Very biblical.
“What’s he doing here?” the man at the head of the table growls.
I don’t need to look at his name patch to know he’s Jack fucking Parrish or more commonly known on the streets as Bulldog.
“Parrish,” I clip. My eyes sweep around the table. “Gentlemen.” It’s a stretch—a far one—but my options are limited.
“That’s a first. Don’t recall the last time anyone called any of us gentlemn,” the man with the grizzly beard scoffs.
“Your mother called me one last night when I bent her over,” his pal next to him says.
Very, very limited.
The two older brutes continue to bicker about someone’s dead mother until Jack slams his fist against the grain of the table.
“Enough,” he bellows. The leather clad apostles all go quiet as their messiah narrows his eyes on Bianci. “Start talking.”
Clearing his throat, Bianci’s eyes slice to me.
“What’s the matter, Bianci? The cat got your tongue?” another apostle calls and I wait for Bianci to speak, but instead he roughly drags his fingers through his hair.
I roll my eyes and stand tall, meeting Jack’s dark gaze.
“From this point forward, I am the boss of the Pastore organization. I will handle all prior and future endeavors that carry my uncle’s name.”
There.
Short and sweet.
Can we leave now?
“Your uncle?” the bearded fellow asks.
“Victor is my uncle.”
Come on, big guy, connect the dots.
“What the fuck kind of bullshit is this?” Parrish roars. He pushes back his chair, nearly knocking it over as he leans over the table. “And why am I finding this shit out now?” His eyes cut from me to Bianci. “Start fucking explaining.”
“I knew he was his nephew, I didn’t know shit about him taking Victor’s place, though,” Bianci sneers, fixing me with a look.
Yeah, you and everybody else, buddy.
“This shit is as much of a new development to me as it is to you,” Bianci continues, pacifying the big bad biker.
“So, Vic pulled the wool over your eyes?” the guy in desperate need of haircut asks. I squint to read his name patch.
Blackie.
“Vic did what he had to do,” I defend, making a mental note to give this Blackie character my barber’s number before I leave.
My gaze sweeps around the table and I shake my head. It’s amazing how they forget that I was the one who helped them not too look ago. Sure, I didn’t hand deliver the information myself, but it was my intel that tipped them off on Sun Wu’s shipment of drugs. They were at war with the Red Dragons, a Chinese gang notorious for trading blow, and at the time, I was filling in for one of my uncle’s foreman down at the docks—a guy who went by the name Rienzi—I gave the information to my uncle and he passed it along to these guys. Something I didn’t know actually happened until last week. Uncle Vic thought it would be a good time to reveal that bit of information and suggested I use it as an olive branch.
“You’ve worked with me in the past,” I say, keeping my focus on Parrish. “I don’t think I need to remind you people of the massacre you left behind on my pier after I gave you the tip on Sun Wu’s shipment.”
Olive branch extended.
Take the fucking bait so we can be done with this shit.
Please.
Unbuttoning my jacket, I slide my hand into my pocket and wait for a response. The guy with the beard leans over the table and snaps his fingers, getting Parrish’s attention.
“You want me to pop a cap in this fool’s ass?”
They’re not the most welcoming bunch.
Sighing, I school my features and begin to recite the same well-rehearsed speech I’ve given to the longshoreman’s associates and the other families.
“The way I see it, nothing has to change where your club and our organization is concerned. We all want the same thing—to be the only people who run these streets and keep them clean. I’m here to ensure that remains intact and to give you my word I will raise hell and bury any motherfucker who pollutes my city with shit.”
The more I say it, the more convincing my delivery sounds to my own ears.
“Your city,” Parrish repeats, rolling a toothpick between his lips.
“My city,” I confirm.
New York City is mine now and the sooner everyone—including myself—accepts that, the better off we’ll be. I take a step closer to the table and ignore the men who quickly react to my advance by jumping out of their seats.
They can pull their guns on me, shoot me dead, but before they decorate this pigsty they call home, they’re gonna hear what I came to say and they’re going to hear me loud and fucking clear.
“It could be ours, Parrish. We can take this fucking town and turn it into something no one saw coming. We can have people bowing and praying at our feet, but you’ve got to give me the same respect you gave Victor. I’m not looking to step on your toes, man. I’m looking for a partnership.”
A fucking coalition.
An army that has my back.
I don’t say any of that, though.
“I’m starting out small,” I continue. It’s a blatant lie. There’s nothing small about the operation I’m running, but a man never gives his full hand. “It’s going to take time to gain the trust and respect of every organization.” I know that, but I’m determined.
To do things my way.
To change the fucking underworld.
I don’t tell him any of that either.
“I want a partnership, Parrish, but I won’t be at your mercy.”
A bold statement, but one that’s true.
I remove my hand from my pants pocket and reach into my jacket. Blackie reaches too—for his gun. I don’t flinch. I don’t fucking blink. With the barrel of his gun pointed to my head, I produce a business card and lay it flat against the table. My eyes lock with Jack’s as I push the card toward him.
“Your call, Parrish, you can either sit back and watch me rise to the top or the Satan’s Knights can ride beside me. That’s what you people do, right? Ride to your death?” I pull my hand back and shrug my shoulders. “The choice is yours.”
Be the change.
And take no shit.
Chapter 23
Rocco Spinelli
I left Anthony Bianci in the clubhouse and walked out of the gated compound like there wasn’t a price tag connected to my head. They say the hardest walk a man can make is the one he makes alone, but it’s that walk that makes him stronger. It’s the walk that makes him finally recognize his capabilities.
Once I made my way onto the street, I called Johnny and Richie to pick me up. They were back in Staten Island and I had ordered Bruno to stay with Violet. With time to kill, I walked the streets of downtown Brooklyn. A block up I spotted a bunch of kids playing stickball in the schoolyard. I leaned against the fence and watched as they destroyed my favorite childhood game.
After five agonizing minutes, I rounded the gate and made my way toward the children. I don’t know what propelled me to take the ball from the kid who was pitching, but the next thing I knew I was playing stickball with a dozen kids, teaching them the fundamentals of the game. By the time Johnny and Richie arrived, I was sweating. The kids loved it, though, and I promised if I was ever in the neighborhood again, I’d swing by and play with them. Before I left the schoolyard, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crisp fifty. I handed it to the pitcher whose position I robbed and instructed him to buy everyone ice cream.
Then I was on my way.
Playing with those kids was all the boost I needed to conquer my next hurdle and I instructed Johnny to drive me to Flora’s restaurant. I thought about stopping off to get her flowers or some shit equivalent to an olive branch but then I remembered my conversation with Violet and decided Flora would be lucky if I let her keep her fucking hands.
Besides, the olive branc
h business was a total bust.
My cannolis and cookies are rotting in Bianci’s truck and I’m out forty bucks.
I push open the door to the restaurant and bypass the waitress who offers to seat me, making my way into the kitchen. Flora is too busy rolling the dough for her empanadas to notice me, so I clear my throat. Her eyes—so similar to her daughter’s—find me and she scowls.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” she sneers, wiping her hands on her apron.
“It’s time you and I have a conversation.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I have an awful lot I want to share with you.” I look at the young woman chopping tomatoes, and point to the work station in front of Flora. “Can you take over for her?”
That simple question sets Flora off and she slams her rolling pin down on the butcher block counter. She spews a bunch of Spanish expletives as she rips off her apron and tosses it next to her rolling pin.
Ah, so this is where Violet gets her temper from.
Good to know.
“You don’t get to come into my restaurant and order my staff around,” she spats, grabbing me by the front of my shirt. “You’re nothing but a maton.”
“A what?”
“Get out of my kitchen!”
“I’m not going anywhere until you listen to what I have to say, Flora, and I didn’t order anyone around, I simply asked if she could takeover for you.”
She studies me for a moment before releasing my shirt. With a huff and more cursing, she leads me out of the kitchen, through the back door that leads to the alleyway where the dumpsters are. A wonderful place to tell her what a piece of trash I think she is.
“You have ten seconds.”
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem with me is, but when that hate reaches your daughter it becomes a problem for me.”
“Don’t you talk to me about my daughter,” she sneers. “If you gave a damn about any of my children, you’d leave them alone. Your uncle lured my son with the mighty dollar and you’re trying to lure my daughter with your mother’s diamonds and empty promises. Well, let me tell you something, boy, Violet is all talk. She won’t last in that lifestyle.”
I narrow my eyes on her. She isn’t bitter, she’s fucking crazy.
“Hold it,” I say, taking another step closer to her. “You want to preach to me about giving a damn about Joaquin and Violet, when you wrote off your only son and like to use your hands on the only child you got left?”
“You can judge me all you want, but I know my children. Joaquin will fall on the sword for you and your uncle, but Violet—she’s a wildcard.”
“I don’t even know what the fuck that means.”
“It means she is defenseless against your world. People are going to get wind of her, they’re going to use her and try to break her.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Your daughter is stronger than you think. She’s loyal and—”
“She’s a mess!”
Anger fills me as I’m engulfed with the dire need to protect and defend. Clenching my jaw, I fix her with a glare and close the distance between us.
“The only mess I see is standing in front of me,” I grind out. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll happily take Violet off your hands.” I pause for a beat, swiping a hand over my face. The urge to tell her that the daughter she calls a mess is the only reason she’s got a fucking restaurant eats at me. But that ain’t my story to tell.
“Your arrogance is going to bite you in the ass,” she warns, drawing my attention back to her. “Violet will turn on you. She won’t mean to, but your enemies will fill her head with lies and she’ll think she’s saving you. Where does that leave her?”
I stare at her for a moment. There are so many pieces of that statement to dissect, but I think the one thing that stands out most is her knowledge of my enemies and what they’re capable of. A woman like Flora, someone who as far as I know hasn’t had any affiliation with the mob, shouldn’t sound so sure of herself in that regard. Still, I force myself to push her comments to the back of my head.
There’s no place for doubt.
Not now.
“I’ll take my chances,” I grind out, point a finger at her. “Stay out of my way, Flora, or I’ll make Mitch’s threats to your livelihood look like a walk in the park.”
Those words wipe the smug expression off her face, and I watch as her brows pull together. I don’t elaborate, though.
Let the miserable bitch draw her own fucking conclusions.
~*~
My altercation with Flora left me in a bad mood and I decided to push back the visit with my sister. I didn’t have it in me to go ten rounds with another disgruntled woman. I left the restaurant and went straight to Uncle Vic’s realtor. The ball to get Violet a place of her own was in motion and with any luck I’d have a bid in by the end of the week.
Stepping outside the realtor’s office, my gaze darts toward the street to where Johnny and Richie are cluelessly bickering over the Yankees and the Mets. I’m about to make my way over to them when I an odd feeling washes over me. Ever since the shit in Miami, I’ve been making a conscious effort to rely on my senses and be aware of my surroundings. A man can have a whole fucking roster of bodyguards and still catch a bullet.
Feeling as if someone is watching me, I stop in my tracks. My eyes sweep up and down the block, pausing at every storefront and each car. I watch a mother push a carriage down the street. An old man feeds the meter. A man and woman chat as they wait for the bus. Nothing out of the norm. I take another step forward, but I can’t shake the nagging in the pit of my gut. I lift my head and reposition my sunglasses on my face. That’s when I see the man in the coffee shop across the street, with his camera focused on me.
My jaw clenches as I start for the street.
“Yo, boss, we’re over here,” Johnny calls.
Ignoring him, I continue to stalk toward the coffee shop, stopping traffic along the way. I reach the sidewalk and stand in front of the window. Pulling my sunglasses off, I watch the man lower his camera. Our eyes lock and for a split second I see the fear in his eyes and my adrenaline spikes. I crook my finger, silently commanding him to join me outside the coffee shop. He hesitates for a moment, but the second I reach into my suit pocket he jumps from his chair. Biting back a smirk, I pull out a pack of smokes and wave them in his face. I flip open the pack of Parliaments, pulling out a single cigarette with my teeth. As I shove it between my lips, I mutter a curse. Uncle Vic liked the attention, he basked in every headline and I bet somewhere in his house there’s a fucking shrine with all the clippings through the years. I’m not that guy. I don’t like people watching me and I sure as fuck don’t like having a camera on me.
The guy emerges from the coffee shop and comes to stand in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Richie and Johnny make their way to us, but I don’t peel my gaze away from the creep with the camera.
I pat my tailored slacks in search of a lighter and pause a few feet away from the gate to light the cigarette dangling between my lips. Taking a long pull, I pop the two top two buttons of my dress shirt and roll my neck.
“You make it a habit of invading people’s privacy?” I ask, taking another drag of my cigarette. This time I imagine it’s a fat joint I’m smoking, it’s been too long since I indulged in mindless recreation of any kind and with the day I’m having even a dose of Violet won’t release the tension coiling through my body.
“I’m just doing my job,” the guy sputters and I sigh. Everyone’s gotta make that paper.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
“The Daily News.”
I nod.
I suppose that’s better than the F.B.I. Tossing the cigarette into the street, I reach for my cash and pull out a couple of bills. I fold them and take a step closer to him.
“Ne
xt time your camera is in my face, I’m breaking it,” I say, pressing the cash to his chest. “Now, get the fuck out of here and see to it my mug isn’t on the front page of your newspaper tomorrow.” He stares at me for a moment before taking the bills and shoving them into his pocket, but he doesn’t leave.
“You hard of hearing or something? I said get the fuck out of here.”
“Right,” he mutters. “I’m sorry Mr. Spinelli.” With that he turns and jets down the block, leaving me standing on the sidewalk shaking my head.
“What was that?” Johnny asks as he comes to stand beside me.
“A dose of reality,” I answer, turning my attention to him. “Let’s get out of here. I need a break from this shit.”
He shakes his head.
“No can do, Rienzi called a meeting,” he reveals.
Since it was too early to call in Joaquin, I needed someone to pose as my underboss and at Uncle Vic’s suggestion, the former foreman became my guy. However, he should be down at the docks, waiting to highjack a container for the guns we’re sending to Sicily as per Uncle Vic’s orders, not requesting a meeting.
Swiping a hand over my face, I peer back at Johnny. I may be the new kid on the block, but I know enough to know when your underboss calls in the middle of a job, he ain’t calling to share good news. A true leader would be in the car already. But I’m not mentally fit for another fucking blow.
“Call him back and tell him it’s gonna have to wait,” I say, shoving my hand into my pocket. I turn for the car, but Johnny steps in front of me.
“I don’t know that it can wait,” Johnny replies.
I fix him with a look.
“Whether it can or it can’t it’s going to. Now, pick up the phone and call him back.” My gaze cuts to Richie. “And you, you call Bruno and tell him to meet me back at the house. I’m picking up Violet from the Academy and taking her to dinner. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
“Rocco, man, I don’t need to be the one to tell you it doesn’t work like that,” Johnny calls from behind me. “
Straightened Out (The Pastore Crime Family Book 1) Page 17