As I left Nick's bedroom on the second floor which was an attic converted into a bedroom, I was finally able to appraise Nick's old house through its interior. It was a 3-storey farmhouse style family home, secluded from its busy neighbourhood. I climbed down its narrow staircase leading to the first floor, at met with a corridor that connected five bedrooms, including its master suite.

The large living hall on the ground floor was the centre that connects to other family areas including a sunroom, a snug, a dining area and a family/TV room. The porch outside leads to a patio while the kitchen and laundry area are behind the dining area.

I admired the classic expensive furniture and décor in this living room, like they have been around for more than a decade. The house felt a little bit empty though, like some parts of it homeyness were taken away. I gaze onto one of the featured walls where framed photos of chubby and jovial looking Nick when he was in preschool and a couple of framed photos of Nick's dad with some unfamiliar men were hung up on the wall. Nevertheless, I failed to see any photos of women in this room.

"I thought gangsters live in a fancy house or mansion. Like those Cockney ones," I said sarcastically.

"You're watching too much films. Having fancy houses luring the authorities. Here we keep it down the low," Nick clarified, placing a plate of toasts and a sunny side up in front of me. "This is my father's house, I used to live here before, and I'd stay here sometimes whenever he's away for his business trip. I brought you here because it has more med supplies than my apartment."

"Where's your dad now?" I queried, observing Nick settled down with a bowl of cereal and a carton of milk.

"In his room, he'll come down soon. Your breakfast is getting cold."

As promised, slow heavy steps plodding down the hall halfway during our meal. A man in his 60s donned in black shirt and trousers ambled into the dining area looking scornful. He was a fierce looking man with a tall big frame structure slightly hunched back making himself looking superior among us.

I noted on his Persian-Turkic facial feature and understood where Nick got his looks from. His slanted grey eyes narrowed at me in disgust, his groomed sliver white moustache furrowed, and his thin lips curved to a scowl. He had streaks of white hair on his sideburn while some few strands of whites on the rest of his neatly combed hair. His face was weather-beaten suggest he often travels to a lot of sunny countries.

As Nick's dad, Hussaini entered the dining area and sat on his usual chair at the end of the table, I felt chills running down my spine. Nick greeted Hussaini with a peck on both cheek and introduced me to him. I mustered a grin at him, but he continued to look at me like he wanted to eat me alive, then my eyes darted away.

"You brought another show girl to keep me entertained tonight?" Hussaini asked Nick.

"Nope dad," Nick grinned. "Zahida's my personal assistant at the warehouse. She had an emotional meltdown, so I took her here under my care for a couple of nights."

"A couple of nights?" he looked at Nick in disbelief. "Why don't you convert this place into a rehab centre instead?"

"Nah, I've got my hands full for now," Nick replied nonchalantly and went into the kitchen.

"Where are you from, child?" he asked me in his stern voice.

"Rusholme," I answered timidly, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Oh yeah?" he wasn't convinced. "Where are your parents from?"

"Malaysia," I answered honestly.

"Oh, Mahathir?" he asked, linking up to Malaysia's prominent political figure. I nodded. "So, you're the girl that makes Nekmat to go soft. I don't like it when he becomes soft."

"Dad, I appreciate that. Thank you," Nick interrupted our conversation as he walked out from the kitchen and placed a plate of khubz (Arabic pita bread) with cheese and butter spread in front of him.

We ate our breakfast as quiet as possible, making sure not even the slightest noise to emanate the dining area. Nick had his eyes glued to his iPhone watching a rerun of a football match with audio off while eating his cereal. Hussaini spread the cheese on a torn piece of khubz while fixing his watchful glare at me. I tried my best not to look up at him, feared that I might offend him with my weary glance, so I looked down at my final piece of toast while consumed it.

When we were done, Nick ordered me to wait by the living room while he cleaned the table and gathered the dirty dishes into the kitchen.

"See you tomorrow morning," Nick informed Hussaini before we exited the house.