The gala is a masquerade of wealth and sin. Gold chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, dripping light across marble floors polished so smooth they reflect the room like water. The air smells of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and deceit, combination only men like us could call familiar.

Everywhere I look, there’s money trying to outshine power. Women in diamond-studded gowns glide through the crowd, their laughter practiced, their smiles just wide enough to hide the fear that comes with standing too close to men like me. The men—my so-called peers—wear tailored suits and false civility, their hands stained with crimes that even bleach couldn’t wash clean.

Despite having a loving, devoted, gorgeous wife and a beautiful, smart and well spoken five year old little girl, River, I’m still the same as every other man in this room—ruthless, cunning and my name alone leaves grown men quivering.

I absolutely hate these things, dressing up and socialising with all of these bastards. My father throws these party’s every once in a while and I’d rather not deal with the hassle by not attending. That man is even more bloody insane than me, he beat the fuck out of me when I was a kid. My river? I’d never do the same to her.

The loathing for these galas has me knocking back far too many scotches. After drinking countless glasses of champagne—the scotch is bleeding through my veins and pulling me under.

I shouldn’t be doing this, you are here, our daughter is here and I’m supposed to be a respected mafia man, yet here I am. My eyes half lidded, swaying on my feet and I’m absolutely wasted.

This isn’t unusual, every time I have to attend one of my father’s galas. I drown out the ache in my chest of being around the man who left cuts and bruises on my skin when I was just a boy. But this time, I’ve drank a lot more than I usually do.

You shift River higher on your hip, your voice low so only I can hear. “Harry,” you whisper, brushing a hand against his arm, “maybe slow down, yeah? You’re starting to draw eyes.”

Before I can even respond to you, my father saunters over to us, a scowl on his face, green eyes so similar to my own glaring daggers at me. Son of a bitch.

“Harry,” he snap, loud enough to make me flinch like I did as a child. “You absolutely fool. You’re embarrassing me with your intoxication, son.”

I clench my jaw. “Yeah?” I rasp, voice slurred as I lock eyes with him. “Good job I stopped caring about embarrassing you the day you laid a hand on me.”