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.
Chrissy crossed the marble-lined atrium, graced with twin curving staircases, and waved to some of the guests crowded in the great room that spread through half of the first floor. To avoid the vapid conversations about ‘what she was doing with her life,’ she crossed into the long dining room. A long mahogany table graced the center of the room, stretching the length of it. She entered the kitchen.
There she found her mother, directing a gaggle of aunts and female cousins in putting out the upcoming feast. She kissed her mother on the cheek as her mother waved her troops towards the dining room to place the food on the table. A custom-cut glass protected the precious lace tablecloth handmade by some distant Serafina ancestor. This last only graced the table only on special occasions.
“Christina,” said her mother primly, “so nice of you to show.”
“And you’ve been up before the chickens, cooking. No wonder you’re cranky.”
“You should’ve been here to help.”
“I would have,” said Chrissy, casting an eye toward Gloria, “but someone didn’t come home last night to help clean the apartment.”
Gloria, standing behind their mother, stuck her tongue out at Chrissy, which brought a smile to Chrissy’s lips. One point to big sister.
“Well,” her mother said, “Gloria has every right to spend time with her fiancé.”
“Fiancé?” said Chrissy with surprise. “When did this happen?”
“Mom,” protested Gloria. “I don’t have a ring yet.” Her face flushed with mortification at their mother’s remark.
“No, but you two have been talking, haven’t you? No, no, Marla,” said her mother to a cousin, “put the bread in that basket there, yes.”
Chrissy watched the exchange between her mother and sister with rapt interest. This was a shift, and a huge one. Marcus had held out against marriage, hoping to leverage his relationship with the Dom’s granddaughter as a career move. Everyone knew that, except Gloria, who was over-the-moon in love with the lug. Marcus must be ready to make a move up in the organization. And that was interesting. Pandolfo Serafina never acted warmly toward Marcus, precisely because the man mixed his professional ambitions with his private ones. What had changed?
“Come,” said her mother. “Grandpa Pandolfo’s been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER THREE
GOOD AND FUCKED.
That summed it up perfectly.
Saks wanted to leave the dinner table even if it meant showing a massive lack of respect toward his grand-uncle. But he had a score to settle, so he sat through dinner as Uncle Vits chatted happily about the benefits of merging the Serafina family with the Roccos. At any other time, Vits spit what vipers the Serafina were and how you couldn't trust a single one.
His hypocrisy sickened Saks, and the fried calamari soured in his stomach, which was a shame. He liked calamari, especially his mother’s.
Vits joked with Saks’ father, while Saks’ mother did the Italian thing and didn’t speak a word except to exhort the men to eat. She was superb at playing the perfect Italian wife here in front of Vits. But Marie Parks, née Rocco, didn’t hold back within the confines of her immediate family.
Saks’ sister smirked at him through the whole meal. He’d talk to Terri later. First, he just had to bide his time with Uncle Vits.
Finally, Vits left after giving the men hugs and the women kisses on their cheeks. “We’ll set up a meeting, eh? With the Serafina girl. You’ll take her to a nice restaurant; Vincente’s, eh?” Before Saks could protest that the restaurant was out of his price range, Vits quickly continued. “I’ll pay. No problem. And when it comes time for the ring, I’ll cover that, too. My wedding present.”
Saks’ father gave his son a warning look. Maybe that was because of the murder forming in Saks’ own eyes. He glimpsed his face in the hallway mirror by the front door. Even he wouldn’t want to face someone with an expression that fierce on his mug.
“That’s generous, Uncle Vits,” Saks said between gritted teeth.
Vits nodded as if their meeting was concluded in agreement, and left. When the door shut behind him, the shit hit the fan.
“What the hell was that about!” snapped Saks. “Is this what I’m supposed to expect at Sunday dinner now?”
His mother and father stared at him, shock plastered on their faces. Terri scampered up the stairs, ostensibly to her room. But Saks knew she’d listen at the head of the staircase, just as she had through her teen years.
“Anthony,” said his mother. “Settle down.”
“Settle down! How am I supposed to do that? This is outrageous! I expect behavior like this from you, old man,” he said to his father, “but Mom? What the hell were you two thinking?”
“You’ll not talk to you mother like that,” his father said with a scowl, as if Saks hadn’t addressed him, too.