’s taken this valuable favour, a marker from the Deputy Commissioner—one of the most influential, powerful men in the State—that he’s held on to for years, as if waiting for the moment where it’s utterly necessary, important beyond all reason, to cash it in, and he cashed it in on me. “Sir,” I choke out.
His voice is gruff. “Call me Steve.”
“Thank you.”
“I met your father once or twice, you know.”