Tyler Manches
I wondered what my father wanted to speak to me about as I walked up the stairs. I ran my hand through my hair and tilted my head backwards.
I pushed open my dad's chamber to see him smoking on his chair. Entering the room, I sat on the couch adjacent to my dad. With my elbows pressed into my knees, I watched Dad from across the room.
He sat stiff in his chair, his cigar hanging freely from his mouth, eyes locked on something far beyond the window.
It was unsettling. Dad was never still—he was always in motion, always commanding, always doing something. But now… he just sat there, silent, like a man made of stone.
"Dad," I said, breaking the silence that felt like it had been hanging for hours. "You've been quiet since I entered the room."
He didn't look at me. Didn't even blink.
I shifted, suddenly feeling small, like I was ten again and about to get scolded for speaking out of turn. "Is something wrong?" I asked, softer this time.
His jaw tightened, just slightly, but I saw it. Whatever it was, it was big—too big for me to fix. My stomach twisted. Something was eating at him, and I didn't know if I even wanted to know what it was.
"Dad.."
"It's time. We'll take our chances." he finally spoke up.
"Oh."
"I got an enormous tip. We have to keep an eye on the Marcos' estate."
"But their estate is heavily guarded, there's no need for extra protection."
"Like I said, I got a tip."
"Should I inform Marcos?"
"No. When the time is right. For now, keep an eye on the building."
"Yes, father."
"We're still looking into the Jones' case." Dad eyes darkened as he made the statement.
"I heard that more gangs are moving to his side."
"I guess they have a thing for betrayal." he spat out.
"And Zack?"
"Tch. He's not ready. Don't ask about him any further."
"Sorry.."
I didn't understand why he felt that way about Zack. But, I obeyed him regardless. If dad said he wasn't ready, then he wasn't ready. Besides, I had other things to think about.
I brought out a cigarette and searched my pockets frantically for a lighter. Finding none, Dad passed me his silver lighter, I lit my cigarette and took a deep smoke. With my back relaxed in the couch, I removed the cigarette from my mouth and blew out the smoke. So did my dad.
Like father like son, I guess.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan. I sat in the corner, fiddling with the silver lighter, my eyes darting up and down the room.
The silence was interrupted by the sharp brrring of the old rotary phone. My father's face hardened instantly. He held up a finger, commanding silence.
"This better be good." Father said into the phone, with his voice low.
A pause. His expression darkened.
"You did what?"
I tilted my head, trying to read his shifting expression, but the words on the other end were muffled.
"No… you don't get to call me old man and then declare war. Not in my house, not with my men."
His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles pale.
"You betray me, and then you call me? Do you want war? Fine. I'll give you war… but it won't be the kind you walk away from."
I straightened up, brows knitting, the unease settling heavy in the room.
"Run. Because if I find you first…" he let the silence hang "…you're finished."
"So… you think you can walk away from me after all I've given you?" Father said in a low, measured voice.
A pause. His jaw flexed, the muscles near his temple twitching.
"No, no… don't say his name. He's dead to me."
Dead to him? Who is? Jones?
I glanced up, catching my father's reflection in the mirror—cold eyes, stiff shoulders, and a hand gripping the phone like it might break.
"You want war?" He let out a hollow chuckle.
"Fine. But remember who taught you how to hold a gun."
Another silence, longer this time. His eyes narrowed, lips curling in faint disgust.
"I'll give you one chance. One… chance to run. After that, you're nothing but a body I have to clean up."
He hung up slowly, the click of the receiver echoing like a gunshot in the still room.
I finally spoke, hesitantly.
"Dad…who was that?"
"We need to have a meeting with the leaders." Father turned with a forced smile.
"I will arrange for one. Maybe by next week."
"Tomorrow, we will have the meeting tomorrow." He ordered.
Getting up from the couch, I nodded to his command and left the room. Immediately, I got to calling the various gang leaders to inform them about the meeting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The phone felt heavy in my hand, not because of its weight, but because of what came with it—power, loyalty, and blood oaths. I leaned back in the leather chair, the blinds drawn so no ray of sunlight could get into the office.
One by one, I dialed.
"Lorenzo," I said when the first voice answered. "Tomorrow, 9pm. You bring your numbers, I'll bring mine. No excuses."
A grunt, then silence. Call ended.
Next.
"Marcos. You and your boys better be ready to talk business. Same place as last time. Tomorrow, 9pm" I paused, letting the unspoken warning hang between us. "Don't be late."
Another call.
"Vincent. You still breathing? Good. You'll be at the table, no substitutes. 9pm tomorrow. This one's not optional."
I lit a cigarette as I scrolled for the last number, smoke curling above my head like ghosts of men who thought they could defy us.
When the last call ended, I set the phone down gently, like it was loaded. The room was quiet again, except for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of power running through this family. Our meeting wasn't just a meeting—it was the difference between order and chaos, between loyalty and war.
And I wasn't about to let it turn into the latter.