Guns, Not Roses

~Chapter Twenty: The Devil Wears Charcoal-Grey Suits~

Berry Dekker was intuitive enough to know that his son would lunge after him ten seconds before the actual lunging took place, so he neatly sidestepped him, resulting in Tony coming close to plummeting out the open window.

“Still as impulsive as ever?” Berry asked benignly, standing at a safe distance away from Anthony. He still found it hard to believe that this man was his son; the son he’d written off as a whimpering, embarrassing mess all those years ago.

“She’s dead,” Anthony said evenly, trying to keep his fury in check. His mother was dead and this pathetic, overbearing man was asking after her. His utter audacity was unbelievable. The fact that Berry Dekker actually sought him out was unbelievable.

“What did you just say?”

“My mother is dead.” Anthony hadn’t used the word ‘mother’ in months. It tasted foreign on his tongue, like Urdu or Greek.

“How?” Berry was sure that the boy was lying. Marguerite couldn’t be dead; Tony simply wanted to hurt him.

“Do you care?” Anthony was staring out the window, at the vast belly-dancing trees outside the hotel. One hand was shoved in his pocket, balled into a fist.

“Of course I care. She is my wife. Do you realise how stupid you sound?”

Tony’s head swivelled to the side, raw hate emanating from his body. Was it possible to kill Berry then and there? Make it look like an accident?

“Why are you here?” Anthony asked after a beat. He genuinely wanted to know.

“We need to catch up, don’t you think?” Berry said genially.

The guns are by the door. Just grab one and end this. Or make him suffer.

“We both know I’m faster than you,” Berry said quietly, reading his mind. “I will always be faster than you. Never forget that, boy.”

“I’m not a boy. Perhaps the cataracts in your eyes are making you see otherwise.”

Berry chuckled. “Is a sense of humour necessary for joining the mob?”

“I’m not in the mafia,” Tony spat.

“Then what are you?” Berry’s face was suddenly in his, eyes blazing with fury. “Do you think you’re a hotshot because you own a little weaponry? Because you get to kill people?” He felt like he was staring into the face of his younger self; such was the resemblance between father and son. “I’ve let you do whatever the hell you’ve felt like for these past few years, but enough is enough. You’re tainting the Dekker name with your disgusting so-called occupation!”

Anthony stared back at him, his face impassive. “Please get out of my face. I have no desire to kiss you.”

“How dare you talk to me in that manner?” Berry fumed, resisting the strong urge to punch the arrogant look off his son’s face.

“Have you conveniently been stricken with a case of amnesia?” Tony said darkly, taking a few steps away from the man. “Do you honestly not remember what it was like to live with you? Do you think you even have the right to beg for respect from me? You don’t deserve the oxygen you breathe, you piece of shit.” Tony bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to curse. Looking skyward, he mumbled an apology to God.

Berry’s mouth became a grim line. “Does your mother share the same sentiments?”

“Wherever she is, I know she’s happier. Even Satan was once an angel.”

“Surely that’s not what you think of me?” Berry paused, straightening his tie. “I’m your father, after all.”

“I would love nothing better than to put a spatter of bullets in you and watch you slowly bleed to death.”