DEAN DUBOIS | HIDDEN DISTRICT: He Always Knows More Than He Says
Updated: Oct 4
Dean Dubois
Dean DuBois in Hidden District is the kind of man who always knows more than he says.
Some people walk into a room and tell you exactly who they are.
Dean DuBois has never been one of those people.
He is a lawyer.
A recruiter.
A trainer.
A chef when the mood strikes.
A community activist.
An adventurer.
An uncle who will make you laugh while simultaneously getting on your last nerve.
Dean is charming because he knows how to be.
He is funny because humor gives people somewhere else to look.
And he is very, very good at making complicated things sound ordinary.
Dean has built a life around knowing people.
What they need.
What they fear.
What they'll tolerate.
And sometimes, what they're ready to do.
Dean can be manipulative, sassy, smooth with his words and mercilessly quick with his tongue. He has no children of his own and somehow still manages to involve himself in everybody else's business.
He's the uncle you love.
The man who irritates you.
And occasionally, the person you should have listened to the first time.
Dean and Zandra
His relationship with Zandra reveals another side of him.
There is affection there.
Familiarity.
The shorthand of family.
There are also conversations that would sound perfectly innocent if you weren't paying attention.
In Hidden District, you should probably pay attention.
Chapter 9 - In Boca al Lupo
Sariah and I have a mandatory biweekly sister hang that has survived moves, breakups, near-deaths, and at least one screaming match in a Home Goods parking lot. No rescheduling. No excuses. It’s where we decompress, talk nonsense, and pretend the weight of the world isn’t pressing on our spines like a thumb. Non-negotiable. Sacred time. Court-ordered in spirit. The bar sits just off the main drag, close enough to be found, hidden enough to stay protected. Red leather booths hug the walls, worn smooth from years of conversations and confessions. Bar stools circle a U-shaped counter like loyal sentries guarding the liquor. A local jazz trio holds the room together with Coltrane and Miles drifting through the air like incense. By the time we arrive, they already know our names. Five-dollar drink specials don’t hurt either. I’m halfway through my first glass when Sariah walks in late, sliding into the booth, waving like she doesn’t already know what I’m about to say.
“There she is,” I mutter. “Fashionably disrespectful.”
“It’s five minutes,” she says, shrugging out of her jacket. “I went for a run.”
“Still late,” I squint. “You don’t run unless something’s chasing you.”
She exhales. Then leans back against the booth, shoulders dropping the way they do when someone has finally allowed themselves to stop carrying the day.
I tilt my glass toward her. “What’s really going on, Riri?”
She pauses. Not dramatic… just… tired. “These past two weeks have been a lot.”
That’s code.
“A lot of good?” I ask.
“A lot everything,” she says. “Some wins. Real wins. Other days it feels like we’re just documenting suffering. Different faces. Same patterns.”
I open my mouth before thinking and immediately regret it.
“People make choices, Ri. Not every situation…”
She cuts me off with a look sharp enough to filet fish.
“Careful,” she says. “That assumes they were given alternatives.”
I raise my hands. “Okay, fair.” I take another sip. “So what’s the problem?”
She doesn’t answer right away. The server arrives beside the table with the quiet efficiency of someone who’s watched this exact conversation unfold a hundred times before.
“I’ll have the same… In Bocca al Lupo,” I say.
“Sangiovese,” he confirms.
“Yes.”
“Tempranillo,” she orders, eyes still on me. Squinting.
The glasses arrive moments later, deep red against the warm bar lighting. Sariah swirls hers thoughtfully.
“In Bocca al Lupo,” she says slowly. “That means something threatening?”
I grin. “Into the mouth of the wolf.”
She stares at me, then rolls her eyes. “You and your dramatic Italian. I’m sick of it.”
“I’m cultured.”
“You’re exhausting.”
We drink. The jazz shifts into something slower, the bass line vibrating softly through the floor.
Finally she exhales. “I spend more time doing paperwork for Dean than actually listening to my clients.”
“And?”
“And sometimes it doesn’t feel right.”
She swirls her glass.
“The assessments. The reporting. The monitoring. The way everything is catalogued.”
I lean back. “That’s the job.”
“That’s the process,” she snaps. “Not the purpose.”
I study her carefully. “You want out?”
“I want options.”
“Options cost. You know that.” I say.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “So do obligations.”
There it is. The real conversation.
“We work for the family because they pulled us out,” I say evenly. “Paid for our education. Built your office.”
“And in exchange?” she asks. “We belong to them?”
I laugh once, quietly. “You giving that truck back?”
Her mouth twitches.
“You tired of being Uncle Dean’s lapdog?” she asks. “You run when they call. Dinners. Events. ‘New assignments.’ You don’t question it.”
I don’t flinch but I feel it.
“Careful,” I say.
The word lands heavy between us.
“Because I understand the system,” I gesture vaguely. “You benefit too… that office suite on the top floor. That Mercedes.”
She laughs, sharp. Slurping her wine like it insulted her. Not thinking twice about my warning. “Stability isn’t free, Zan.”
I lift my glass. “Neither is survival.”
She stares down at the wine for a moment before speaking again.
“My gut tells me to run,” she admits quietly. “My heart says stay. And I don’t like being split like that. It’s messing with me.”
I soften. Just a little.
“I get that,” I say. “I don’t like obligation either. But I hate chaos more and loyalty isn’t a leash.”
She snorts. “Sometimes it is. Honor and loyalty can be a leash, sis.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But sometimes honor and loyalty are the only thing keeping the whole system from collapsing.”
I take the last sip. “You just don’t like who’s holding the leash.”
“You get on my nerves,” she scoffs.
The server reappears beside the booth. “Another round?”
“Yes,” we answer in unison, staring each other down.
Sariah finally laughs, loose now. “You know what? I don’t need your smart-ass mouth tonight.”
“I love you too,” I say sweetly.
She flips me off then her phone vibrates.
“Client,” she mutters, standing. “I gotta take this.”
She steps outside. The moment the door closes behind her, my phone buzzes.
A text from Uncle Dean. Of course.
"Ok Chef! New client. Call me."
“Hey Unc.”
His voice is calm and measured.
“We're ramping back up.”
I lean back. “I didn't know we slowed down.”
“We did,” he says. “Now we’re not.”
I smile faintly. “You trust me?”
“Always.”
Then the phrase that pays:
“No leftovers.”
“Never,” I say. “What’s the menu?”
A pause.
“Custards. Fruit. Maybe peaches.”
I still. Just for a second. Dean never spoke plainly when something mattered.
“Copy that,” I say lightly. “I’ll be ready.”
“We’ll send details in a few weeks.”
“How many weeks?”
“That depends on them.”
Of course it does.
“One client at a time,” he adds.
“Always,” I reply.
We hang up. Sariah slides back into the booth moments later, studying my face like she already knows something just shifted.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod, slow. She studies me, not convinced.
“Be careful, Zan.”
I offer a thin smile. “Always.”
The band shifts. The room hums with laughter and glass. Into the mouth of the wolf. Neither of us says it out loud. But the night already has teeth.
Dean makes it sound ordinary, doesn't he?
A new client.
A menu.
Custard.
Peaches.
No leftovers.
That's the thing about Dean DuBois.
Listen carefully when he sounds the most casual.
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