“Okay, so Cain was working with Yankovich,” Pipe says, swallowing the foul taste the words leave. “He’s been dead for years. Jack’s turned this club around. We’re not in the business of girls or drugs. Why is he here? What does he want?”
“He want’s what he thinks is his,” Wolf shouts. “He wants to take over Victor’s territory and wipe us off the map. No one was expecting Victor to leave everything to Rocco.”
“Where’s Rocco?” Bianci questions.
“He was shot outside Lincoln Center. No one knows where he is,” Stryker supplies.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Artie informs us.
“He’s moving in,” Wolf tells everyone. “I’ll bet my life, he’s the one who shot Rocco, and he’s coming for us next.”
“It makes sense,” Blackie says. “With Rocco out of the picture and us on our knees, Yankovich can sweep in and take back the streets he thinks are his.”
The sound of the crate screeching across the cement causes me to lift my head. Meeting Jack’s gaze, I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Cain killed his brother,” he says thoughtfully. “In the Bible, Cain belonged to evil. He murdered his brother because his actions were righteous. His intentions pure.”
“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely. “For my deceit and for the crimes of my father.”
“Parrish?” Pipe calls.
“Untie them,” he orders, calmly.
“Jack, talk to me, man,” Blackie tries, stepping next to him. “You gotta tell us what’s going on in that head.”
“Untie them,” he repeats.
Before anyone can follow his command the sound of tires screeching across the asphalt echoes off the walls, causing everyone to turn their attention to the lot and the car headed straight for us. Instinctively, Artie and his men draw their weapons. Wolf’s voice bellows, begging them to drop their weapons.
“Don’t shoot!” he screams. “It’s my son.”
Nico’s car barrels through the garage causing everyone to jump out of the way. Smoke rises from the engine as it crashes into a wall.
“Nico!” Wolf shouts, struggling against his restraints. The driver’s door opens, and it isn’t Nico who emerges from behind the wheel. His middle son, Vincenzo, barely acknowledges any of us as he moves to pull the back door open. The youngest, Frankie, steps out and that’s when I notice the blood covering his shirt.
“He was shot,” Vincenzo cries as both brothers pull Nico from the back seat. “Help him!” he demands. “Someone, help him.”
Dread churns inside me.
A pair of eyes flashes before me.
A smile meant for trouble haunts me.
“We found him like this at your house,” Frankie reveals.
Watching Stryker and Deuce lay Nico on the ground, I lift my head.
“Is he breathing?” Pipe questions.
“Someone fucking untie me,” Wolf shrieks.
“Nico, kid, you hear me?” Blackie questions, kneeling beside him.
Pink hair, blonde hair—every shade fanned on my pillow.
Every I love you.
Every promise.
Every word.
“Kelly,” Nico mutters.
“What about Kelly?” I question.
Vincenzo lifts his head.
“She’s gone.”
-Thirty-seven-
KELLY
I knew I was different from other girls that growing up with the Satan’s Knights set me apart and put me in a box all by myself. What I didn’t know is that it made me just like them. Something I didn’t realize until I was face to face with Satan himself.
He didn’t have horns.
There were no flames climbing up his feet.
In fact, if I had seen him on the street I probably wouldn’t have paid much mind to him. Well, except maybe for his shoes. I would’ve noticed his shiny loafers just as I did the moment he barged into my uncle’s house.
Standing in the living room, cleaning the mess the lockdown left behind, I turned when I heard the door open. There was no intrusion, the man simply turned the knob and let himself in. At first, I thought it was Linc or maybe my uncle. It could’ve been anyone of my cousins too.
But, it was the man with the polished shoes. The shoes that shined like a mirror, displaying his reflection clear as day. Two men followed him inside the house. One made his way up the stairs while the other headed straight toward the kitchen.
“Where is he?” he questioned.
It was the thick accent that gave him away.
“Where is who?” I asked, calmly.
Another girl would’ve frozen. She may have even cried and begged for a pardon. I continued to pick up empty cans of soda. Collecting the trash and recovering lost toys the kids had left behind. I fluffed the pillows on the couch and straightened the picture frames on the end table.
“All clear,” the man upstairs called.
“One more time, where is he?”
Lifting my head, I narrowed my eyes as I tied the ends of the garbage bag.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I deadpanned. There was not a hint of fear in my voice. I was calm, cool and collected. A seasoned member of the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club. I had seen men like him before. I had stood beside the graves of victims like his. I knew never to breach the code of brotherhood.
Death before dishonor.
“Where is Cain’s son?” the Russian sneered.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the lie drifts past my lips like a rehearsed script.
Smooth and convincing.
On the outside, I was holding my own.
On the inside, I was dying.
A song played far in the distance.
Another tragic chord.
A pair of footsteps sounded behind Satan and again, my eyes drifted to the floor. Joining the shiny loafers was a pair of Jordan’s. Fresh out of the box, the laces tucked behind the tongue.
Nico.
“What the fuck is this?” he barked, staring into Satan’s eyes.
The control slipped.
My perfect mask fell from my face as the devil reached into his suit jacket.
My feet moved.
They didn’t fail me like the rest of my body.
Running toward him, I lifted the lamp from the end table as Yankovich produced his gun and aimed it at Nico.
The familiar sound of gunfire echoed off the walls of my uncle’s house. But, it wasn’t Yankovich’s gun that was smoking. The bullet flew from the top of the stairs, piercing Nico’s chest. The lamp fell from my hand, shattering against the floor as Nico’s eyes widened. Instinctively, he lifted his hands to his chest and stared at the blood staining his fingers.
“Grab her,” Yankovich ordered as my poor cousin fell to his knees.
My voice died as an arm wrapped around my neck and pulled my back against a hard chest. Expensive cologne assaulted my senses as the scream sat idle in the back of my throat—the script changed.
“What are we going to do with her, Igor?” the man choking me asked. “Vladimir wants the son.”
“And, the son he shall get,” Igor crooned, stepping closer to me. “Have you ever heard of Shakespeare?” he questioned, meeting the eyes of the man holding me. “It’s time to set the altar for Romeo and Juliet’s final act.”
The lights dimmed.
The curtain fell closed.
The last scene.
The final act.
The altar was set.
My tomb sat in the solarium of Vladimir Yankovich’s mansion.
Naked and bound to a diving board, I wait for my Romeo to arrive.
-Thirty-eight-
JACK “THE BULLDOG” PARRISH
Wolf kneels before his son, touching a hand to his chest. The blood soaks into his palm as he begs our Heavenly Father to spare him. Cain’s son demands answers. A siren blares in the distance as the name inked onto my shoulder burns through my flesh like a brand.
> “Jack,” Blackie calls, wearily.
Silently, he wonders if it’s too late. If that bitch of a maker has taken the reins.
“Where the fuck is he going?” Pipe demands.
Determination set in his features, unwilling to believe the end is near.
“Celeste says to apply pressure to the wound,” Cobra shouts, frantically.
One life saved, is one less body to bury.
“Nico, stay with me, boy,” Wolf cries.
Another boy pays for the sins of his father.
“What do you mean Kelly is gone?” Linc questions.
His voice crackles with desperation as the flame on the candle of hope burns out.
Stepping away from them, I follow the light. The soles of my boots touch the asphalt outside the garage and I look up to the clear blue sky, searching for the black crow. I listen for the music, for the broken hallelujah.
As a mentally deranged man, I’ve relied on these signs for most of my life. When my duties as a leader become overwhelming and I question my capabilities. When the truth bestowed on me is too much to bear and the betrayal cuts far too deep, I look for my little birdy. I listen for the hymn.
When those signs fail me, I turn to God. To the man who rejected my broken soul and tossed me into the hands of the Devil. I ask him for his hand. For his wisdom and for his guidance. I ask that he allows me to follow the footprints in the sand. I am not worthy, this I know but, I ask anyway. I ask on the behalf of my brothers and my sisters. On the behalf of the innocent children, we brought into the world. I remind him that they are still his kids. That Satan has not touched their souls. They are pure and innocent and deserve the hand of God.
“Parrish,” Pipe calls beside me. “That kid is dying in there,” he says solemnly. “We need to get him to a doctor. Are you listening to me? Wolf’s going to lose his boy if we don’t do something.”
Cupping my hand over my eyes, I shield the blinding sun and purse my lips. Whistling, I call my little birdy.
Come to me.
Show me the way.
“Blackie,” Pipe shouts over my shoulder. “He’s gone.”
Again, I whistle.
“Don’t let me down, birdy,” I rasp. “Fly little birdy, fly. Come to Parrish.”
“Jesus, fuck,” Pipe growls.
Dropping my hand, I tear my eyes away from the sky and resolve my birdy isn’t showing up today. Taking another step, I tune out my brothers and strain to hear the familiar melody.
The fourth, the fifth.
The minor fall…
The major lift…
Nothing.
This time the baffled king doesn’t get to compose the hallelujah.
There she is.
Always faithful, the rancid bitch…my maker.
“Not today,” I sneer, lifting my hands to my head. Foolishly, I try to shake the crazy out of me and when that doesn’t work, I ball my fists and try to beat it out. Pounding my knuckles against my temples doesn’t work either. With nothing left to try, I close my eyes.
Open your eyes, Parrish.
It’s not my maker who makes the demand but, the voice is just as familiar. It’s the voice of a man who never turned his back on me. The man who I never needed to doubt. The one who offers his hand at my darkest hour. To some he was God, to others he was a gangster. To me, he was a friend. The epitome of a brother. So, he didn’t wear leather…Victor Pastore was born to wear silk.
“Vic?”
To your left.
Turning my head, I see him. Dressed in a custom tailored suit, his hair neatly combed and a gold crucifix hanging around his neck. He winks at me before glancing at the young boy beside him wearing a Yankee hat.
“Junior?” I croak.
Hi, dad.
“My son,” I rasp.
I’ve got him, Parrish.
Tearing my eyes away from the vision of my son’s face, I look at his hand and how it’s wrapped tightly around Victor’s.
I’ll keep him safe but, you need to do your part too. Don’t let anyone take away what is ours. We worked too hard at righting their wrongs to give up now. We sacrificed too much to allow them victory. Show them who rules these streets. Teach them that evil will never overshadow faith.
“I don’t know how,” I whisper.
Removing my son's hat, he tousles his hair and offers me a smile.
Cain killed Able with a rock so, you better show up with a boulder.
The stench of gasoline wafts past my nose, causing me to turn my head. Spotting Linc, I look back to Victor and my son but, their backs are to me. Hand in hand, they walk away from me.
“Junior,” I shriek but, he keeps walking until he disappears into the light.
“Jack, I’m begging you, please we have to do something. I have to save her,” Linc pleads behind me. “I will do whatever you want, whatever you say.”
Red and blue flashing lights come into my peripheral vision as my phone rings in my pocket. Pulling it out, I turn around and watch as Cain’s son struggles to stand on his shaky legs. My eyes dart to the ambulance rolling through the gates and I lift the phone to my ear.
“Parrish,” I answer.
“Just the man I’ve been longing to hear,” a man replies, his Russian accent drifting through the line.
The ambulance comes to a stop, and the doors burst open. Two paramedics climb out, one grabs the medic bag before their black boots pound the pavement. My eyes follow them into the garage but, my legs carry me to the ambulance.
“Yankovich,” I acknowledge, lifting myself into the driver’s seat of the ambulance. “It’s about time you found your balls,” I growl, turning the sirens off on top of the vehicle.
“Touché, Parrish,” he replies. “I have the girl,” he announces.
“Keep her,” I tell him, snatching the keys to the ambulance before climbing out of it and slamming the door. “She’s of no use to me. Add her to your collection,” I add.
“That’s not how this works,” he informs. “I have men positioned all over Brooklyn and Staten Island waiting for my command, ready to take yours. Your wife, your daughter, every woman that belongs to your club,” he says calling my bluff.
Bypassing, Linc, Blackie and Pipe, I make my way toward the garage.
“What do you want?”
“Now, you are understanding my language,” he says gleefully. There’s a pause before he unleashes his demands. “I want Cain’s son.”
“Do you, now?” I question, using my shoulder to hold the phone to my ear, I reach behind me for my gun.
“Deliver me Cain’s son and I will let the girl go. Your wife, daughter and the others will remain unharmed.”
“If all you wanted was Lincoln, why didn’t you take him yourself?”
“I didn’t say that’s all I wanted. A man’s supper is divided into courses. Cain’s son is simply an appetizer.”
Drawing back the safety on my gun, I wrap my finger around the trigger and pull. The gun goes off with a pop and the bullet pierces one of the paramedics in the back of the head.
“Jack!” Riggs shouts, charging for me.
“I will call you in an hour with a location. In the meantime, your wife looks wonderful holding that little boy.”
The line goes dead as I crouch down beside the surviving paramedic. Her body trembles as she lifts her head. Staring up at me with fear, tears roll down her cheeks.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask her, aiming the gun between her eyes.
“Yes,” she hiccups.
“Then, you also know what I’m capable of.”
She nods.
“Please don’t kill me,” she begs.
Touching my free hand to her cheek, I offer her a smile.
“Save his life and you’ll get to keep yours,” I say.
“I’m not a doctor,” she argues.
“You are now,” I tell her.
Show up with a boulder.
Don’t you worry, Vic.
I’m going
to tear the motherfucking house down.
-Thirty-nine-
LINC
My pulse pounds violently in my ears as I stare at the dead paramedic. Suddenly, I’m not a twenty-six-year-old man standing in Pipe’s garage, begging his club to help him save the girl he loves. I’m the young boy standing in the butcher shop, watching the mayhem unfold. Like Sally flipped the switch on the grinder, Jack’s flipped the switch when he pulled the trigger.
Rising to his full height, he turns his dark eyes onto Cobra.
“Have your woman walk the good doctor through whatever it is she needs to do to keep Nico breathing,” he orders calmly.
Cobra stares at him silently with wonderment.
Trying to calculate his next move, itching for a glimpse into his tortured mind.
What will he do and say next?
There is a method to crazy and only Jack knows it.
“Did I stutter?” he asks.
Quickly, Cobra snaps out of his trance and speaks into the phone he’s holding against his ear. Kneeling next to the frightened paramedic, he starts to ramble off instructions. Satisfied, Jack turns his attention to the rest of us.
The transformation from lunatic to dictator, is uncanny and one might wonder how this same man was bird watching ten minutes ago.
“That was Yankovich,” he says. His eyes sweep the perimeter of the room before settling on me. “He’s got your girl.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare back at him, waiting for a plan of action—praying he’ll grant one.
“Says he’ll give her up as long as I bring him you,” he reveals, taking a step closer to me. “He wants Cain’s son.”
Lifting a hand to my cheek, he studies me. His eyes bore so deeply into mine, I wonder what he sees.
“Take me to him,” I say. It’s not much of a demand and more like a plea.
“Oh, believe me you’re going,” he says, giving my cheek a firm pat. Glancing over his shoulder, he eyes the band of brothers behind him. “The question is, who’s coming with us?”
“We go wherever you go,” Blackie replies instantly.
Jack smiles as he turns around.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 125