Making Her His

by Lexy Timms

  “See you around,” said the woman.

  “Sure,” said Saks. Walking away from her eased the queasiness in his stomach she’d elicited. The rumble of his bike’s engine shook away the sleazy feeling that clung to him from the woman’s touch. Pushing out on the highway relaxed him. His engine sang, a serenade created from the precision action of pistons perfectly timed to send its life’s blood through the engine. Though he drove on blacktop, he felt connected to the earth, wheels on road, sliding seamlessly toward his destination. If it weren’t for his roiling thoughts about the family dinner, he would be perfectly at peace.

  “Anthony!” shouted his mother as Saks entered the kitchen door. “Finally! Your Uncle Vits is going crazy thinking you weren’t going to show.”

  Saks kissed his mother on the cheek and took in the familiar Italian food smells of his mother’s kitchen. Sauce bubbling on the stove, fresh baked Italian bread sat on the table, the scent of meat in the air. He reached for a slice of bread but his mother slapped his hand away. “Of course I’m here for Sunday dinner. I always am, aren’t I? Why does Uncle Vits care?”

  “Here,” his mother said as she handed him a platter of fried calamari, “take this to the table.”

  “Don’t you need some help?” he said, studying her face. Her bright brown eyes were more lined than usual, and her face seemed drained of color. “You’re looking tired, Ma. You should sit down.”

  “Sush!” she said, waving him away. “Terri’s helping me.”

  “Then where is my sister?”

  “Here, Anthony,” said Terri. She stood at the top of the basement stairs with a long flat tray in her hands. On the tray were freshly made ravioli ready to be cooked.

  Saks set the calamari on the kitchen table. “Let me help you.”

  Terri rolled her eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a tray, thank you very much.”

  “Sorry,” said Saks sarcastically, “for trying to be a gentleman.”

  Terri stuck her tongue out at him while she walked past.

  “Take off that jacket,” his mother said. Her voice was full of disapproval as she eyed his Hades’ Spawn leather. “Your uncle will have a fit if he sees it.”

  Saks shrugged off the coat and hung it carefully on a kitchen chair. “He’s good with the club, Ma.” Why had he come again?

  “No.” She shook her head. “He tolerates it for your sake.” She stared with distaste at the club’s patch, a skull over a pair of wings. His mother fingered the leather, pulling the front of the jacket closer for her to see. “And what is this? Saks?”

  “I’ve told you before. That’s my club name.”

  “Why in the world would they call you ‘Saks’?”

  “Because, Ma,” said Terri, setting the ravioli tray on the counter, “look at him. Khakis? White button-down? He dresses better than the rest of them, like Saks of Fifth Avenue? Get it?”

  His mother rolled her dark eyes again. “Named after a store. What’s wrong with those people?”

  “Those people,” said Saks, “are my friends.” He scooped up a piece of fried calamari and scarfed it down.

  “Hey!” protested Terri.

  Saks grinned at her.

  “That’s for the table,” said his mother. “And take it now before it gets cold.”

  “You need to sit.”

  “I’ll sit after I cook the ravioli.”

  “I’ll do it, Ma,” said Terri. “Go sit down with dinner. The water’s boiling now. It’ll take five minutes.”

  Marie Parks grumbled, but she picked up the basket of bread. Saks walked behind her into the dining room; the curtains were drawn tight, giving the room a thick, gloomy air. Any other day they would be pulled apart, letting the sun in, but today Uncle Vits was visiting.

  Uncle Vits sat at the head of the table facing the kitchen while Saks’ father stood, pouring a glass of wine. The elderly man sat hunched in the chair. He was shorter than most men, with a rounded belly that led him to play Santa at Christmas for the family. But his sharp, predatory, blue eyes commanded the room, giving the distinct impression that anyone who crossed him would feel his wrath.

  Vito Rocco was in fact his grand-uncle, not his uncle, which is why Saks’ last name was the very Anglo-Saxon name of Parks. Saks’ father, Carmello “Whit” Parks, half-Italian from his mother’s side, married into the Rocco family by taking Maria Rocco as his wife. His actual grandfather, long since passed, was what they euphemistically called “an associate” of Uncle Vits, who was “capo,” or boss, of a good slice of Connecticut. Much of the rest was under the control of their bitter rivals, the Serafina.

  “Anthony,” said Uncle Vits, “good to see you. Sit. Sit.”

  Saks resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Vits always had to act like he was the king in everyone else’s house. Saks never understood why people put up with it, but no one questioned Vito Rocco.

  Another thing that was strange about this gathering today was that only Vits, not any other member of the extended family, sat at the long table. Unusual and suspicious. What the hell was going on?

  Saks’ father poured him a glass of wine as his mother took her place at the other head of the table. Terri walked in with ravioli. With a spoon, she ladled generous portions to Uncle Vits, her father, her mother, and then Saks.

  “Hand me that gravy, there, Anthony,” said Vits. “And the bread, too.”

  Like many old Italians, Vits called tomato sauce ‘gravy.’ Saks reached over the large salad, the bowl of meatballs, and another of sausage and peppers to grab both items, and passed them to his grand-uncle.

  “Grace,” reminded his mother. “Anthony, please.”

  Saks never knew why his mother always chose him to say grace, except maybe she had hoped he would become a priest. Her hope died, however, when Saks refused to go to the seminary college she wanted him to attend. But to get dinner going, he made the sign of the cross and the others followed.

  “Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts, which come from Your bounty, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” all at the table affirmed.

  Vits laced the ravioli with sauce and took a bite.

  “Perfect, Maria. Perfect as always. Just like my sainted mother’s.”

  Saks’ mother smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Uncle Vits.”

  “Anthony,” said Vits, “how are things for you, eh?”

  “Fine,” said Saks noncommittally.

  “You getting out and having fun?”

  “I hang out with my club.”

  “Yes,” hissed Vits. “Your familia not good enough for you, eh? So you spend time with that motorcycle club, where Icherra’s nephew—”

  Vits was referring to Luke, whose uncle, Raymondo Icherra, was a Mexican drug lord. But Luke, like Saks, eschewed his criminal family.

  “Now, Uncle Vits,” chided Terri gently. “This is a nice family gathering, right? Anthony likes his friends.”

  Vits always had a soft spot for Terri, who he often said was the spitting image of his mother. For this reason, she could say things to him that others couldn’t.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hands as if to breeze away his rancorous comments. “A nice family gathering. Sorry.” Without taking a breath, he continued, “So, have you thought about marriage, Anthony?”

  Saks nearly spit out his pasta. So that’s why the bastard was over? “Of course, I’ve thought about it. Just I haven’t found the right girl.”

  “So, you aren’t dating anyone serious?”

  “No,” Saks replied slowly, wondering where this intrusive conversation was leading.

  “Good. There’s nice young woman I’d like you to meet. Very pretty. Smart, too. Very smart. You like that, I know.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Vits, but I can arrange my own dates.”

  “No. You don’t understand, Anthony. I think she’d make a good wife for you.”

  Vits spoke with the authority of a capo, a boss, and Saks looked around at his
family. Terri smirked, his mother smiled, and his father looked off innocently to the side.

  Screw them! His father, mother, and sister were no innocents. They were all part of this conspiracy.

  “Wife?” said Saks, his voice rising. “Wife? What have you done, Uncle Vits?”

  The capo stared at his fingernails before meeting Saks’ glare evenly. “Nothing. Not much. Just made a little proposal to the Serafina.”

  “What the hell!” said Saks, jumping to his feet as cold fear rushed through him. “The Serafina? Our rivals?”

  “Sit down, Anthony,” Vits said dismissively. “It’ll be good. Good for you. Good for her. Good for business.”

  Saks sank to his chair, under the weight of this mother and father’s disapproving glares, and knew there was only one thing that was good about this.

  He was good and fucked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Ms. Serafina, Mr. Hamilton wants you in his office.”

  Chrissy put her hand over her phone, as if that would keep her mother from hearing the conversation.

  “Sure, Jessica. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Jessica, her assistant, nodded and shut the door as she left.

  “Look, Mom, I’ve got to go.”

  “But Christina, you’re coming to the house tomorrow night, right?”

  “Mom, I told you I have to work.”

  “That man has you work on Sunday, too? Christina Maria Serafina, I know better than that. Take five minutes from your busy schedule to show up at your grandfather’s birthday party.”

  Crap. The last thing Chrissy wanted was to be in a room with the entire Serafina clan. She loved her family, at least her immediate family. But the day she learned that being a Serafina meant being part of organized crime, she swore she’d never live that life.

  But she couldn’t show disrespect by not showing up, so she had to make an appearance.

  “Fine, Mom. I’ll be there.” She gathered her leather pad-folio from her desk in case she had to take notes. As she passed the mirror she kept on the back of her office door, she checked her hair. Her blonde locks fell on her shoulder and she swept them back. Her dark blue Anne Klein jacket covered a simple pale yellow silk tank. A teardrop pearl pendant hung from a gold chain around her neck. She double- checked the lines of her pencil skirt, making sure nothing bunched. Satisfied she was presentable, she walked the hall to her boss’ office.

  Richard Hamilton was exactly the sort of man that Chrissy wanted to marry. Handsome, educated, and didn’t mind working hard to make a good living. She figured he came from middle-class roots, judging from the different trophies he displayed in his office. High school was a watershed time for Hamilton, where he obviously played both football and baseball, not the upper-class sports like lacrosse or soccer.

  But Richard had a fiancée, damn him. The best Chrissy could hope for was that she’d get invited to one of his frequent weekend barbecues or swim parties to meet his unmarried friends.

  His assistant, Chloe, wasn’t at her desk, but it was Saturday. The obscenely thin hussy made it perfectly clear she never worked on weekends. It was up to Chrissy to knock on his door.

  “Come in.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Christina, yes. Please sit.”

  Chrissy took one of the two leather chairs that sat before his desk and waited while he inspected papers on his desk. He picked up his pad and swiped through several pages. “I see what you did here,” he said with a frown.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. It’s just I never considered that a company blog would be this effective in promoting our products. But you’ve put a real spin on all of them, making them seem...sexy, for lack of a better word.”

  Chrissy was proud of what she accomplished online. Her posts went from nothing to ranked on the first page of many searches for 3D printing products. Richard had no idea what kind of work it took to make that happen. He was old-school in his marketing techniques. That’s why the president of the company hired her as Marketing Director and Richard as the Vice President of Sales.

  Chrissy gave him an enthusiastic smile. “Three-dimensional printing is the business of the future, Richard. I guess I just got excited about what we offer.”

  “Still, I want to see ad buys in trade journals.”

  Chrissy opened her mouth then closed it again. While intelligent, Richard was stubborn. She disagreed. She had hoped to spend the advertising dollars on social media ads. “I can do that, though I suggest we put money in Facepage ads.”

  “Facepage?”

  “It’s through Facebook.” When he nodded, she continued, “You can set parameters for whatever audience you want. They have very sophisticated algorithms to help you zero in on the demographics you’re trying to reach. And they’re relatively inexpensive.” Chrissy just made a strategic mistake. She lost Richard at the word ‘algorithm.’ And then she used the word ‘inexpensive,’ which her boss translated into cheap. To Richard, the more expensive a thing was, the more value it had.

  “I prefer we concentrate on the trade journals for now.”

  “Of course, Richard. I’ll get right on that Monday.”

  “No. You worked today. Take Monday off.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’ve done more than enough work and deserve the day. So, take it. I’m not likely to be this generous again.”

  “I’m grateful, but speechless.”

  “Say thank you and good night. Go home. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  Her assistant, Jessica, was excited to hear of the extra day off. “Can I take Monday, too?”

  “Can you come in and cover the phones? You can take Tuesday then.”

  “Make it next Friday, and you have a deal.”

  That was no problem. Friday shook down as quiet days in the office.

  “Sounds good. See you Tuesday.”

  Jessica waved goodbye and left, while Christina made sure she had everything she needed before clicking off her desktop computer.

  She hefted her large tan leather bag that held her laptop over her shoulder and stepped through the marble-lined lobby to the chilly New York streets. It was late afternoon, and the sun sank in the sky. She shivered on her way to the train station. She loved working in New York City, but couldn’t afford the rent. Connecticut apartments were way cheaper. She used the commute to get work done so she could spend the mornings in the office making phone calls.

  But she had two days off in a row. This was unusual for the hectic schedule pushed on her at the start of this job. Christina didn’t know what to do with herself. It would be late before she arrived at the West Haven commuter station where her car waited. A hot bath and bed sounded good.

  Her phone rang as she settled in her train seat. It was her sister, Gloria, who she shared an apartment with. “Yeah?”

  “Gee, that’s a grumpy hello.” Gloria actually sounded offended.

  “Sorry.” A smidge of guilt circulated through Christina.

  “You on your way?”

  “Just got on the train.”

  “So, you’ll be home in an hour?”

  “As long as this beast doesn’t run off the rails in screaming death.” Mentally, Christina could see her sister, who pretended she was happy with her city job, roll her eyes. Christina was pretty sure Gloria wished she had the same commute, along with the job.

  “Want to go out?”

  “Naw. I want to sleep.”

  “Right. Because you’re young and have so much of your life to live.”

  “Why aren’t you going out with Marcus?”

  “He’s got business to do. I’ll meet him later.”

  Reminded of her family’s main source of income, Chrissy restrained a groan. Gloria’s long-term boyfriend, Marcus, was full into the Serafina family business. While Chrissy didn’t like him, she understood the appeal of the tall, dark-haired Marcus, who had more looks than smarts. Serafina women didn’t necessarily need t
heir men to be smarter than them, just street savvy enough to keep themselves out of trouble. Marcus had that, but his dark, drop-dead gorgeous looks sealed the deal for her younger sister.

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “I know something you don’t.” Gloria’s taunting inflection was like nails on a chalkboard to her.

  “What?”

  “I’m hanging up now,” Gloria mimicked. Then the line went dead.

  Damn her; she knows I hate when she does that. Christina huffed and tried to ignore the sibling rivalry the rest of the commute. When she arrived home she found her sister had deserted her, leaving Chrissy’s questions unanswered. Gloria deserved the full treatment tomorrow, no matter how hungover she was, or what time she rolled into the apartment. Christina grinned. Sibling rivalry, my ass.

  But after a glass of wine eased her into oblivious sleep, when she woke the next morning Chrissy barely remembered what had vexed her the previous night. Nor did Gloria show up during the day, which annoyed Chrissy. They’d mutually agreed that Sunday morning was cleaning day, and Gloria didn’t show up to do her share. So, it took Chrissy the better part of Sunday dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing their two- bedroom domicile. When she looked up at the clock, she cursed. She barely had an hour to dress and drive to her grandfather’s birthday party.

  When she arrived at the Serafina homestead, a massive orange and yellow brick manse with a huge fence topped with spiky white ironwork, Chrissy was breathless. She drove too fast through the streets of West Haven to arrive on time, and barely dodged a speed trap by the good fortune of someone else’s misfortune. Just the thought of being pulled over by police was enough to make her heart race. The last thing she needed was ticket viewed as a “problem” handled by family connections.

  She entered the residence, the family history of the past century and a half gathered there. The house was nearly that old, built by Gandolfo Serafina after he established himself in the New World. He made enough money to afford the materials. The labor came at the expense of men who owed him favors and dared not refuse the request of the emerging Dom. He was especially adept at collecting favors.