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TWENTY-FIVE; 𝒂𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚, 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆?
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WHATEVER GENERATIONAL TRAUMA ran in the DaCosta lineage was coming back to bite Percy in the ass. The trying times, disappointments, fuck-ups—it all seemed to build up to something he didn't want to witness.
As Percy wandered up to the floor for Bobby's office at DaCosta Internationale, he couldn't help but reflect on the times he had stupidly believed he could once run this place. He'd always heard his father say to Roberto: "This company is the image built by all the people of our society, and it's alive because of them."
That was the fucking deal. Percy was Mr Variety. The people of the society were three-fourths of him. It was the part he was struggling hard to clean off, to become the rendition of Roberto with the emotional appeal.
Just his luck, Bobby wasn't visiting tonight. Emmanuel Da Costa was.
"Pa," Percy said in greeting while stepping out of the elevator.
Emmanuel barely tossed him a glance. Too occupied in flipping through The New York Times. He was sitting in Bobby's seat, the master chair of the tower. He was so used to winning the money, he couldn't seem to let go of the habit. The seat wasn't his to warm anymore.
"Perseo. Come, sit," he offered.
"Fuckin' A," Percy muttered under his breath. He was not looking forward to this.
Do you know how kids aspire to become like your father? From a young age, Percy wanted to throw up on the street at that thought. Nowadays, as he understood the delusions of the less fortunate, he envied how different his life would've turned out if he'd chosen to stay with his mother. Unlike his mama, Emmanuel was a father broken by responsibility and glued together by privileged circumstances, and apparently, stuff like this occurred often. He'd just been 'unaware' that normal fathers knocked up two women when disgruntled with riches and power.
Percy sighed and took a seat opposite him. He couldn't be bothered to rein in his rebellion, so he lifted a leg over his knee. "Is Bobby around?"
Emmanuel folded the edge of the paper to shoot him a suspicious glare. "You can talk to me, Percy."
"Sure I can." Only when he wanted something.
"Oye." His father set aside the newspaper and templed his fingers over the massive table. He was willing to listen. "Qué te pasa, Perseo? A chica? Playing new sports...?" [What's happening, Perseo?]
Percy felt his heart slam into his throat. He made sure not to react. "Stop it."
