Making Her His (Beating the Biker 1)

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.