Chapter Four
Conor Jacob.
He liked that name. Easy to remember. Short, direct, masculine, a name some movie studio would give to an up-and-coming action star. Conor, being in the biz, would know all about that.
Conor Jacob. The name suited him. Gio, too. Nice to have a full name to associate with the hot-as-fuck image before him, which he now imprinted as a core memory.
“Well, Conor Jacob,” he said as the man nibbled a trail down the underside of his shaft to his balls, “my name is Joe Spatafora. The honor is mine.”
Damn it. So much for anonymity. Spatafora wasn’t exactly a common surname. Too late to backtrack, though. He had to hope Conor accepted this for the one-night hookup it was.
He ignored the extended hand. He enjoyed the soft texture of Conor’s red hair between his fingers too much to stop playing with it.
Conor closed his lips together in a lopsided pucker and nosed Gio’s balls a moment before raising his head and dislodging his grasp. With the faint lot lights muted by the condensation on the windows, Gio could just make out the lines of Conor’s face. He saw Conor blink his eyes and swallow hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple. His direct gaze required more light to interpret, but Gio figured the hazy gratification brought on by their intimacy had taken hold.
Gio knew they weren’t the first couple to find themselves romping in a car near JT’s. Others would follow over time, some strangers to each other, and he congratulated himself for picking a good one. Life with the San Gaetanos had taught him to read people, and sort the devious-minded from the well-intentioned. Conor had come to him as a genuine person, one seeking a reprieve from the million minor burdens crowding his head—bills, work, inconveniently closed Irish pubs. Good thing he’d come along to suggest JT’s as an alternative.
Just as well, too, they leave their acquaintanceship in this dark corner of the city, testing the suspension of Gio’s car. So long as Don Salvatore breathed, chances were slim that the family would adopt the same mindset as the Supreme Court where same-sex marriage was involved. Not that Gio considered it with a man he just met, but he should be so lucky to have a hot guy like Conor interested in him like that.
“Spatafora,” Conor said, stroking Gio’s cock. He circled the pad of his forefinger around the tip, igniting every nerve on the sensitive patch of skin. “Italian, then?”
“Sicilian, actually.”
Conor nodded. “My mistake. Are you first generation American or…” He paused, tilting his head. “What’s so funny?”
Conor could see his expressions in the dark? Gio wasn’t outright laughing, but had found Conor’s reaction amusing. “All good,” he said, “just that every time I correct somebody, they say ‘what’s the difference?’” Yes, Sicily merged with Italy centuries ago, but her people and cultures were distinct. Gio’s grandparents had called themselves Sicilians, full stop. “It’s like, a Puerto Rican wouldn’t call himself an American, even though it’s an American territory.”
“No, I hear you.” Conor relaxed his grip on Gio’s erection, which began to soften. “I often have to explain to foreigners why the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland aren’t the same place.”
Gio pushed up his hips, encouraging Conor’s touch. “If it’s all the same to you, I didn’t come here for a geography lesson.”
“That’s two of us.” Conor flopped forward and captured Gio’s mouth in an invasive kiss. The mad grabbing resumed. Gio scrabbled blindly for buckles and zippers until the sensation of silken skin met his rough fingertips. Taking Conor’s dick with one hand, he pressed his renewed hard-on into it and pumped his fist. He palmed the back of Conor’s head with his other hand to prolong their kiss. His wallet lacked his emergency rubber, ruling out a backseat fuck. Better to grind, anyway, given their near equal heights.
If Conor had complaints, he disguised them well. He rocked into Gio, adding to the delicious friction about to reach its boiling point. Still lip-locked with him, Conor pushed up both of their shirts in time to avoid a mess. Gio thanked him by moaning his orgasm into the man’s mouth.
Fuck. Gio slid away from the kiss. He tended to come harder and longer inside his lover’s mouth, but this stolen moment in semi-public must have heightened his arousal. Maybe I had the right partner, too , he thought. Something about his climax improved his clarity—Gio opened his eyes to an unraveled Conor slunk back on the opposite end of the car, enjoying his own afterglow. They both panted in the stifling, heated air, scented with sweat and spunk. Gio would have to drive with all four windows down to temper the stench, but no big deal.
“That was fucking awesome,” he said.
Conor echoed the sentiment, stuttering out a deep laugh. “After the week I’ve had, I needed that.”
“Location scouting’s that stressful, huh?”
“No, it’s…” Conor wiped his eyes and blinked several times before seeking out Gio’s face. “It’s multiple things. Travel. Being away from home.”
Gio understood. Time lags and other details, like differences in food and sleeping in strange beds, no doubt contributed. “Well, hope you enjoyed this bit of American hospitality,” he said. He counted to five in his head, calculating his next move. He’d have loved asking Conor to come home with him, and share his bed. Working for the family meant no set schedules. If one of Aldo’s errand boys—or, God forbid, Aldo himself—knocked on his door at four in the morning, he didn’t want to explain the situation to the one-night stand tangled in his sheets.
“Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?” he asked, reaching out to stroke Conor’s arm. Their dicks remained exposed, soft between their thighs. Wherever the man was staying, it wasn’t too far from Gio’s apartment, if the man had walked to Lonnegan’s.
“I appreciate it, but I won’t trouble you. I’ll book a ride.” Conor raked his fingers through his hair and began to tuck himself back into his clothes. Conor had done him a favor by declining. Gio chose this particular car because it wasn’t flashy or remarkable in traffic, allowing him to blend. Still, one sharp eye in his direction, seeing a stranger in a mobster’s car would inspire questions.
The recycled air within the car cooled with their inactivity, and after Gio buttoned himself up, he leaned into Conor for one last kiss. “This was fun,” he said. “You take care.” He meant it. Thanks to Conor Jacob, he could scratch redhead off his conquest bucket list.
“Same to you.” Conor opened the side passenger door, and Gio caught his beatific smile in the backlight of the nearly full lot. A gust of wind caressed his face, and he savored the brief refreshment before Conor sealed him off. Eventually he’d move to the front and go home, but for now Gio stretched out across the back seat and closed his eyes. He was thankful no work calls or texts had spoiled the evening. Despite his devotion to the San Gaetanos, he lived for these occasional moments of normalcy, cosplaying as a regular gay man with desires.
God help him if he met another man like Conor Jacob, one so fine as to turn him legit.
* * * *
Hugh survived Conor’s first night home.
He seemed to have rested comfortably with his upper body slightly elevated in his new bed, enough for Conor to worry more about his mother. When he had slipped through the front door close to midnight and checked on his da, he found Mona dozing upright in a chair, her hand laid over her husband’s.
The thought to rouse her and help her to bed had passed quickly. Concocted dialogue had played out in his head as he watched them from the doorway. I won’t miss another minute with him. I’ll rest later , he heard in her voice . For certain, he’d feel guilty for moving her to another room for even five minutes on the off chance Hugh slipped away.
He woke early, having dropped into sleep the second he laid his head on his pillow in his childhood room. After six hours and change, he felt refreshed and attributed it to Joe Spatafora’s expert touch and kisses. Conor tended to sleep well after sexual activity, which would explain past months of restlessness. If one could bottle the post-orgasmic sensation and sell it as a sleep aid, he’d buy it by the case.
Peering in on his parents, he watched Mona’s bowed head waver from side to side as she woke naturally. She drew in a sharp breath and turned to her husband with widened eyes. Conor presumed she feared Hugh was gone, but she murmured that she didn’t want to wake him. “I’ll get breakfast started then,” she said to Conor when she spotted him.
“No, mam. Stay.” Conor extended his hand and motioned for her to remain seated. “I’ll fix you anything you want. What should I, uh…” He watched his da’s chest rise and fall, his heart sinking at how Hugh had seemed to age further overnight. Pale to the point of near translucency, Hugh’s face appeared to melt. “Will he be able to eat?”
“His doctor suggested a special glucose drink with electrolytes. There’s a jug in the fridge. It’s rather thick, though, so maybe dilute it?” Mona asked. “And I don’t need anything elaborate.”
In the end, Conor prepared two bowls of Irish oats and cut up a few bananas. He brought in a tray with three spoons in case Hugh had the strength and appetite to try a few bites. Hugh, now awake, nibbled on a bit of both before deferring to the glass of sweet-smelling purple liquid Mona fed him through a bent straw. “I think Con can handle this while you freshen up,” he then said, assuring his wife with a wink. “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
Mona flicked her melancholy gaze at Conor, who took the glass from her hands. Of course vanity meant nothing to her right now, but it was heartwarming to see Hugh’s concern for his wife. Whatever happened in the next few days, Mona would have to put one foot before the other. After several seconds of tense banter, Mona capitulated but promised to express her morning routine. She backed out of the room, watching the bed as she exited.
“I figured you didn’t want your mother in the room when I asked if you got lucky last night.” Amid the pallor of pending death, a twinkle revived the cornflower hue of the old man’s eyes. “You went to that place down by the river, I take it?”
A mild burst of laughter escaped Conor’s lips. “JT’s, yes. Haven’t been there in years, it’s not changed much.”
Hugh shrugged his shoulders against the mattress. “It’s a second home to many, I suppose, as Lonnegan’s is to our friends,” he said. “I find people who visit a bar or a restaurant with regularity are reluctant to see change, even with the best of intentions. A few years ago some salesman came in during a busy shift and pitched one of those digital jukeboxes.” Hugh rolled his head side to side. “You should have heard everybody grousing, threatening to boycott if I had one installed.”
A digital jukebox would have gone unnoticed in JT’s for all the strobes and pounding disco music, but definitely an anomaly in a pub with authentic old world decor. Conor wanted his da to tell more about the pushy salesman, if only to hear him talk. For a man who hinted last night at giving up the ghost, Hugh seemed to improve. However, Hugh pressed for details of Conor’s adventures on the other side of the river.
“Not much to tell, really,” he said. Conor cradled his bowl of oatmeal in his left hand, stirring the banana slices so that the creamy mixture covered them. “A man bought me a beer and we spent most of the evening on the back deck talking. We didn’t get to dance.”
“You’re downplaying it, sounds like. A person can dance with anybody, but you’re talking about making a connection.” Hugh waved away the drink when offered it. “Is he Irish?”
“Sicilian.”
Hugh sighed. “Well, as long as he makes you happy—”
“Da, I barely know the man.” Conor spoke in a light voice, implying his father spoke nonsense, though the memory of Joe Spatafora’s urgent kisses and solid muscles jockeyed for prominence in his head. Happy? Well, his father’s health notwithstanding, he wasn’t miserable thinking about the man. He’d hold onto the image of their pleasant tumble in the back of his car to warm him on cold Dublin nights.
“I’m also not local anyway,” he added, wanting to drive the point home. He’d stay for as long as his parents, and eventually just his mam, needed him. He belonged in Dublin.
Hugh’s fallen smile expressed his acceptance. “Con, I mean no harm. I hate to see you alone.”
“I’m not unhappy being single, Da.”
“Yes, there’s no shame in enjoying your freedom, but I’d feel better shuffling off this mortal coil if I knew there was someone to look after you.”
“I have Mam.” Conor glanced toward the door. So much for that express wash and dress. Perhaps his mother had decided to make coffee. “I believe I look after myself rather well, too,” he added. “I have the both of you to thank for that.”
Hugh uttered an unintelligible syllable before launching into a coughing fit, alarming Conor. A water pitcher and cup sat on a nearby table, but Hugh refused a drink when presented with it. Conor’s mind raced with choices—call his mother back for instructions or go over her head and dial nine-one-one—when Hugh calmed down and wheezed out an apology for scaring him.
“False alarm. Just a tickle that turned bad,” he said, and looked around his bed. “They set up a panic button sort of thing with this bed. You push it and the paramedics come. Did you touch it?”
“I now learned that it exists,” Conor said. “Please have it out in the open for next time.” His heart raced. One thing to sit vigil for his dying father, but this moment reminded him that he wasn’t at all prepared for the inevitable. He drank the water Hugh had refused to settle his nerves.
“Everything all right in here?” Mona asked from the doorway, put together in fresh clothing and a touch of makeup.
“All good, love. Only a quick rehearsal.” Hugh’s tone was light. Gallows humor became him, Conor had to admit. Even he laughed. Mona, however, fixed her mouth in a serious moue.
“Patrick is here. He’s brought some paperwork.”
Four words sucked the thin veil of joy out of the room. Conor caught Hugh’s reaction and stood, as though to block his father from any ill threatening to enter. “Why don’t Mam and I take care of it?” he suggested, and nodded toward the television. “Want me to turn that on for you?”
Hugh declined, leaving Conor to suspect his father wanted quiet in order to eavesdrop. They left the door open wide and Conor followed Mona into the seldom-used dining room. Conor’s cousin Patrick Keagan from his mother’s side of the family—older than Conor by about ten years with brown hair thinning on top—sat at the head of the long oak table with several documents fanned before him. He wore a neat gray suit complete with the vest and a linen handkerchief poking out of the jacket’s breast pocket, a stark contrast to Conor’s faded jeans and black T-shirt.
Patrick looked up at their arrival and pushed his glasses back to the ridge of his nose. “Con, hello. How long’ve you been back?”
Conor shook his hand. While cousins, they weren’t close. The age gap prevented childhood bonding, and Patrick had spent his undergraduate and law school years out of state before returning home. Unlike other stateside family members, he spoke without a hint of accent. Conor noticed how Patrick winced when he answered, clearly not used to hearing a thicker brogue.
“Since yesterday morning,” he said. “My stay is open-ended. How’re Tess and the kids?”
Patrick gave a hasty summary of his family’s achievements, from job promotions to recent grades and extracurricular interests. No empty invite to dinner followed, which suited Conor fine. He hadn’t attended the wedding, and Patrick was the conservative sort. Conor wasn’t interested in putting himself on display as the token gay relative for virtual strangers, nor would he consider pretending to be heterosexual for a night ‘for the sake of the children.’
“Is Uncle Hugh awake?” Patrick straightened the papers into a neat stack.
“Is all that to do with the pub?” Conor asked. When Patrick pressed his lips into a straight line he added, “No sense in keeping secrets, is there? I’ve seen my parents’ wills and end of life plans, I know what they say.”
Patrick flicked his gaze toward Mona, who affirmed it was okay to speak in front of Conor. She lowered herself in the nearest chair but Conor hovered close to his cousin, trying to read over his shoulder. Patrick thwarted him by laying his arm over the stack.
“I suppose it doesn’t make a difference since I assume you’ll eventually return to Ireland,” Patrick said, then addressed Mona directly, “and you’re on the deed as co-owner of the building housing Lonnegan’s. An offer’s been made on it, one I would strongly advise you take.”
Conor sat, quiet, while Patrick summarized his conversation with the potential buyer, an entity called The SSG Group. A shell company, Conor guessed. All through his talk, he noticed Mona’s body language. She seemed stiff and distracted, nodding by rote and glancing around the room as though looking for something.
No , Conor thought, maybe someone. His mother gave off paranoid vibes. He then remembered his abbreviated talk with her yesterday, and how neither of his parents wanted Patrick involved with the future of the pub.
“These people came to you directly?” he asked, interrupting Patrick. “How recent was this? And did they come of their own accord, or did you start making phone calls the moment my da collapsed?”
Mona nudged him, looking horrified. “Conor!”
“I’m sorry, Mam, but just last evening you sat with me in the front room and said you promised Da not to involve Patrick in any dealings with the pub. So why is he bringing you bids?” Conor glared at his cousin. “Are you even aware of this?” he asked Patrick, all the while forming another, more urgent question in his head.
Had either of his parents given Patrick power of attorney? No , he thought. That wouldn’t make sense after his talk with Mona last night.
If Patrick was affronted by Mona’s dismissal of his counsel, he hid it as he faced Conor and Mona with a bland expression. “Aunt Mona, I’ve told you before it isn’t necessary for you to shoulder all the responsibility,” he said. “You’re not doing yourself or Uncle Hugh any favors by refusing my help.”
“My parents operated Lonnegan’s for decades without lawyers,” Conor cut in. “Surely they can find a proper buyer without your interference.”
“It’s not that simple, Con.” Patrick shook his head, speaking again to Mona. “You could have asked me to step in before it came to this.”
Mona pinched her eyes shut and her whole face tightened. Conor sensed something off about the conversation. Debts, he guessed, desperate tactics to keep the lights on and the taps running. Conor could only guess that Patrick acted as an intermediary with some bank to liquidate the bar before it was seized.
What a mess if true. Every time Conor had called home and asked about Lonnegan’s, he received the same answer. Everything’s good, busy as always. His parents weren’t the type to fib for the sake of comforting their son, but damned if they were drowning and chose not to throw out a distress signal.
“What’s really going on? What are you two not telling me?” Conor demanded, his glare hard on Patrick. Mona now buried her face in her hands and heaved quiet sobs. He hated secrets, and knowing his parents kept bad news from him boiled his blood. “Out with it, you’re both scaring me.”
Mona sniffed, wiping away her tears. “Con, we never wanted you to find out,” she said. “We didn’t think it would get so out of hand.” She touched Conor’s wrist—he felt the moisture. “Your father’s health problems have been going on for a while, longer than we’ve let on. Our savings took a fair hit as a result.”
“So, what? You took out another mortgage on the house, or the pub building?” Conor asked. He aimed his glare at Patrick, seething. “I know we’re not close, but I’m not inaccessible. You didn’t think to loop me in on my own father’s failing health?”
Patrick turned up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m just learning this part of the story myself. To answer your other questions, I haven’t gone behind Aunt Mona’s back looking for buyers. The SSG people contacted me through their lawyer on this offer.” He shoved papers at Conor, who held them away from Mona when she attempted to intercept.
“Why do I get the feeling these ‘SSG people’ aren’t reputable businessmen?” He brought out his phone. “If I search them, what am I going to find?”
“Nothing, I imagine,” Patrick said. He glanced at Mona, who widened her eyes in an obvious silent beg to stay quiet, and defied her. “Salvatore San Gaetano. That name will yield all the info you need.”
Conor let his phone fall asleep. Nice, a predatory land developer . “Whoever he is, the offer is laughable,” Conor said on seeing the low-balled number blaring out in bold black ink like an insult. How disgusting to take advantage of a grieving, vulnerable woman. “I may not live here, but I know the property is worth way more than that. Tell him to fuck off.”
Mona gave a low wail and bolted from her chair. She excused herself and left the dining room, and Patrick grabbed for Conor as he tried to go after her.
“Con, you have to listen,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You don’t want to mess with the San Gaetanos. They’re a…” Patrick paused, showing his stress. “Damn it, Con, we’re talking about the mob.”
“What?” Conor pulled away from Patrick’s touch, as though stung. How in the hell had his parents gotten tangled in Mafia dealings? Surely they hadn’t gone to some loan shark to cover Hugh’s medical bills.
He listened as Patrick laid out the Malloys’ predicament. “There’s always been a mob presence in the city, Con. You were probably too young or naive to see it. A number of businesses here are fronts. Not Lonnegan’s, of course, but like any other hard-working business owner, your father was paying protection fees.”
“Christ,” Conor muttered. Memories of his summers bussing tables resurfaced, this time with special attention paid to details that once seemed innocuous. Burly men, neither regular customers nor familiar vendors, would saunter into Lonnegan’s. Hugh would disappear in the back with them for a minute or so, then return to business as usual. Conor never asked about those exchanges because, in all truth, he’d focused more on his plans for the tips and wages.
“Their lawyer advised me that Uncle Hugh had fallen behind on the payment schedule,” Patrick was saying. “I’ve no doubt what’s put him in hospice is a result of the stress he’s carried because of it, compounded with his health issues.” He brought his fist down on the table. “His damned Irish pride.”
“Right.” It angered Conor that his parents felt obliged to succumb to bribery to protect their livelihood and their clientele, more so that the San Gaetanos showed no sympathy for an ailing man. They may as well have killed his da. “This farce of an offer is meant to forgive the debt, then?” he asked. “Why offer any money at all? Why not send some goon over and force my parents to sign over the building outright?”
Patrick took the paperwork. “A gesture of good faith, I imagine. They know your father’s in home hospice, Con. This money’s for your mother, for when he dies. It shows they’re not entirely heartless.”
Some gesture. Assuming there were no further debts on the home, Mona would retire and claim her Social Security. With the mob’s pittance and nothing else of value to sell, she’d still struggle.
“Con,” Patrick said, drawing his attention. “Don’t be mad at them. The mob, they lean on everybody here.”
“And they get away with it.” Conor fumed. “Has nobody called the police?”
Patrick sputtered out a laugh. “You are naive, huh? They have enough officers in their pocket. Why waste energy?”
Of fucking course. “They expecting an answer today?” Conor asked.
“Soon as I’m done here.”
Conor scraped his chair backward, standing. “I want you to do two things for me, Pat,” he said. “First, you tell Mr. San Gaetano no deal. How much money do my parents owe, did they say?”
Patrick, his face paled, shuffled through the paperwork with shaking fingers. Conor hated that he planted the responsibility of messenger on his cousin, and he figured his mam had excluded him to protect Tess and the kids. “You can tell them this is all my doing,” he added.
“The total’s right here,” Patrick said.
Conor took the paper from him, his head throbbing at the number.
“Next,” he told Patrick, “I want you to help me get power of attorney over my parents. Call me when you have it figured out. Mam will give you my number.” He dropped the paper and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” His cousin sounded weak. “Con, please act reasonably. Your parents need you. These people…they aren’t ones to mess around.”
Well, his parents had him, for as long as it took to dig them out of this mess. Ireland and his job could wait. Conor twisted to regard Patrick. “I’m off to get Da’s keys,” he said. “I have to open the pub. You tell the San Gaetano mob once I’ve earned the back protection payments, then we can talk sale for what the pub is actually worth.”