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“Don’t you have a place to be?” Saks’ cousin, John Rocco, bartender of the Red Bull, slid a beer toward him with his eyebrows arched.
Saks sat at the bar, which was a second home to him. Even the new clubhouse of the Hades’ Spawn didn’t hold the memories of the Red Bull. He flicked his eyes up to the rafters of the bar where brightly- colored bras hung, evidence of the watering hole’s rambunctious reputation.
“Yeah. Sunday dinner.”
“So?” said John.
Saks shrugged. “So?”
“Aren’t you going to be late?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, dinner is served 24/7 at my mom’s house.”
John gave him a you’re-not-getting-the-point glance and turned to another customer.
Of course, Saks got the point. It was about respect. Uncle Vits, head of the Rocco family, was going to be there. One did not disrespect the man by showing up late.
However, there was something about this day that put Saks on guard. Part of it was the way his mother insisted that he show up rather than hang around with that gang of bike boys. Another was how John made a big deal about Saks being at the bar instead of his parents’ house. He didn’t know what was going on. But something definitely was.
It’s not that he didn’t love his family. But the fact was he was more than wary of the organized crime aspect of it. He wasn’t drawn to their activities like so many of his other cousins, and he didn’t want to make his life around it either. He’d seen too many of his uncles or cousins incarcerated for family crimes taking their jail time as a badge of honor. He didn’t think it was either smart or honorable to be involved in illegal activities. His mother backed him on this against his uncle, or rather grand-uncle, and made sure that Saks’ father didn’t drag him into the family business.
As a result, Saks lived as an outsider in his own family. Conversations stopped when he entered the room. He didn’t hang out with his cousins.
Which was why the Hades’ Spawn MC had become so important to him. They were like family.
Well, that, and riding bikes.
Those two things, plus working for Luke Wade, owner of Central Valley Bike Repair, as a motorcycle mechanic made up his life. Unfortunately, his life didn’t include a steady girlfriend, which was why he was sitting here at noon on Sunday in a motorcycle hangout bar, killing time.
“Hello.”
A pretty brunette slid onto the stool next to him. Her too-tight tee that was cut at the midriff advertised what she was looking for.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” said the brunette with a flash of extra white teeth.
Saks almost chuckled. “Then you haven’t been here often enough.”
“Buy a girl a drink?”
She didn’t even wait to be offered one. Saks didn’t like brazen women, and he could guess what was going to happen next. And it did. She slid her hand onto his thigh, inching her way to his inner leg.
“Which bike out there is yours?” she purred. “I’d love to have a ride.”
Of course, she would. And she wasn’t thinking about riding his bike either.
“John, give the lady here what she wants. On me,” said Saks. He then twisted away on the stool.
“You’re leaving?” she said in bewilderment.
“Sorry, sweetie. Family thing. Another time. Maybe.” Like never. When he was younger and more impulsive, he would’ve taken the woman to bed in a heartbeat. But he was growing older, and bedding anonymous women had lost its shine. At Luke and Emily’s wedding, he got an inkling he wanted what they had. Seeing the looks they gave each other, and watching over these past two years how they stood together against every challenge, he came to realize he wanted that.
A lover. Partner. Best friend.
That would not be this woman, who could be had for the price of a beer and a motorcycle ride.
“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.
