18. Dinner
2273 Words
Michael was dressed up for a meeting with his parents. They had reserved a last-minute conference room in the opulent Ritz-Carlton, the hotel they were patronizing for their hopefully-brief stay in southern California.
If it was up to Michael, they’d be leaving on a plane the next morning as soon as all this foolishness was dealt with.
He fussed with his tie for a bit until Delia came up to him, soothing him as she straightened his collar and patted his lapels down for him.
If he could sweat as profusely as humans, his suit would have been soaked through.
For safety concerns, Delia would not be going with him, and Michael told Nico and Giuliana not to expect her as she was still dealing with her vampiric infantile bloodlust. He was almost happy he had that excuse to fall back on, as he wasn’t eager to have his parents meet his mate again.
“You’ll be fine,” she calmed him as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Be honest and remain firm. I don’t want you going back there, under their thumb all the time. And I don’t want to lose the man you’ve become—the one I love more than even myself.”
His heart warmed—well, at least it felt like it did as her fingers brushed over the growth of his beard as she ran her fingers over his jaw before tugging him down to kiss her lips. Michael went willingly to her, letting the comfort of her touch soothe the knot that kept the tension in his belly tight. It unfurled just enough for him to melt into her kiss, but not enough to arouse him. He couldn’t think of anything but the upcoming meeting. Not even the thought of Delia’s lithe form under her body, writhing, her mouth calling out for more, her cries, the way—
“You ready?” She smiled up at him, trusting with everything in her soul that he would do what was right, that he would still be Michael again when he returned after their meeting.
He breathed out, hoping it would unravel the tension he felt in his shoulders, and he flexed his arms, trying to loosen them as well.
He felt like a rope that had been knotted up completely, almost as impossible to unravel as that dastardly puzzle that was so popular in the 80s—the Rubik’s Cube.
Between a tussle with a 3D combination puzzle from the mid-70s and a battle between his parents, he’d take the cube any day.
He quickly kissed her goodbye, promising to be back as soon as he could, and leaving behind his biggest supporter. He felt it in every bone in his body, and he wished that it was possible for her to come to support him. But between his parents’ business and her thirst for human blood straight from the source, it was an impossibility.
Both a blessing and a curse that she was still new to his world.
Getting into his car and starting it up, the levels of tension rose again, and he almost wished her were human and that sedatives would have any affect on his body. Unfortunately, his most calming influence was still in their shared condo and counting the minutes until he was home.
He made his way carefully through the congested streets of downtown Los Angeles until he was pulling into the valet parking for the Ritz-Carlton and handing his keys over to a young man who nodded curtly at him exchanged the keys with a receipt for his car.
Stuffing it into his pocket, he checked all three of the others, almost thinking that in his hurry he had forgotten to bring his cell phone. It was there in his left front pocket, as was his wallet in his right back pocket, so he must still have at least the most ingrained functions in his brain working at a purely instinctive level.
At the concierge’s desk, he was told that his party was located in conference room 3, and was given directions on how to find it.
If it heart could still beat, it would be a battering ram trying to break out of his chest, and his head would be dizzy with the pounding of his blood through his veins. As it was, he still felt wound up like the pressure behind the trigger of a gun, a thoroughly unappetizing thought seeing as who he was about to deal with.
He didn’t knock on the door, but walked into the room seeing his mother behind a long table, several glasses of wine poured, and his father’s back as the man gazed out the window onto the ground behind them.
“Ah, Michele, you’re just in time!” His mother’s accented English almost sounded too loud, and he fought back a wince at her animated greeting. He smiled tightly at her before walking up and giving her a kiss on both cheeks.
“Mother,” he greeted in his soft grumble. “Good to see you. Papa.” He gave his father a handshake. It wasn’t as customary in the Italy, but he had tried so hard to Americanize himself that it came naturally now.
“Is it, Micheel? Is it good to see us?”
He looked over at Giuliana’s question, taking in the raise of one brow as she studied him.
He was blunt. “Yes, it’s good to see, but if you’re here to try to bring me back to the family, as the saying goes, then I’ll ask you to save your words. There is nothing, not one thing, that could bring me back.”
His mother scoffed under her breath, though his father’s countenance didn’t change a bit.
“You know the area well and can be an asset in that regard,” his mother stated. “We only wish you the best—all the pleasures you could buy with being—”
“As I’ve said, I have all I need right now,” he interjected, swiping a glass and pouring himself a generous amount of wine to it. “I don’t wish for more.”
“’Chele, please.” She used his childhood nickname almost lovingly as she softened her tone. “If you won’t come back to Sicily with us, at least think of starting up the LA version of Sangue Nero for us. Think of your mate. She will live in the lap of luxury, figlio.”
“I am thinking of Delia, mamma,” he stated. “The things the Di Salvios have done to ensure that we prosper is repulsive to me. Get someone to do it. There has to be someone who is willing and eager to take up torch. Leave Delia and I out of it. We have our own simple lives to lead. Delia has her dreams, and I have mine.”
And my own dreams of one day redeeming myself for all I’ve done.
The persistent cloud of his past hung over his shoulder, a grim reminder of all he needed to make up for. He may not have slit the throats or pulled any triggers, but it didn’t stop him from being a witness to the brutality of Sangue Nero.
“Get Anselmo or one of his men to do it,” he nearly barked out. “Delia and I will have nothing to do with your brand of business.”
“So, she knows about us, ’Chele?”
Fuck.
He needed to lie.
“She only knows what I told her, and that is precious little. She’s unaware of your practices and how you go about seeking vengeance or p*****t. She knows you own casinos and strip clubs—nothing more than that.”
His mother studied him for a moment, looking at every facet of his face before leaning back in her chair. Believing him—or at least for the moment. Then she brought out a briefcase in smooth, supple reddish-brown leather.
Like dried blood, he thought grimly to himself. It had that rusty color he’d seen more often than he wished to admit, even if only to himself.
Giuliana took out a file as thick as Michael’s thumbnail and started to peruse it silently. When she got to a page that was marked with a red arrow, she cleared her throat.
“Delia Marie Parker was turned vampire at 23 years old. Her birthday is June 11th and she was born—”
“Mother!” Michael stood from his place, nearly upending his glass of expensive wine. “You did a background check on my mate?”
Both of her brows raised, and she was calm and coolly collected as ever. “Of course. I had to see what my son was mating to. Not very impressive, though she is quite pretty.”
He closed his eyes tightly, praying for control over his rage.
Giuliana continued. “She was born to Sasha Gayle Parker, though her father is unknown on the birth certificate. She has two close family members, her mother, Sasha, and her grandmother, Caroline Parker. Her mother never married but has had frequent bed partners—”
“I know all this,” he ground out. “Delia has been most forthcoming with everything she’s told me. We have no secrets from each other, barring what you and my father really do for a living.”
“It’s alright, Michele,” his father intoned. “We are not holding her mother’s sins against her at all. But we did see that she worked at a strip club at one point for a while. We could use her expertise to—”
“She’s not going back to working at a strip club!” Michael’s anger leaped up from the depths of his bowels. “She has other talents that she’s just starting to explore. She’s a talented sketch artist and—”
“Scribbles and doodles do not make one a Picasso, Michele. I saw that she worked at some penny-ante comic book store for a little bit, but—”
Michael began to knead his forehead with his fingers. Being here and talking to his parents was almost enough to give an undead person a migraine. “It wasn’t a comic book store. It was a very big company. She simply didn’t have the experience beforehand to—”
“Still,” his mother motored on. “She could get us in touch with some of the people in the business like this Mannie or whomever that it says right here. Manager? Mannie the manager? Hmph.”
She seemed almost amused, but was too emotionless for Michael to figure out if that was the case. Her blank stare at the next series of pages was enough to put Michael off.
“Well, no matter what you say, Michele, I have faith you’ll eventually see things our way,” Nico said to him. “You were born into the family, and you never really get away, no matter how long you run.”
His eyes narrowed on his father. “Is that a threat? I have powerful friends too, and I know I can turn to them for help if I need it.” Though he honestly didn’t want to reach out for more of Eli’s help—the man had already been a godsend to him and Delia—if forced, he would beg and plead before going back into the Sangue Nero. “Why don’t you ask Guglielmo?”
Nico waved him off. “He’s already working on a new branch on the east coast. New York was always good to la famiglia.” The man’s lips ticked up on both sides. It was the only emotion his father had shown since he’d stepped into the conference room.
“I’ve heard enough,” Michael said, smoothing the creases in his jacket before tugging at the bottom. He nearly wanted to rip it off him in his anger, but that wouldn’t have gotten him very far. Nico and Giuliana always had silent watchers—guards, as they called them—nearby whenever they were talking business.
Michael found it rich that he knew they were close by, even if they were meeting with their son.
Nico left him with a bit of advice as he rushed to the door at what was considered human speed. “Just remember that we have a far reach, even longer than I’d admit to.”
It almost stopped Michael in his tracks, causing him to wonder what he meant. He let it trip past him and opened the door with a firm grip.
“It was good seeing you again, Mamma e Papa,” he murmured after he’d shut the door behind him.
Anyone—if there was anyone at all within hearing—would have heard the sarcasm of his tone.
- Writer
