Making of Them

by Lexy Timms

  “That chick is my fiancée, Luke.”

  Shock rolled over Luke’s face. “What?”

  “I asked her last night. I’m not letting her get away again.”

  “Doesn't her family hate you?”

  “They might. But they’ll have to adjust.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then we’ll go somewhere else.”

  “You’re serious about this,” Luke realized.

  “She’s it for me,” Saks replied. “Besides, it’s your fault.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yeah. If you didn’t make married life so attractive, I wouldn’t have considered it.”

  “Don’t blame your peculiarities on me,” Luke said. “I knew a good thing when I saw it.”

  “So do I. But I need your help with something.”

  “Don’t ask me to help you pick out a ring.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Good.”

  “I need to talk to Pez.”

  “What?”

  “She wants this matter cleared up of who got me shot.”

  “I don’t blame her. Who wants to start married life looking over their shoulder?”

  “Exactly. So, I have to talk to him. But I figure I need backup.”

  “I can’t. There’s a little matter of that restraining order.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “But we’ll talk to Okie.”

  Luke pulled out his cell phone and set it to speaker. The gruff voice of Oakland Walker, president of the Hades Spawn, rumbled over the connection.

  “Who the hell is this?” his voice grumbled sleepily. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

  “I know how early it is. And it’s Luke. Listen, Saks and I want to talk to you about something. Club business.”

  “Urgent?” Okie asked.

  “No. But important.”

  “Meet me at the diner, then. I ought to get breakfast out of you after getting woke before the sun.”

  “Oakie, the sun is shining just fine. But we’ll meet you there in fifteen.”

  Luke powered off the call. “There. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  They’d just settled into the diner when Okie walked in. He walked with a limp to the table, and sat down heavily on the booth’s bench as if he couldn’t bear standing.

  “You okay, Okie?” Saks queried.

  “Yeah,” he said in a voice all sand and gravel. “What do you boys want?”

  The waitress interrupted by pouring coffee and taking their orders. Okie looked impatient the entire time.

  “So?” he demanded the moment the woman was gone.

  Saks figured there wasn’t any beating around the bush. “I want to talk to Pez,”

  “Why concern yourself with that trash?” Okie poured a bunch of sugar into his coffee.

  “I need to find out who sent those guys after me.”

  “You do, huh? What the fuck? Why?”

  “It will smooth things over with the Serafini family.”

  Okie’s upper lip turned up in a sneer while he stirred his coffee. “I’m still not tracking why,” he said.

  “He’s going to marry Pandolfo Serafini’s granddaughter,” Luke interjected.

  Okie’s brow arched high. “You looking to get in good with that scum?”

  Saks stood, pushing his chair backward. He threw his napkin onto the table. “You know what? I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “Saks,” Luke said sternly. “Sit down. Okie, don’t dis the man’s future in-laws. We’re not marrying into them, he is.”

  “We might as well be. Look at all that crap that went down because of your uncle. Things haven’t been right since. Bad enough Saks is part of the Rocco family, which we didn’t know when we patched him in. Now he wants to join up with the Serafini?”

  “Not our call,” Luke told him. “What Saks is looking for is backup to talk to a Rojo. Can we give him that or what?”

  “Forget it, Luke,” Saks muttered.

  Luke held his hand up. “No. I won’t. What is all that crap we talk about when we patch in, Oakie? Brotherhood? We got your back? We’re here when you need us? Eh? We don’t get to choose what battles we don’t fight when it comes to our brothers. Think about it, Okie. Because you’re right. Things have been shitty for the past year, because of things that you did. This is a club matter, Okie, and we need to stand behind Saks, and Hawk, too.”

  Saks pushed back in his chair, overwhelmed by Luke’s outburst. His boss was usually a soft-spoken man, but he was right. Okie had kicked Luke out of the club and things hadn’t been the same since. Luke had been taken back in, but their formerly-close relationship was in shambles.

  The waitress brought their orders, but Saks pushed his away. What was supposed to be an easy discussion had turned into a shit-storm that left his eggs looking less appetizing by the second. “Luke, we should go.”

  “No. Not until I get an answer from Okie.”

  “You want it? I can’t give you what you want. These people caused us trouble even before I got out of prison. Hell, it’s probably because of me that Pez has been all over us. The guy who’s the boss of all of them promised to make my life hell, and it seems like he has.”

  “What?” Luke said. “I thought you and Little Ricky were buddies.”

  “There’s no such thing as friends in the joint, Luke. Just people who will or won’t shiv ya. And Little Ricky isn’t the latter. Not with anyone. No, you can be sure that he sent Pez to harass the Spawn. Looking to use us as a shield for their activities. That would be the way he thinks. Give the police someone else to investigate.” He gave Luke a pointed glance. “You have Rob Gibson, FBI, working in your shop as if he isn’t collecting a government paycheck, and Pepper, ex-DEA, holding onto his membership in the Spawn. And why do you think that is? Eh? Because he loves us so much? No. Both of them are waiting for one of the four powder kegs we’re sitting on to explode.”

  Okie reached for the jelly caddy and pulled out four packets and lined them up. He pointed to the first one.

  “We got here your uncle, Luke. Don’t think for a minute he’s given up on you taking over his criminal enterprise. Family counts big with him. And you’re all he has left.”

  Saks watched Luke stare glumly at that jelly packet. Luke had hoped for years his uncle would leave him alone, but considering the man’s money and the stakes for his drug-running business, it wasn’t a sure bet.

  “Consider the Roccos. They’ve adopted Luke into their little family because of you, Saks. And the Roccos keep a low profile, which they need to keep raking in their profits. But they’re freaked out as hell that Rob Gibson is working in your shop, Luke. What would they give to put Gibson off the scent, eh? Maybe they don’t mind Saks getting roughed up.”

  “Hey,” Saks protested. “My family doesn’t play that way,”

  “What do you know, Parks, eh? You turn a blind eye to their business.”

  “Then there’s the Serafini. They want to take the whole pie for themselves. If they can knock the Roccos down, they’ll do it. How to do it without getting the big bosses in New York upset is another matter. So perhaps they don’t mind hiring a couple goons to rough you up to force the Roccos’ hand. But the Roccos don’t have much muscle these days. They’re mostly a bunch of old men, and what are they going to do? The Serafini keep recruitment going to bring in young blood. So, who do you think will win in a turf war?”

  Saks shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Okie’s analysis of the situation was spot-on, minus his implied conclusion. “If you’re saying someone wants the Serafini to take over all the operations in this state, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why do you say that, Saks?” Okie asked.

  “There’s no advantage to the big bosses to change the balance of power in the state.”

  “That may be true or not.”

  He pointed to the last packet. “And there’s the Rojos, associates of the street gang The Hombres, th
e people who took out Gibs. They love nothing better than harassing us, probably because Gibs’ arrest shone a spotlight on the Hombres they wanted to avoid. So, it might be them who hired those two goons, or they were acting as an intermediary.”

  “But we need answers to that, Okie,” Luke admonished.

  “You want my answer? I won’t stop ya. But enough of us have been in harm's way lately, so I won’t require it. These people are murderers, a line none of us has crossed, so I’m not calling the Spawn to arms.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chrissy tried again to reach Jessica, but the call went to voice mail. Her lips pursed in concern. Generally, Jessica never let her messages go to voice mail unless she was asleep. It was already noon in London, so something important must have come up.

  “Siri,” she said. “Call New York office.

  “New York Office called.”

  Marta Grayles, the office assistant who manned the New York office, wouldn't be in yet. The phone rang several times before the call shuttled to voice mail.

  “Marta, this is Chrissy. Call me ASAP.”

  She had another hour before Marta returned the call, which added to her aggravation of dealing with snarled traffic on the interstate that rolled toward the hospital. Her worry over her absent grandfather incited a bubbling simmer on her inflamed nerves. But the biggest thing on her mind was the subject she needed to broach with her family: that of one Anthony Parks and his marriage proposal.

  How would they take this? Grandpa Serafini didn’t want the marriage now, after he’d insisted on it and then warned her away from Saks. Papa generally supported what Grandpa said, and her mother was always the good little Italian wife who kept her mouth shut.

  Gloria would be ecstatic. She’d love any distraction from her goal of seeing Mario on the sly.

  Chrissy’s phone rang. Because she had the phone propped on a dashboard phone holder, she spotted that the call came from the New York office.

  “Can I speak to Christina Serafini?” said Marta. Ultra-efficient and her mannerisms frosty, Chrissy thought she could be a robot.

  “Hi, Marta. This is Chrissy.”

  “What can I do for you, Miss Serafini?”

  “I’m trying to reach Jessica.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Jessica Saunders, my personal assistant. She’s filling in for me with Mr. Pearson while I take a few days off.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Serafini. I haven’t heard from Jessica Saunders.”

  “What about Mr. Pearson?”

  “It is not Mr. Pearson’s habit to call me personally, Miss Serafini,” she said crisply.

  “Where does the schedule say Mr. Pearson is?”

  Chrissy listened to the clicks of Marta’s keyboard, aching anxiety pulling at her gut while she waited.

  “It says he’s in Milan with Turner Trower.”

  Chrissy scrunched her nose. Trower canceled that meeting.

  “Remind me. What’s Mr. Pearson’s next stop?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Serafini. The shared schedule does not have that information.”

  Now Chrissy’s anxiety spiked. Pearson insisted she update the shared schedule daily. No way that information wasn’t on the schedule. “That’s unusual.”

  “Do you want me to forward this call to Mr. Pearson’s private line? Perhaps there is something you should help him with.” Marta’s voice sounded snottier than usual.

  “Please do,” Chrissy replied. What the hell? Marta apparently forgot who was her direct boss. Pearson had employed her before Chrissy, but Chrissy wouldn’t let Marta get away with disrespecting her.

  But today wasn’t the day to take on the rigid Marta Grayles.

  The dial tone cut off almost immediately.

  “This is Pearson. Leave a message.”

  Damn.

  “Hi, Mr. Pearson. This is Chrissy checking in. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know how things are going.”

  She hung up, frustrated and now extremely concerned. Somehow, some way, things weren’t right. Why couldn't she reach either Pearson or Jessica? That shouldn't be possible, not in the scheme of James Pearson’s rigid world.

  Chrissy came to the junction of the two interstates that met in New Haven, and veered right. This was the least labyrinthine way to Yale Hospital, where her father was now resting. She navigated the heavy traffic on the off-ramp and the side streets to the hospital proper before pulling into the concierge line to have someone else find a place to park her car.

  Someone else can park the damn car for me.

  Her gut continued to roil uneasily as Chrissy clomped through the marble-floored halls until she pulled herself up short and huffed.

  This was no way to greet her father.

  She popped into the cafeteria and bought three cups of coffee and three breakfast sandwiches, and then added a few donuts. Whoever sat at her father’s bedside would be hungry.

  What a good little Italian girl I am, making sure there’s food for everyone.

  That was the problem, wasn't it? All her life other people had expected her to act in a certain way. And for just as long she’d struggled not to. Just like her reaction to Saks' proposal earlier, she went too far to declare and assert her rights. Too stubborn and independent, and insisted on paying for her own school, or a career, and running away with James Pearson instead of facing up to Saks and her parents... Instead of facing up to it herself.

  No. It was difficult growing up the daughter of a crime boss. You can't cover that shit with frosting and call it a cake. She’d grown up in a house full of secrets and lies. Her father disappeared for strange stretches of time. People came at all hours of the night. Men brought in the injured or bleeding, who stayed mysteriously in the always-unoccupied maid's room off the kitchen. Her father's gun in the desk. The whispers of the other girls in the Catholic school.

  “Don't be her friend. She's a Serafini.”

  Who was she fooling? That's exactly who she was. All the college degrees and high-end jobs in the world wouldn't change that.

  It wouldn't change her family.

  Where the hell did she get the idea that she was too good for Saks? Maybe he didn’t have her education or her résumé, but at least he was honest about who he was. Unlike her.

  He was so much more mature than her in all the ways that counted. It was immature and dishonest to keep secrets. It was time she grew up and told them about the truth of her and Saks, damn the consequences.

  She ended up at her father’s room almost automatically. Chrissy was glad to see him awake and on the phone. He’d always been a huge talker, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said roughly. “Keep me up to date.”

  Chrissy glanced at her mother, who had her head buried in a book, pretending not to listen to her husband’s obvious business call.

  “Hi, Dad!” she said brightly.

  “Chrissy,” he said with a wan smile. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Dad. How are you doing?”

  “Good. They had me up walking today. I’ll go home tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’ll be fine. I’ll have all my girls around to help, won’t I?”

  “Yes, of course, Dad. Have you talked to Grandpa?”

  Her father scrunched up his face. “No. But I don’t expect to for a while.”

  “Seriously, Dad? You’re in the hospital and your father isn’t here to see you?”

  “Chrissy!” her mother said sharply.

  “I don’t have a problem with it, young lady, so you shouldn’t either,” her father said. “Now, why don’t you see if the nurse will bring me a ginger ale, eh? My throat is a little dry.”

  Chrissy held back her scoff. Her father always did this, sent her off on a little errand to derail a conversation.

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll be right back.”

  A nurse showed her the refrigerator with the drinks, and she brought one back to her father’s room. Chrissy slowed when
she heard her mother speaking.

  “She should know,” her mother said.

  “No,” her father replied.

  “Your father is out there—”

  “Rose,” her father snapped. “It’s not up for discussion. She’s here and safe, isn’t she?”

  “But for how long, Vince, huh?”

  “Here you go, Daddy,” Chrissy sing-songed. She covered her embarrassment from eavesdropping with a too-cheery voice. She handed him the drink, but he waved her off.

  “Mother,” he said to his wife, “help me with this bed. I need to sit up.”

  “Of course.”

  Chrissie watched, getting choked up as she watched her mother fuss over her father. Thirty years the two had been together, and they were always like this. They were interdependent, like the sun wouldn’t rise or set if they didn’t stand or sit next to each other. He waved for Chrissy to bring the soda.

  “Thanks, Princess,” he said.

  Chrissie bit her lip. He must have been hurting to fall back on his old nickname for her. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Anything for you, Dad.”

  He took a sip of the ginger ale with a shaky hand, and gave it back to her. “Put it on the table.”

  She did as he asked.

  It shook Chrissy to see her father in this condition. She glanced at her mother’s eyes, and saw she was just as shaken. Oh, Rose Serafini kept that impassive mask that Italian women wore through adversity, but her fear was there in her eyes.

  Questions loomed in her mother's eyes. Will he be okay? Get back his strength? Or will he be betrayed by his aging body?

  There was nothing worse than watching your strong, capable parents laid low by the slow march of time and the inevitable problems of aging.

  It was awful to contemplate that they wouldn’t always be there, that their lives would one day come to an end, just like hers would. It was difficult to imagine there could ever be a world without her parents in it.

  How could she make this better for them? Aside from being a good daughter and not making trouble, there was nothing she could do. And she certainly couldn’t tell them about her and Saks.

  “So, Chrissy,” her father said, jolting her from her thoughts, “tell me about this job of yours.”