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Festa del Papà.
Father’s Day didn’t mean anything to Trish. The 19th of March came and went like any other, nothing more than an excuse for men to be ‘gifted’ expensive meaningless garbage plucked out by children who didn’t have their heart in it. Cagliari itself had fallen victim to the fever. Shop windows were emblazoned with advertisements for the day, the busy streets petered out as shoppers were enticed inside by the offers.
Cagliari. Sardegna. Just another city, just another island, at least to her. Trish didn’t know much about who her father had been before Passione, before her, but she knew that he had been raised on this island. Even if he hadn’t told her - which he had, many years ago after much insistence - it was clear from the expressions that he couldn’t help but utter, the way he had affectionately called her cacciappu as a child. But his mannerisms were the only indication he made of his link to the island. The past meant nothing to him, and he made sure Trish knew that.
“Trish,” Doppio’s urgent voice pulled the girl out of her daydream, and she realised that in her thoughts, her eyes had been affixed on a display of tchotchkes that beckoned through a store window. Her gaze moved over to the boy, the purple-haired guardian that never left her side. Except when he did, and her father took his place. Doppio would come and go, but Diavolo never left. She knew he was watching her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. Her hand reached out to grab his arm as Doppio moved to press forward, “I, um… need the bathroom.”
“Can’t it wait?”
Trish shook her head. The boy sighed and nodded, moving to lean against a vacant door frame nearby. He stared ahead, not at the crowds in front of him, nor the white limestone facades that lines the street. Whatever thoughts he had behind those vacant, purple eyes, were a mystery to Trish. Still, she could keep secrets from him as much as he kept secrets from her.
The girl began to head towards a nearby restaurant, inconspicuously passing a glance at Doppio as she allowed herself to be swept up by a crowd of tourists. She followed their path, passing dozens of souvenir shops and restaurants, the typical tourist locations, until she found what she wanted. Doppio and the narrow streets were long out of sight. Instead, the shop overlooked the open expanse of the ocean. Trish slipped inside the shop with her money in hand.
* * *
Tolling bells told Trish how long she had been inside the store. With gift tucked inside her bag she hurried back to where she was meant to be. A part of her was scared of the reaction; Doppio would be worried, Diavolo would be furious.
The door frame that Doppio had been in was vacant, instead a businessman was smoking in his place. Trish suddenly felt small as she hopelessly turned around, as her heart beat in her mouth and the crushing weight of abandonment weighed down on her. Her breaths became erratic as fear took hold, as she became filled with dread, as-
“Trish?”
A hand gripped Trish’s arm as Doppio appeared from seemingly nowhere. Concern filled his face as he pulled her away from the street and into an empty alleyway. The boy’s grip was strong, stronger than how he usually held her when he wanted to guide her somewhere.
“Where the hell were you?!” he hissed, “Do you know how mad the Boss would have been with me if you died?”
“I-” Trish stumbled over her words. She racked through her mind in a desperate attempt to find an excuse, but could only settle on the most simple. She seemed to shy away as she spoke, “I got lost…”
Doppio’s face was marred with disdain, in disbelief of what Trish was trying to convince him of. Judging by the way he furrowed his brow in his brief pensive thought, for a moment it seemed likely that he was about to dispute her claim. Trish braced herself for a barrage of questions that he would then diligently relay back to the Boss.
Then, the boy hugged her. No interrogation, no anger. Just reassurance.
An accompanying sigh of relief put Trish at ease and she sank herself into his arms. Doppio was more tender than Diavolo was, but he wasn’t as fatherly as him. For a moment, Trish was sure that it was her father hugging her. If she was feeling cynical, she would say that he was only worried he was about to lose the asset he had spent thirteen years raising, and not that she could have come to harm.
But she wasn’t feeling cynical.
* * *
Trish lingered in the threshold that stood between her hotel bedroom and the small adjacent lounge. Her hands nervously pulled on the strap of her bag while she thought of how to approach the situation.
Her father lounged on the sofa, his limbs all ungainly stretched out across the cushions. An unbuttoned white shirt replaced the pink sweater that Doppio had worn earlier, but the purple pants were the same. A faint light was emitted from the laptop resting on his chest, but the man could see nothing while he crossed his arms over his eyes.
“It’s late,” he stated.
“I know.”
Diavolo shifted himself upright and gestured for Trish to sit on the sofa, an invitation that she obliged. The girl pulled her bag from behind her back and began to rifle through it.
“I’m sorry I disappeared earlier,” she started. The box she procured from her bag was black, with ‘Rolex ’ impressed onto it in gold. Her father took the box from her outstretched hand.
“What is this?”
“A watch?” the confidence she had built up immediately shattered upon seeing the indifference in his face. Of course. What could she get for the man that didn’t even want anything?
Rather than immediately place it to the side, Diavolo opened the box and took the watch out of its rest. It was nothing extravagant: plain silver, with a main face to show the time and a second hand in the corner. The man rolled up his sleeves, offering a brief glimpse of the intricacies of the tattoos that flowed down his arm, and slipped the watch on.
“This was for Father's Day?”
“Yeah…” Trish said tentatively, holding the last part of her word for longer than usual. Her father examined the watch a second time before turning back to his daughter.
“I like it,” he said, “But don’t run off again.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t make this a tradition,” Diavolo ordered. He reached over to affectionately ruffle her hair.
Trish sighed in relief and smiled, “I won’t. Happy Father’s Day, papà.”