Connected (The Pastore Crime Family)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Quit looking at me like I’m going to drop dead and plant my face in the mashed potatoes,” he grunts, startling me. I lift my head and go to apologize, but his focus isn’t on me.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Vic,” Rocco says, drawing his attention back to his piece of filet mignon. “I just can’t believe you’re sick and not doing anything about it,” he continues. “If you taught me anything, it’s to fight until the end and here you are— ”

  “If you’re going to playback my words, make sure you have them right, Rocco. I don’t like to be misquoted. Yes, a man should fight until the end, but it depends on what he’s fighting for. I might not be fighting cancer, but I’m fighting for my family, for my wife and my girls, and that’s why I’m here with you.”

  He sets his fork and knife down and pushes his plate away from him. His eyes move from Rocco to me and back.

  “By now, the both of you have heard what happened at my opening in New York,” he begins and I look toward Rocco, hoping he wasn’t too drunk to remember the conversation we had last week when I informed him of the latest situation to hit the Pastore organization.

  Victor was expanding and decided to open a nightclub in Manhattan. His late underboss’s son had recently found himself in some trouble after his mom passed, and in true Victor fashion, he took Michael Valente in, brought him back to New York, and hooked him up as the manager of the club.

  For weeks, Victor and Anthony Bianci fitted Mike for his new role and on opening night, just as he was settling into life with the mob, gunfire broke out. I never got the logistics of everything because, again, just an associate, but word on the street was a mob war was brewing. Victor had his daughters go into hiding while he took care of the situation and seeing as he’s here and not in New York fucking people up, I’m gonna say he handled it.

  “Last I heard, you had a lot on your plate, now you’re here,” Rocco says. “I’m gonna assume that’s a good sign.”

  “Never assume anything, Rocco, that’s what got your father pumped full of lead,” Victor retorts, smoothing a hand over his silk tie before continuing. “As I told you, the situation you found yourself in last night was no coincidence. However, you made me believe it was you that handled our little problem, but that wasn’t the case, was it?”

  Victor’s gaze slices to me.

  “You’re sharp, Joaquin, it’s a shame your mother didn’t get knocked up by one of our kind. You would’ve been perfect.”

  I swallow, brushing off the insult and keep my face expressionless. I don’t know where he’s going with any of this but the tension in the room is multiplied and I can sense Rocco is just as nervous as I am. I want to ask him about Pablo and if we should prepare ourselves for any retaliation, but something tells me whacking the drug dealer is nothing compared to what Victor has in store for the two of us, so I keep my mouth shut.

  Victor lifts a hand, signaling for one of the bodyguards positioned in the corner of the room. I watch as the beast makes his way to the boss, reaching into his pocket as if this was all rehearsed. He hands him a thick envelope before retreating to his corner.

  “You should’ve known what was going on in the club,” he tells Rocco. “You should’ve anticipated Pablo before you even knew his fucking name, but you didn’t. You let Joaquin handle it and when I questioned you, you played it off like you had everything under control.”

  “Uncle Vic— ”

  “Shut up, Rocco. You don’t speak unless I ask a question and I haven’t asked you shit.”

  Rocco clenches his fists on top of the table.

  “Sir, if I may—” my words get cut off as Victor’s gaze slices toward me.

  “You may not,” he grinds out. “I know this idiot has been too busy fucking anything with a skirt and that you’re the one cleaning up mess after mess around here, but that ends now, here at this table,” he roars, slamming his fist against the grain of the wood before turning to Rocco. “You’re coming back to New York with me. I want you to understand something, dear nephew . . . you are not a choice, you’re my last fucking resort. You are what happens when a dying man loves his children more than anything in this fucking world. You are what happens when a powerful man sacrifices everything he’s built so long after he’s gone, his daughters can live happily and without fearing the consequences of their father’s lifestyle. You are what the underworld gets when all the greats are gone.”

  My gaze shoots to Rocco and I watch as he straightens in his chair, his eyes focused on his uncle. So long as I live, I won’t forget the look of fear in his eyes. For as much as he’s told himself this was the life he wanted, he suddenly doesn’t look so sure.

  “By this time on Monday, you will be a made man,” Victor continues. “Do I think you deserve the honor? No,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “And if I don’t think you do, you best believe every man from here to Chicago won’t either, but as long as I’m alive, they’ll deal with it.”

  “And when you’re not?” Rocco brazenly replies. “You’ve got stage four cancer. How much time does that give me before I wind up like my old man?”

  “That depends on you,” Victor says evenly.

  Rocco roughly threads his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends.

  “What do you want from me?” he growls.

  “I want you to be the man your father never was,” Victor replies, leaning forward. “I want the world to know Rocco Spinelli as they knew Victor Pastore. I want them to fear you first and love you last.” He pauses, cocking his head to the side. “Do you see where this is going, yet?”

  I don’t know if Rocco does, but I sure as fuck do. He ain’t here to make Rocco a made man, he’s here to make him the fucking boss.

  “It starts with inducting you into the family, but it ends with this,” he explains, holding up his hand. He points to the diamond crest ring on his pinky finger— the ring every made man bows to.

  “You can’t be serious,” Rocco murmurs, shocked. “What about Anthony?”

  “I’m leaving Anthony in charge of the only thing that matters.”

  His true family.

  His wife.

  His daughters.

  His grandson.

  “But he— ”

  “He’s out, Rocco,” Victor grinds out, pointing a finger in his face. “No matter what happens. If I drop dead tomorrow, he is out. Do you understand me? This world does not touch that man.”

  For the first time since we sat down, Victor looks unhinged and as he turns to me, I spot the desperation in his eyes. It’s uncanny and so fucking poignant— here is a man who has lived his whole life as a criminal. He’s killed, he’s been shot, he’s done time . . . and yet, the only thing he fears is failing his family.

  “Joaquin,” he calls.

  “Nothing touches Anthony,” I reply. “I got it.”

  Seemingly satisfied with my response, he breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to Rocco.

  “I told you a man fights for what is important until he draws his last breath, well, I got a couple of months and my fight begins with me turning myself in to the authorities.”

  “This is crazy,” Rocco hisses.

  “This is what you do when your daughter shoots a man and kills him,” Victor fires back. “Now, pull yourself together, boy, and pay attention. Once I’m taken in, you’re going to need to relocate to New York permanently. My crew will keep things moving on the streets and I’ll be running things from the inside for as long as I can, that gives us time to prepare you. You will shadow Artie Donofrio and visit me twice a week in jail, that’s where you’ll get your education.”

  “What about Temptations and the properties here?” Rocco asks.

  Victor diverts his attention to me.

  “You will oversee Miami for the time being,” he says, pausing to reach for the forgotten envelope. He stares at it for a beat before handing it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “When I die, you’ll need to come back to New York. A man named
Primo will take over for you here, giving you, Rocco, and my Gracie a monthly cut of everything.”

  I nod, lifting the envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s a birth certificate and a bloodwork report that states your mother is Sicilian. Her maiden name is Riccardi and your grandfather was born in Sardinia. They changed their surname when they came over here to flee the ties they had to the Beluzzi family.”

  My brows knit together with confusion as I stare at him.

  “None of that is true.”

  “Wrong. From this day forward, that’s the only fucking truth you know,” he looks to Rocco. “That envelope holds your ammunition to change the rules, but keep in mind, the mob don’t like change. It runs on the Sicilian values of our ancestors. That being said, society and politics aren’t the same. Guiliani did a number on us and the Albanians are moving in, they’re taking over and without change, the Italian mafia is going to die. Drugs are going to flood the streets and every common criminal who knocks off a bank is going think they’re connected. Pizzerias from Brooklyn to Staten Island will be fronts for those cocksuckers and they’ll get the unions too. The longshoremen will be theirs and trade will be gone. For fuck’s sake, they got reality shows on this shit now. Be the change, Rocco.”

  I struggle to pay attention to everything he’s saying, but I’m stuck on the fact he’s given Rocco authority to essentially change the dynamic of the mob. I gotta wonder if he wasn’t dying, if he’d still be inclined to do this shit.

  “They’re not going to like it and you’re gonna catch a lot of heat. Might even catch a bullet or two, but you do what you gotta do because having this guy at your side will keep you alive,” he says, pointing to me. “Joaquin is the only way you survive this. Now, there’s one more thing . . . one more gift I’m going to give you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rocco mutters. “What’s that?”

  “Jack Parrish.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll meet him,” Victor assures. He pauses for a second and his lips quirk. “God, he’s going to fucking hate you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rocco mumbles.

  “Rocco, look at me,” Victor orders.

  “He’s going to hate you, but he’s going to have your back and that’s fucking golden. It’s a bridge you don’t ever fucking burn and don’t you forget that.”

  “Parrish is the messiah, I get it.”

  “Oh, son, you have no fucking idea,” Victor retorts shaking his head. A sigh escapes him, and he leans back in his chair. “Now, are we clear because I’d like to get back to the cut of beef on my plate?”

  Only an experienced man like Victor can drop a bomb like that and still have an appetite. The rest of us remain with our stomachs in knots and our heads racing with questions. I suppose time will only tell our fate, but I can’t ignore the now.

  “Victor, about last night . . . ”

  “What about it?” he questions as he slices into his steak.

  “Well, I guess I’m concerned that Pablo’s men are going to retaliate against the hit.”

  Instead of responding, he brings his fork to his lips and pops the piece of steak into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he seems to give my worry deep thought, but just as he goes to comment, the door to the private room storms open and my sister stumbles in.

  “Shit,” she hisses.

  Pushing back my chair, I jump to my feet and start for her.

  “For fuck’s sake, I told you to stay put,” I growl, grabbing hold of her arm before she topples over on her face. My fingers dig into her skin as I look across the room at Victor.

  “I’m sorry, my sister seems to be unable to follow instructions.”

  “I’m not a fucking child,” she sneers, tugging her arm free.

  I reach for her again, this time with both hands and I pull her out of the room.

  “I’ll be just a minute,” I call over my shoulder before closing the door. Once we’re alone in the hallway, I release my hold on Violet and back her against the opposite wall.

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  Chapter 8

  Pilar

  I felt like I was dying— I suppose that’s what happens when you try to rid yourself of the toxins you pumped into your veins. Still, I had to push through and drag my ass to work. I couldn’t afford to lose a day's pay, not when I was leaving at the end of the week and needed to pay my bills for the month upfront.

  After I left Joaquin’s apartment, I did what I always do when he hurts me— I headed for my drug dealer looking to escape the pain. But before I could hand him the money, anger consumed me. I realized I didn’t want another quick fix. I wanted to better myself. I wanted to prove to Joaquin change was possible. It was too late to right our wrongs for the child we conceived, but it wasn’t too late for me to be someone I could be proud of, someone worthy of a man’s love but not someone who relied on that love to breathe.

  I shoved my money back into my purse and turned away from my dealer. Racing to my car, I got behind the wheel and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was in control. I hurt, yes. My heart was broken, but my life was not over because Joaquin didn’t want me. I believe somewhere out there, a man is waiting for me to enter a room and feel the connection associated with love— that sense of being whole.

  I drove myself home and instead of crying myself to sleep, I researched rehab facilities. It took some time to find one that met my needs, but I’m confident Rolling Springs is a good fit for me, and I check in on Saturday.

  “Hey, I wasn’t sure you were coming in tonight.”

  At the sound of my co-worker Lena’s voice, I lift my head from the reservation book.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I wasn’t feeling well,” I explain.

  Pointing to the book, I lift an eyebrow.

  “It looks like it’s going to be a busy night. Is the back room available for walk-ins? I didn’t see any parties listed.”

  Lena worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she diverts her eyes toward the bar area before bringing them back to me.

  “Pilar, Joaquin is here.”

  My eyes instantly sweep the room in search of him, but then I realize something . . . for the first time, I didn’t feel his presence.

  “He’s here a while now,” Lena continues. “Him and that guy he’s always with are in the back room with some older man I’ve never seen before.” She looks back toward the bar. “He came here with her,” she adds, tipping her chin to the blonde sitting at the bar.

  I stare at the woman, watching as she slides off her stool and tugs the hem of her scandalously short dress over her slim thighs. She takes a step away from the bar and nearly falls flat on her face, making it clear she doesn’t regularly wear heels— either that or she’s drunk.

  Tucking her purse under her arm, she turns around and I swear my heart breaks even more. She’s stunning and the opposite of me in every way. Where my features are dark, hers are light, and where I’m curvy, she’s perfectly slim. If she’s Joaquin’s type, what does that make me?

  I try to push the thought out of my head and remind myself of the goals I’ve set to accomplish since my epiphany, but those goals are too fresh. They can’t erase the years I spent loving the wrong man.

  She starts down the hallway and I struggle with my will.

  I didn’t feel him.

  Those words ring in my head, but the devil on my shoulder is louder, reminding me of all the times I did feel him . . . of all the times I believed he was the other half of my heart.

  “Cover for me?” I ask Lena.

  “Pilar . . . ”

  “Please,” I whisper. “I-I just need to see for myself.”

  Sighing she takes the pen I didn’t realize I was holding out of my hand and looks back at the reservation book.

  “Go,” she says.

  Without giving her a chance to change her mind, I take off in the direction the blonde was headed. I round the hallway and stop in my tr
acks when I see Joaquin push her up against the wall.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” he growls.

  “No, I’m fucking bored,” she spats, pushing him away from her. “Rocco!” she shouts over Joaquin’s shoulder before attempting to side-step him. He spins around, arms outreached, but he doesn’t get to grab her because his eyes lock with mine.

  “Pilar,” he murmurs.

  I swallow, tearing my eyes away from him to take another look at the woman, but she disappears into the private room. My gaze wanders back to him and tears blur my vision as I stare at him.

  I didn’t feel him.

  I.

  Didn’t.

  Feel.

  Him.

  Something behind me grabs his attention and his eyes go wide with terror. His lips move, but I can’t hear him.

  I didn’t feel him.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his gun. It’s in that second, while the man I love aims a gun at me, that I realize how to end the pain once and for all.

  I close my eyes.

  Joaquin screams.

  Guns blaze in every direction.

  A bullet pierces my flesh.

  And then another.

  No more pain.

  Chapter 9

  Joaquin

  I don’t know when the gunfire stopped or even how I wound up on the floor cradling Pilar’s lifeless body. All I remember is the sound of my voice begging for her to wake up, for the blood to stop pouring from her wounds and for those wounds to magically disappear.

  Of course, God doesn’t hear the prayers of the Devil and so there I sat, covered in her blood, still holding her in my arms.

  “Joaquin, brother, you have to let her go. We have to get out of here.”

  I gently moved my hand away from the back of her head where her hair was matted and stuck to her scalp. Blood covered my fingers and I wiped them across my shirt before pushing a stray hair away from her beautiful face.