Rebel punk, Oscar Bradley, discovers that his party friend, Max, is the prince of Kingsport's Irish Mob; fierce rivals of the biker gang that's served as Oscar's surrogate family. With Max quickly pulling him deeper into his luxurious but deadly wor...
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From where he was sitting, Max could see his dad's jaw slow until he'd stopped chewing entirely, and when he finally spoke his tone was dark—the grit in it like the sound of a stone mortar grinding into a pedestal.
"Ya what?"
Max raised his chin, and kept his gaze level with the Irish mafia king's, but he had to clear his throat before he could respond. "You heard me, Da. I-"
James dropped his fork onto his plate, causing a sharp 'clink' before he spit the rest of his chewed up food into his cloth napkin—unable to swallow it. "Yer fill of hiding this? Who else knows already? Huh? You, clearly," he seethed, looking directly at Elise, who stared wordlessly back. "Fakin' a damned relationship-"
"Don't talk at her like that," Max snapped, raising his voice—demanding his dad's attention even as Gloria stood, shaking her head while she got up and left the table. It wasn't often he and his dad fought, but when they did, his mother couldn't stand it. Angela stayed, though she hadn't said a word. Instead, she looked like she was sitting in on the most insane gossip she'd ever heard, and couldn't decide whether she did or didn't want to hear more.
"I'll talk how I please when I find out my own kin've been hidin' things from me in my own house!" Jame said, voice rising in volume.
"She only kept it a secret because she cares, Da-"
"Cares? For fuck's sake, Marcus! Ya think I don't care about my own family?!" His father's face was red with frustration. "My children?! About my only son?"
Max swallowed thickly as his father leaned forward, pointing an angry finger at him that, to Max, felt like it had the weight of a weapon. There was a lot of rage in the Irishman's face and posture, but Max could also see a lot of hurt in those icy eyes... Hurt and fear... And that made it worse.
"No, Da."
"No," his dad repeated, almost mocking the sheepish quality of his answer. "Yer damned right, no." With a heavy sigh, James dragged his hand down his face and shook his head. "I can't stop ya from doin' whatever sinnin' yer gonna do with that boy, but so help ye God, Marcus, yer gonna keep it quiet. This doesn't leave this table. An' if it does—if it reaches the lads in the office or anyone else—yer out. Yer place in my company goes. You're done. Got it?"
After a few agonizingly long seconds in silence, Max nodded. "Sure..." he managed, clearing his throat before adding, "That's fine."
"...I'm gonna go check on mom," Angela said softly, gingerly leaving her place at the table as though disturbing the air in the dining room too much might cause another blow up...
"Ya both owe an apology to yer mother," James muttered as he picked his fork back up.
Max looked across the table at Elise. She was staring back at him, wearing a discreet but supportive smile, which Max briefly returned.
