Connected (The Pastore Crime Family)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Connected

  A Pastore Crime Family Prequel

  Janine Infante Bosco

  Copyright © 2020 by Janine Infante Bosco

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Janine Infante Bosco

  Cover Design: FuriousFotog

  For the true OG, my dad.

  Every daughter should be blessed to have a father like you. Thank you for inspiring the character of Victor Pastore.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  Also by Janine Infante Bosco

  Chapter 1

  Joaquin Cabrera

  Rolling up my sleeves, I ball my fists and take a step closer to the piece of shit handcuffed to the radiator. Pablo Rodriguez thought he was untouchable— and with good reason. The guy made a name for himself by successfully pushing his product through the streets of Miami without ever getting pinched.

  Coke was his bread and butter, but he didn’t do too bad with heroin and pills either. He didn’t give a fuck who he sold to and mostly took advantage of young girls. Normally, I wouldn’t insert myself into this bullshit. Pablo isn’t the first cunt to pedal drugs and he sure as fuck won’t be the last, but tonight, he made two grave mistakes.

  He walked into the wrong nightclub and sold his product to the wrong girl.

  Rearing my fist back, my knuckles collide with his jaw and immediately, the muffled music from the dance floor above us fades from my ears. It’s replaced with the splitting and splinting of bones, a sinful melody I learned to love back when I was a punk-ass teenager on the streets of Bensonhurst, fighting my way through life.

  You can tear the man from the streets he was born and raised on, plant him in Miami, and fit him for a suit— even buy him a gold chain that would make Mr. T green with envy— but you can never take the lessons he learned from those streets away from him. Those lessons are my commandments. They’re my fucking religion and they were instilled in me by a bunch of wiseguys who took pity on the only Puerto Rican kid in an all-Italian neighborhood.

  Pablo cries in pain as I open my fist. Reaching behind me, my fingers close around the piece tucked into the waistband of my slacks.

  A sleek and fully loaded forty-five.

  Before I made my way down here to finish off this cunt, our security detail primed him by beating him senseless. Blood oozes from the open wounds and his eyes are so swollen he can barely look at me, but they manage to latch onto my gun, and he starts to plead for his life.

  I guess no one educated the poor bastard on what happens when someone sells drugs in a club owned by Victor Pastore and operated by his nephew, Rocco Spinelli.

  “Te jodiste con la gente equivocado, Pablo. Ahora, pagas el precio,” I sneer, speaking his language.

  Being of Puerto Rican descent isn’t ideal when you’re surrounded by mobsters your whole life, and I knew from an early age I could never be one of them. I could never be a made man because I didn’t have Italian blood running through my veins. A rule set in stone by men like Lucky Luciano and carried through by guys like Paul Castellano and old-timers alike. All I could ever be was an associate and even that was a stretch.

  It didn’t matter that I was loyal to a fault, I was only accepted into their fold because of my association with Rocco, and once he left New York— they cut me off.

  You see, his father was another guy who thought he was invincible and when he got caught selling drugs out of a dump truck, he got deported. Rocco’s mother insisted she, Rocco, and his sister, Gina, relocate to Italy. They weren’t there long enough to get dual citizenship because Rocco Spinelli, Sr., was massacred by the Sicilian mob shortly after. It turns out the mother country is even more ruthless than the five families.

  Rocco and his family moved back to New York and his mother did everything she could to keep him away from Victor, fearing he’d wind up like his old man. Then she died of cancer and all bets were off. Rocco came back to the neighborhood and his mother wasn’t even cold in the ground before he and I picked up right where we left off. Things got messy because of what went down with his father, and no matter how hard Rocco tried to break away from his old man’s tarnished name, he never could— which meant we were both fucked.

  Torn between his respect to honor his beloved sister-in-law’s wishes and the urge to prove his nephew was more than the spawn of a fuck up, Victor took Rocco under his wing. Whether it was an effort to keep him from getting whacked by his father’s enemies or a true testament to his belief in his nephew’s capabilities was yet to be decided. The man didn’t need another protégé, he was already grooming Anthony Bianci for that role, so he made Rocco an offer to run this nightclub.

  That’s where my heritage came in handy for the first time. Miami was a hot spot, but it was also saturated with Latinos and while he wanted to cut Rocco a piece of the pie, he knew he’d be fucked without the proper resources.

  “Mirame hijo de puta,” I order as I take a step backward, careful not to step in the blood pooling around him. Responding to my command, he slowly lifts his head. Adrenaline soars through my veins as I watch him struggle to look at me.

  This is the moment.

  Some people get high on pussy, others get high on drugs. My fix comes every time I pull the trigger. It’s watching the life drain from a person’s eyes that makes me soar.

  “Quiero que tus ojos estén abiertos cuando te mate,” I add as a sinister smile ticks my lips and big fat tears roll down his cheeks.

  He’s got a wife.

  Two kids too.

  And in ten seconds, he’ll have nothing.

  If he had sold to anyone else, another girl, it wouldn’t have ended like this. I’d rough him up and send him back home with his dick in his hand, but he fed that poison to Pilar.

  “¡Lo siento! No sabía que ella era tuya,” he sobs.

  I let those words linger between us for a moment as I pull the safety back on the gun.

  He’s sorry.

  He didn’t know she was mine.

  No one knows Pilar is mine. Not Rocco. Not anyone. She’s been my dirty little secret and my sweetest fucking escape. She’s peace and she’s heaven. She’s also overdosing in the next fucking room.

  Shaking his words from my head, I take another step back, making sure I’m not in close range. The last thing I need is for this cunt’s blood to splatter on my suit. That’s the first lesson Victor taught Rocco and me.

  Appearances are everything.

  The second lesson he taught us was how to pull the trigger so you only do it once.

  One and done.

  Keeping my eyes on his, I fire.

  He screams.

  I laugh.

  The bullet pierces him between the eyes.

  Silence.

  The bass returns, drumming in my ears as I stare into Pablo’s dead eyes.

  I lied.

  Peace isn’t only found in Pilar— it
’s also found in death.

  Now, there is another lesson I learned that I forgot to mention, and it didn’t come from Victor. In fact, it came way before I took a liking to the mob boss and it came from Rocco Spinelli, Sr.

  There’s no such thing as dirty money.

  Dropping the gun to the floor, I step over Pablo’s body. Kneeling, again mindful of his blood, I reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of cash. I flip through it, roughly counting the bills before shoving them into my pocket. In a flash, I’m back on my feet.

  I don’t give Pablo another look as I roll down my sleeves and start for the door. Before I open it, I button the cuffs on my sleeves and smooth a hand down my front. Once I step out of the room, I look to the three men standing guard. One of them hands me my jacket and I slip my arms through the sleeves.

  “Take care of the gun and throw Mr. Rodriguez in the Atlantic. Be sure to tie some weights to his ankles. We don’t want that motherfucker surfacing. And while you’re at it, get a mop. He’s bleeding like a pig.”

  “Sí, por supuesto.”

  “Pilar,” I murmur. “Is . . . she . . . ” My voice trails and my throat closes.

  I can’t bring myself to say the word.

  “Miguel esta con ella. Ella esta respirando.”

  She’s breathing.

  Swallowing, I close my eyes for a moment. Relief floods me and I realize that woman in the next room is more than all those things I labeled her.

  She’s fucking everything.

  Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I turn and head for the next room. I let myself in and immediately spot Miguel hovering over her, pulling her hair back as she vomits profusely. Suddenly, I don’t give a fuck about my designer threads and rush to her side. I push Miguel out of the way and hold her as her body purges the poison.

  Smoothing a hand over her wet hair, I touch my lips to her ear.

  “Estas bien, mi amor. Te tengo,” I murmur hoarsely.

  As I say the words, I realize it’s too little, too late. She could’ve died tonight and as much as I want to blame the corpse in the next room, it would’ve been my fault.

  She wouldn’t have been looking for drugs to numb the pain if I hadn’t caused her any. I start to recall our last conversation and the tears that streaked her beautiful face just as the door swings open.

  “Joaquin, we’ve got a problem,” Omar barks. His eyes dart from Pilar to Miguel and back to me. “Fuck, what happened to her?”

  Gritting my teeth, I glare at him.

  “Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

  “Yeah, but I thought it would be wise to give you a heads up . . . ” He looks back at Pilar and scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

  “Spit it out, Omar.”

  His eyes find mine.

  “Victor just showed up unexpectedly.”

  My body goes still.

  Lesson number four.

  Timing is everything.

  Sadly, that’s the lesson that never stuck.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I growl as Pilar convulses and regurgitates some more. This time it lands on my fucking slacks. “Shit,” I hiss, turning to Miguel. “We need to get her out of here. Take her back to my place and stay with her until I can get there.”

  “What about next door?”

  “So long as Victor stays upstairs, they’ll be able to get the body out without him seeing it,” I reply, turning back to Omar. “Where is he?”

  “I left him at the bar, told him I was going to get Rocco.”

  “And where the fuck is Rocco?”

  “Last I saw him, he was headed upstairs with two girls.”

  Of course, that doesn’t surprise me. Rocco spends more time fucking than he does doing anything else. I’d applaud the son of a bitch if he wasn’t sloppy about it and I didn’t have to clean up all his messes.

  But that’s my job.

  I’m the loyal friend.

  The poor Puerto Rican with no place in this world.

  The guy Victor took pity on because Rocco needed someone to watch over him.

  A fucking nobody.

  Chapter 2

  Joaquin

  I kiss the top of Pilar’s head and softly promise that she’s in good hands, that Miguel will take her back to my place and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m not sure whether she is coherent enough to understand, and I don’t have time to reiterate the promise. Once Miguel slides next to me and gets a grip on Pilar, I rise to my feet. Realizing my efforts not to stain my clothes with Pablo’s blood are wasted, I cringe and glance at the vomit clinging to my slacks.

  I can’t greet Victor looking like this and I need to warn Rocco that his uncle is here before the shit hits the fan. Muttering a string of curses, I jab my finger against the button to the service elevator. Omar moves to stand beside me, curling his lip at the stench that radiates from me.

  “She going to be okay?” he asks as the doors open and we both step onto the elevator. Pushing the button for the main floor, I turn my attention toward him.

  “You wanna tell me why we let a guy like Pablo Rodriguez past the door?” I growl, taking a step closer to him. It doesn’t matter that I’ve delivered Pablo to Hell, my fingers still itch to wrap around Omar’s throat for allowing him into the club.

  “He was on the list,” Omar says, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Bullshit,” I sneer. A mistake like that is impossible.

  “I swear,” he spats. “He reserved a table and everything.”

  “How did I not know that? I checked the reservations this afternoon.”

  “I don’t fucking know, man, but the list is at the door. Look for yourself,” he says as the doors open to the main floor.

  Still trying to make sense of how I missed Pablo’s name, I drag my fingers through my hair as Omar steps off the elevator. Before the doors can close, I turn back to him and order him to stall Victor. He jerks his head in response and I roughly press the button for the third floor, making my way toward Rocco’s office. As I reach for the doorknob, my phone dings with a message. I’m not sure how much I can take before I lose my fucking mind. Retrieving my phone, I glance at the screen, seeing it’s from my sister, Violet.

  She can wait.

  I shove the phone back inside my jacket and open the door to Rocco’s office. There he is, sitting behind his desk like the king of Miami, licking the cunt of one girl while another one goes to town sucking his cock. He’s nothing if he’s not consistent.

  “Party’s over, hermano,” I hiss.

  Ignoring the squeals that erupt from the two whores and the groan that comes from Rocco, I make my way to the small closet in the corner.

  When we first came to Miami and Victor gave us the grand tour, I thought it was ridiculous to have a closet in an office. Then I recalled a scene in the movie Casino, where DeNiro stepped around his desk wearing his briefs and plucked a fresh pair of slacks from the closet. It made sense for the character and it made sense for us. Rocco wasn’t much for suits and he often dressed here. It also came in handy on nights like tonight, when blood and vomit flowed just as freely as the top-shelf booze.

  “What the fuck, Joaquin? I’m in the middle of something?” Rocco growls.

  “Clearly, but seeing as your uncle is downstairs, you might want to wipe your mouth and put your dick back in your pants,” I volley, clenching my jaw.

  Sometimes, I wonder what the fuck I got myself into. Truth be told, maintaining any kind of relationship with Rocco Spinelli is nearly impossible. He cuts ties and burns bridges as often as people change their underwear. Just ask his sister, Gina. I couldn’t tell you the last time those two spoke to one another.

  “What do you mean my uncle is here and what the fuck is that smell?”

  Channeling my inner DeNiro, I grab a suit off one of the hangers— a white linen one that I pair with a silk blue shirt. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as he pushes the two girls away, ordering them to get lost. It’s really a shock h
e gets as much pussy as he does. He’s a prick to every girl he fucks.

  Once the girls scurry out the door half-dressed, Rocco turns to me and lights a cigarette. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he blows out a ring of smoke as I start for the bathroom.

  “We ran into a bit of a problem,” I tell him. “It’s handled now, but I gotta get the fuck out of here after I say hello to Victor, which means you’re on your own for the rest of the night.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “The kind that ends with a clean-up crew in the basement and me changing my clothes. Now, get your ass downstairs and act like the doting nephew who has everything under control. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  He takes another drag of the cigarette before crushing it in an ashtray. His eyes are full of questions, but I ignore them. There’s no time for me to recap everything and once I start talking about Pablo and what happened with Pilar, I’m going to have to explain my situation with her too and I don’t have the head for that.

  I enter the bathroom and quickly change my clothes, throwing my soiled suit in the wastebasket. Once I’m presentable, I make my way back into the office and find Rocco fully dressed in the same wrinkled clothes as earlier. He looks a mess but that’s nothing new.

  “You reek of cheap perfume and pussy,” I grunt.

  “Sounds like a good time to me. Let’s get this shit over with.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was high, but Rocco doesn’t favor drugs. If he and Victor are on the same page about anything, it’s that, and I think that’s partly because of what happened to his old man. However, we all got our vices and Rocco’s is alcohol and fast women. Ever since his mother died, he overindulges in both, hoping one will numb the pain.