Making Her His

Saks sighed. First, he stopped at his apartment and changed his clothes. Then he pulled into the parking lot of the Red Bull.

CHAPTER FOUR

Chrissy’s mother looked her up and down critically, which forced Chrissy to glance down at her clothing. She wasn’t stupid enough to show up at her grandpa’s birthday party in jeans and a button-down shirt. She wore an expensive gray Armani sheath in a broken chevron pattern that she bought on sale at the end of the season.

Her mother’s lips drew tight in disapproval. “Don’t you own something more festive than a work dress?”

It was true. Chrissy paired this dress with a dark blazer for work, but she also bought it intending to wear it on her all-too-infrequent dates after work. “Mom, I’m not a pink ruffles and bows girl. You know that.”

Her mother nervously fussed with her hair. This extra care, and her mother’s tension, signaled to Chrissy that something important was about to happen.

“Mom?” Vague questions swirled in her mind, but she couldn’t form one to ask her mother. But the elder Serafina woman turned and walked ahead of her. Chrissy stared at the back of her mother’s head as the Serafinashe led her to the library at the other side of the great room.

It was her own house, but her mother knocked on the door. “Papa,” she said, for she always called her father-in-law ‘Papa’ at his request, “Chrissy has arrived. She wants to wish you a happy birthday.”

Her mother opened the door wide, letting out a miasma of cigar smoke. The other men in the room, uncles and cousins who formed Pandolfo Serafina’s inner circle, rose from their leather chairs. The only one who remained seated was her father, Vincenzo Serafina, who family and friends called Vince.

“Is the food on the table, Rose?” one uncle asked.

“Yes, it’s waiting for you.”

“Lead on,” he said, with a wave of his whiskey glass in his hand.

It was unusual for the men to give up their places sitting with the Dom, and this raised the hackles on Chrissy’s neck. For sure something was up, something she wouldn’t like.

The other men agreed, except for her father; he sat in his usual place, the chair to the right of the massive mahogany carved desk behind which her grandfather sat.

“Come in, Chrissy. You look beautiful today,” her grandfather said.

“Thank you, and happy birthday, Grandpa.”

“Sit down. I’ve not talked with you in a while.”

Chrissy sat and glanced at her father, who gave her a tight smile. Great. What did she do now? She knew she was in trouble; she just didn’t know what or why.

“So, how’s your job in the city? You like it?”

“It’s a great job, Grandpa. It’s a stepping stone to other things.”

“I see,” he said gravely. He stroked his chin. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, for a while at least.” He looked to her father, who nodded seriously.

“Grandpa,” Chrissy said cautiously, “what’re you talking about?”

Pandolfo Serafina made a dismissive motion with his hands. “Your sister wants to get married.”

“And?” She failed to see what that had to do with this conversation.

“And,” her father finally spoke, “in this family the younger daughter doesn’t marry before the older one.”

Chrissy scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. She can marry before me. Waiting for me to marry is old- fashioned. Believe me, it won’t offend me at all if she goes to the altar first.”

Her grandfather slapped his hand on the desk sharply, startling both her and her father. “It’s tradition!” he said. “Plus,” he murmured more softly, “I don’t want that stunad Mario to get any ideas of where he’s heading in this family.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Chrissy,” her father said in a subdued tone. “We’ve been having our troubles with the Roccos.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s time that stopped,” her grandfather admonished. “I’ve been talking with Vittorio Rocco.”

“What?” Chrissy said, surprised. Pandolfo Serafina would rather stick a knife in a Rocco than speak to him.

“His nephew is near your age, and a hardworking man. Your type. Very respectable. I even understand he goes to church.”

“That’s nice, but I fail to see what that has to do with me.”

“Christina,” her father said, “we want you to meet him.”

“Why?” Chrissy replied with suspicion in her voice. Matchmaking hadn’t happened in the family for at least two generations. It sounded like this was where these two were heading, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“He has a full-time job,” her grandfather said. “He earns fifty grand a year. Substantial.”

“Give the man a medal,” Chrissy responded sarcastically. She earned seventy grand, so fifty didn’t sound impressive to her.

Her father cleared his throat, warning her to watch her tongue. “We think you’d be a good match.”

“Excuse me?” she said cautiously. “Match, in what way?” This conversation had better not be heading where she was pretty sure it was going.