Our blindfolds were removed, and what we witnessed was beyond belief -- a statement that, in my family, is less hyperbole and more a standard bachelor night occurrence.

The ladies of Diva Royale were orchestrating our arrival with as much efficiency as a heist in a Hollywood blockbuster, and the flair of a Broadway musical. Our hostess, a vision of sequined magnificence, promised a show featuring San Francisco’s hottest drag performers. And ... to elevate the evening from memorable to absolutely legendary, a few special performers had been flown in from Chicago.

Rico leaned over and whispered, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what the standard Mafia or FBI recruitment brochure mentioned.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Clearly, they left out the best parts.” As the room filled with excitement and anticipation, Uncle Vinny clapped his hands together, beaming with pride. “Surprise! You think we only do cigars and poker nights? Tonight, we elevate culture -- Mafia style!”

Rico smirked. “So, this is how the family does low profile? Sequins, stilettos, and spotlights?”

“Hey,” Uncle Vinny countered, “sometimes you gotta mix business with ... uh ... fabulousness.” He used an over-the-top, gay, and campy voice, gesturing toward the stage as the first performer strutted out to a thunderous cheer. “Consider this ... family outreach.”

I shook my head, laughing. “This is why I stopped asking questions years ago.”

Just then, Aunt Sophia and my mom appeared out of nowhere, martini in hand. “Did you boys really think the ladies were staying home knitting?” She winked, raising her glass. “We’ve been planning to crash your party for weeks. You’re welcome!”

Both ladies sat next to Rico’s father, who looked like he had landed on another planet. His face showed no emotion, but I believe my mom and Aunt Sophia were there to help him feel a little more comfortable, if that was even possible.

Rico leaned toward me, deadpan. “This is officially the weirdest drag show I’ve ever seen. Did you look closely at those ugly drag queens? I believe there are four of your uncles who were coerced to dress in drag. That is what they meant by a few special performers had been flown in from Chicago.”

Before I could respond, a booming voice announced, “Gentlemen ... and discerning ladies ... prepare yourselves for the one, the only ... Miss Fantasia Devine!”

The crowd erupted as a six-foot-tall queen in a dazzling silver gown swept onto the stage, commanding the room like royalty reigning over her court -- except this court was filled with Mafia uncles who looked like the lovechild of truckers and dollar-store divas. No disrespect to women of any kind, but mascara can only do so much.

Uncle Vinny elbowed me, smirking. “Bet you didn’t think your uncles and cousins could pull off something like this?”

I could barely breathe, laughing. “Not unless there’s a hidden Barbarotti branch of bedazzled hitmen we don’t know about.”

Suddenly, Uncle Vinny took off running backstage just as Fantasia launched into a high-energy number, her sequins dazzling under the stage lights. Rico leaned in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me there’s a chance this ends with us in a car chase involving a glitter-covered getaway vehicle.”

I grinned, wiping a tear from my eye. “With our family? That’s practically the business plan.”

Then, it happened. In their full campy glory, Uncle Sol, Uncle Joey, Uncle Vinny, and Uncle Patty took the stage. They started kicking their legs in perfect unison, flossing like they were auditioning for a Vegas revue. “Oh my God!” I hollered, clutching Rico. “They’re really doing it -- Uncle Sol’s even got jazz hands!”

Even my mom and Aunt Sophia, normally the unshakable matriarchs of our clan, were in shock. Aunt Sophia downed another shot and declared, “I never knew I married a man with moves like that. Where was this energy in the bedroom?”

Rico’s father had started to loosen up a little, loosened up his tie, and seemed to be sweating a little. He downed a shot of whiskey so fast it was like watching a Baptist preacher at a secret speakeasy -- quick, guilty, and hoping the congregation wouldn’t notice. He even ordered another, surprising both Rico and me as he said out loud, “Is this show supposed to be this over-the-top?”

As if that wasn’t enough, Rico whispered, “If one of them starts lip-syncing, I’m throwing in the towel.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Uncle Sol strutted forward, a six-foot-plus monument to unintentional comedy, and started gyrating to “Born This Way.” Not just gyrating -- mimicking Lady Gaga’s choreography with unsettling accuracy. He twirled, dipped, and thrust his hips, clearly having practiced for this exact moment. The crowd roared as dollar bills rained down from cousins, uncles, and even my father, Greasy Hands Salv, who nonchalantly stuffed a twenty into Uncle Sol’s garter belt like he was tipping the valet.

By now, the laughter was deafening. Aunt Sophia cackled, “If I’d known he had this kind of talent, I’d have put him on stage years ago!” My mom, usually the epitome of Southern restraint, was laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. Rico’s father was finally caught letting go and dropping his defenses. Could it be that he was actually enjoying himself?

And just like that, shades of The Birdcage danced through my mind. But let’s be honest -- even Gene Hackman’s conservative senator in drag had more finesse and good looks than Uncle Sol in that wig. I shouted over the laughter, “Uncle Sol is doing a great job, but I think cabernet suits him better than cabaret!”

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any crazier, the uncles locked arms. The room went silent, anticipation building. And then ... they began the Danse des petits cygnes from Swan Lake. Yes, you read that right -- four Mafia uncles, in tutus, attempting the most delicate dance in ballet history. Except instead of swans, they looked like a drunken parade of trolls, stomping and flailing across the stage. I clutched my sides, gasping, “Oh God, I’ll never hear Tchaikovsky the same way again!”