She lifts the free hand not holding the ever-present wooden spoon and embraces my arm. “My Nicky.”
“How you doin’, Ma?”
My mother pats my forearm. “I’d be better if my boy would speak like a gentleman.”
I grin, knowing my mother hates profanity of any kind. Even a simple “damn” grates on her nerves. Squeezing her tight, I kiss her temple again. “Sorry, Mama. Won’t happen again,” I lie, playing the game we always play.
She chuckles. “Liar. Be a good boy and get your mother a glass of vino.”
“You got it.” I give her one last squeeze and head to the small cellar off the kitchen where we keep the endless supply of our family’s wine. My father’s side comes from a long line of vintners, which allowed us to afford this house and enabled my mother to stay home and raise her family. Be a wife and a mother. Her claim to fame, as she puts it.
Not worrying about the varietal or vintage, I just pull a bottle off the shelf. In my opinion, they are all amazing because they were made by my dad and uncles. Food or drink made with love is the best there is.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach the landing back in the kitchen and find my sister Dawn. Her long dark hair is pulled back off her face in a ponytail, highlighting her high cheekbones and rosy cheeks. I grab her from behind, lift her up, and spin her around while she squeals in delight.
After I’ve made a full spin, I drop her down, where she turns around and hugs me tightly. “Hey, bro. How’s it hanging?”
“Heavy and to the right,” I joke, and she crinkles up her nose and punches my chest.
“Gross!”
It’s our standard greeting, one that never gets old. Dawn and I have always been close, being a year apart, but I’m pretty tight with all my sisters. Behind me, Dawn’s husband, Lorenzo, or “Lo” for short, claps me on the back.
“Nick, bro. How’s business?” He lifts his hands into two fists and weaves from side to side as I playfully duck and punch his hands.
“Gym’s good. Can’t complain. Of course, we need new equipment, a new ring, an overhaul of everything really, but it pays the bills. That and the classes I teach at Lotus House.”
“That aerial shit you do is crazy, man.”
I grin. “What? You not man enough to give it a try?”
He shakes his head. “Hell, no. Dangling from silk over a hardwood floor. I’d like to keep my balls and bones in perfect working order, thank you very much!”
I grip his shoulder lovingly. When my sister married Lo, my mother got down on her knees and thanked the good Lord above for the miracle. He’s the perfect son-in-law. Tall, dark, handsome, a family man, loves my sister to insanity, and most importantly…he’s Italian. Lo comes from a good family and has recently taken an interest in winemaking. My father, Sal, couldn’t be happier. Neither could I, since his interest in the business, along with my second sister, Angela, takes the pressure off Sal’s only son not wanting to participate.
It’s an endless argument, me not going into the family business, but one I’ve been winning lately. After I opened Sal’s Boxing Gym & Fitness Center, my father eased off the winemaking lectures. I’m sure the day I named the gym after my dad—well, technically, after both of us, since I’m Nicholas Salvatore Salerno Jr.—he understood why I needed to do it. It was me going after my own dreams, being my own man. Do I love wine? Absolutely. You’re not Italian if you don’t love wine. I think they slip it into our genetic makeup when we’re in the womb. Do I love what the Salernos have built? Hell, yes. I’m damn proud of my family. We aren’t rich, but we’re damn sure not poor. We’re all living the lives we want to live, and that’s all anyone can ask for. Me included.
My dad enters from the back deck, holding a plate of steaming grilled sausages. Ma may have made the marinara and pasta, but my father appreciates a nice grilled sausage instead of putting it in with the sauce. “Nicky! How you doin’?” he asks with that Italian flair.
“Good, Pops. Can’t complain.” I grab a few wineglasses as the rest of the brood makes their way into the kitchen.
Angela shows up with her boyfriend in tow. Ma has not shown him the love yet, mostly because he’s quiet and Latino. It’s not that she’s racist; she just really loves being Italian and wants her children to have a horde of Italian babies. Still, Javier is wearing her down. He’s been living with Angela for a solid year, and I expect a ring on her finger any day now. Once he makes that intention known, Ma will switch over to doting future mother-in-law in a second flat. All Ma wants is for her children to marry good, preferably Italian, men and have lots of babies. If he marries Angela, she’ll accept him with open arms. Until then, no one is good enough for her children.
Cara, my third baby sister, breaches the kitchen with a new beau and, shockingly, a little girl who couldn’t be more than three or four years old. Oh, damn. Shit is about to get real. One thing my mother loves more than being Italian is children.
I walk over to my sister and pull her into my arms. The man next to her braces visibly, locking his jaw tight and narrowing his eyes. Seems protective and/or jealous. I can relate to the first; the second will earn him time in my ring, meeting my glove-covered fists.
“Hey, care bear, you look good. Who’s this you have holding your hand?”
She gives me a wobbly grin, her brown eyes shining bright as she looks down. “This is Kaylee and my boyfriend, Scott.” Scott is not
