“Don’t act so shocked. I’m a grown man, you know.”
“But Pandolfo Serafini said—”
“I wouldn’t listen to him. He didn’t gauge Chrissy right at all.”
“He didn’t?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
“You did?” Her eyes grew wide.
“Yep,” he said as he took his first stabs at cutting the lasagna with one hand. The wide noodles slid on the plate, defying his efforts. “And she turned me down.”
“She went to bed with you, and then wouldn’t marry you?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s a sl—”
“Don’t go there, Ma. Things are different from when you were growing up.” He kept struggling to cut his lasagna with one hand, so she took the knife and fork to cut the square into more manageable sections.
“Not so different when I was, oh, younger than you,” said his mother, attacking the lasagna with gusto.
“Oh?”
“I wouldn’t have worn white at my wedding, except my mother insisted.”
“Ma!”
“But only with your father. I loved him enough, it didn’t matter when we...well, anyway. Let’s just say we used our honeymoon to refine our technique.”
“Oh, Ma. TMI,” he laughed. His mother handed him back his knife and fork.
She sighed. “But things weren’t easy for us, either. Your Grandfather Rocco wasn’t happy I wasn’t marrying a “real” Italian.”
“What? Dad’s got Italian blood.”
“Well, back then a man couldn’t enter the organization unless he was a full-blooded Italian. Things have eased up since then. At least, for the Roccos.”
“Ma, you know I don’t want to hear about the business.”
“All I’m trying to say, son, is that if you love someone enough you find a way to make things work.”
“What? You wouldn’t mind a Serafini as a daughter-in-law?”
“If she was the right woman for you, I wouldn’t care if she had webbed feet and dressed like a penguin. All that matters is that you make each other happy.” She patted Saks on the leg. “I’ve got dishes to do. Your sister will come and take your tray when you’re done. Get some rest. You look like crap.” She stood and paused at the door. “If you and Chrissy are meant to be, then wild horses couldn’t keep you apart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Christina Marie Serafini sat in the back of Marcus’s refurbished red Camaro with her arms crossed, her blood boiling. Instead of bringing her to her apartment, Marcus insisted on taking her to her parents’ house. Worse yet, one of her bags sat packed on the floor next to her. Apparently, she was expected to stay there.
No fucking way.
She had no idea what her parents’ dysfunction was, but she would disabuse them of any notion of controlling any aspect of her life.
Marcus pressed the call button at the iron gates that protected the house to open them and drove up to the half-circle drive to the house. Without a word, he pulled the bag from the car and walked up the steps.
He turned back to see if she got out of the car.