As manners dictate, my father asked about the welfare of his family and specifically about news of his youngest daughter. I could almost see the gears turning in Edwards’s head, questioning the unlikely coincidence of our uninvited visit that happened to fall on the date of his daughter’s sixteenth birthday. He couldn’t do otherwise but to tell us about the party. The town is small. News travels. It would’ve been rude and politically incorrect not to invite us. We traveled across the whole of Africa after all, going to considerable efforts and expenses to call on him. Of course, my father accepted the invitation gracefully.
Judging by Edwards’s reaction yesterday, I won’t be surprised if my bride-to-be has no knowledge of my existence. Edwards isn’t a good actor. He couldn’t hide his aversion. He barely endured shaking my hand. People either fear or despise me. Mostly, they do both.
Too bad.
Benjamin Edwards may think he’s better than us where morals are concerned, but we put him on his throne. He may sit there with a lily-white conscience and pretend his empire isn’t built on blood, but I’m not scared to face the truth or to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty.
Edwards shows us into a study with leather couches facing a coffee table in the center of the floor but indicates the visitors’ chairs in front of the desk.
My father shoots me a look as we take our seats. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to understand that Ben Edwards is scavenging whatever power he can, even if said power comes from hiding behind a desk.
Edwards pours Scotch at the wet bar and offers us each a drink, omitting one for himself.
He sits down and folds his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you, Santino?”
My father takes his box of cigarillos from his pocket and holds it out to Ben. Ben shakes his head.
“It’s time for Angelo and Sabella to meet,” my father says, measuring Edwards.
Edwards keeps a poker face, but he sits up straighter. “Why?”
“Sabella will be eighteen in two years.”
The only reaction Edwards shows is the twitch of his eyes. “Indeed. What of it?”
My father rolls a cigarillo between his fingers and puts away the box. “She’ll be an adult.” When Edwards doesn’t comment, he continues, “Of marriageable age.”
Edwards spares me no more than a glance, his upper lip curling as if I’m an unpleasant sight. “I don’t see what that has to do with Angelo.”
“She’s been promised to Angelo.” My father smiles. “Have you forgotten?”
Edwards’s face turns red. “I didn’t agree to any such thing.”
My anger ignites in a second. I know what he’s doing, why he’s denying the oath he made. We’re good enough to do his dirty work, but we’re not good enough for his daughter.
“We shook hands on the deal,” my father says.
Edwards no longer makes an effort to disguise his anger. “I didn’t consent to what you’re implying,”
“Where I come from, a handshake is as good as a signature. Giving your handshake is giving your word.” My father looks Edwards straight in the eyes. “Lying about it does not only make you a coward, but it’s also a slap in our faces.”
Edwards turns from red to purple. “In my country, a handshake holds no hidden meaning. Its only purpose is expressing politeness. We congratulated each other on a successful negotiation, nothing more. You get your fair cut every year.”
“You seem to have a short memory, my friend.” My father leans forward, bracing his elbow on the desk. “Part of the deal was always that Angelo would enter the business when he graduates from university and that we’d strengthen our mutual interests in blood.”
“You’re mistaken,” Edwards says, his voice rising in volume.
“You act as if being tied to the Russo family is an insult.” My father makes that statement like a challenge. “It will only benefit you.” He takes a stack of folded papers from his inside jacket pocket and slides it over the desk. “I took the liberty of getting my lawyer to draw up a contract. They’ll get married when she turns eighteen, but she can stay with us to acclimatize while Angelo finishes his MBA in Rome. Of course, she’ll get a house in her name and a monthly allowance. Provision for the children born from their union, including expenses, education, trust funds, and such, has been stipulated. They won’t want for anything. The marriage will be out of community of property, but in the unlikely event that my son decides to leave her, she will retain her property and possessions, and she will receive a handsome compensation.” My father relaxes in his seat again. “Take your time to look it over.”
Edwards doesn’t as much as glance at the contract. “You seem to have it all figured out.” He sneers. “What happens if she leaves him?”
“In that case, she gets nothing, but let’s not bring them bad luck by focusing on the negative aspects before we’ve even celebrated their engagement. As you know, divorce is highly unusual in my family.”
“Engagement?” Edwards exclaims. “She’s sixteen, for crying out loud.” He points a finger at me. “You’re twenty.” Scornfully, he adds, “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“That’s right,” I drawl. “I’m not asking to marry her straight away. Like my father, I prefer that she finishes school. I believe she’s attending an excellent establishment with a prestigious reputation, and a good education is important to me. Four years may seem like a big age difference now, but once she’s an adult, the gap won’t be significant. Aren’t you seven years older than your wife?”
All but choking on his spit, Edwards pushes back his chair.
We didn’t come to the birthday party of a sixteen-year-old girl with guns, but maybe we should’ve.
When I make to get up, my father exchanges a look with me, wordlessly instructing me to let him handle it.
“They should announce their betrothal as soon as possible,” he says in a placating tone, “but the actual engagement doesn’t have to take place until she’s turned of legal age. In the meantime, it’ll be wise to let them get to know each other.” My father spreads his hands. “The fact that I’m behaving so considerately and in the best interest of your daughter should reassure you.”
The laugh Edwards utters is cold. “Reassure me?”
My father waves at the papers on the desk. “If my promise isn’t enough, the figures will surely satisfy you.”
“Like I said,” Edwards says, balling his hands on the desk, “it’s not going to happen. My daughter is independent. She has a free will.” He slams a fist on his desk. “She will marry when she’s ready and who she bloody well wants.”
The patience vanishes from my father’s features. He stands. His smile is intact, but the quiet authority of his voice as he towers over Edwards leaves no uncertainty as to the outcome of this conversation. “Take some time to share the happy news with her. I can see it won’t be today. What’s another few months if it’ll help her get used to the idea? However, make no mistake. The wedding will happen. You made the bargain, and I’ll hold you to it.”
Edwards jumps to his feet. He opens his mouth but wisely thinks the better of whatever he was going to say and shuts it again. He’s got money, but we’re the ones bargaining with fear. Our threats are never empty.