I wondered if it was her father that took away the shine like I had taken away Adrianna’s.
Probably not.
“I’m Dr. Gazelle,” she introduced herself, pulling up a stool and rolling closer. “Mr. Pastore—”
“Call me Victor,” I hiss before glancing down at the floor again at the object that held my attention before she walked into the room.
“It says here you’re not in the greatest of health, Mr. Pastore, I mean, Victor,” she says and I tear my eyes away from the floor to glance around the room. The guard was fidgeting again, pacing back and forth before he bumps into the metal tray and sends it rolling right toward us.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s my first day and I’m kind of nervous,” he admits when Dr. Gazelle turns around abruptly.
“We’ve all been there,” she soothes, pushing the metal tray aside so it rests between us. The tray is lined immaculately with instruments you’d likely see in an emergency room, a small pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers and lastly a needle and thread.
“I’m sorry, as I was saying, you’re pretty sick, Mr. Pastore,” she continues, frowning deeply as she flips the pages of my chart.
“How old are you, Dr. Gazelle?”
She closes my chart, rests it on top of her lap before she folds her hands neatly and lifts her sorrowful eyes. I wait for her to answer but she keeps her lips closed in a tight line, studying me with the same intensity she did my medical records.
I take a deep breath, the biggest one my lungs will allow and force a smile.
“Twenty-nine,” she finally replies.
“I have two daughters, both in their twenties,” I tell her. “I saw them a few days ago and though their faces are fresh in my memory, I can’t help miss them like crazy.”
I brought my closed fist to my mouth and coughed uncontrollably. My chest ached as I abused what was left of my lungs. Dr. Gazelle stood quickly, turning around to the guard.
“Go get him a glass of water,” she ordered.
“But—” he stammers.
“Or you can stay and we can both watch him choke to death. How’s that for a first day on the job story?” She chastises, pointing her finger toward the door. “Water. Now.”
I continue to choke and gasp for air as the guard disappears from his post and the sweet young doctor grabs an oxygen mask. She fits the strap over my head and covers my mouth and nose with the mask.
“Try to relax, Mr. Pastore,” she instructs, turning up the dial on the oxygen tank. “That’s it, nice and easy breaths,” she whispers, holding the mask with one hand as she moves a strand of hair behind her ear.
I stared at her bare ear, the cough easing up as I brush her hand away and lower the mask from my face.
“Your earring,” I rasp.
She lifts her hand to her ear, feeling around for the diamond hoop I had spotted on the floor before she walked into the room.
“Oh, no,” she whispers, moving her hand to check for its mate. “They were a present from my father before he passed last year,” she explains as she frantically pats down her clothes in search of the earring.
And they say history doesn’t repeat itself—fools.
I lifted the mask off my face and point to the floor behind her.
“Is that it over there?”
She turns, following my finger as I lift the mask back to my face and casually rest my other hand on the metal tray.
“Where? Oh! There is its,” she murmurs, as my hand closes around the pair of scissors resting on the tray. I continue to breathe in the oxygen as she bends down to lift the earring from the floor. With a quick glance back toward the door I shove the scissors into the waistband of my pants, untucking my shirt and pulling the hem over my pants to conceal my weapon.
Dr. Gazelle stands, fitting the earring back to her ear as the guard walks in carrying a Styrofoam cup of water. I drop the mask onto my lap and reach for the cup he offered, smiling weakly at both of them.
“God bless you both,” I whisper before taking a gulp of the water, letting the liquid relieve the rawness of my throat.
I glance at the clock on the wall and feel my lips spread into a grin—it was almost time for the last supper.
After a few more hits of oxygen I was carted to my new cell. I didn’t hang my pictures nor did I remove my personal effects from the brown paper bag, this was just a resting point, a time to gather my thoughts and pray.
Our father who art in Heaven…
I prayed for my wife.
Welcome her with open arms Saint Peter.
I prayed for my children.
Let them be happy and healthy.
I prayed for my grandchildren.
Let them always be safe.
I prayed for Val.
I prayed for a woman I never met…Christine Petra.
I prayed for Danny Parrish.
I prayed for all the innocent victims of the G-Man.
Rest in peace, this ones for you.
Amen.
I didn’t pray for myself, not this time, whatever will be, will be. The bell sounds, and another fresh faced correctional officer opens my cell and guides me to the mess hall. I grab an empty tray and get on the back of the line as my eyes scan the room searching for my mark.
Come out and play.
The room was divided, white sat with white, black stuck with black there was no unity amongst inmates, a sure sign that this prison wouldn’t survive the chaos I was about to implode.
I shuffled my feet as I inched my way up the line, scoping the room for the face I hadn’t seen in years, a face so gruesome only a mother could love. Bet that bitch hated him too.
Father forgive me.
I made the sign of the cross as my eyes zeroed in on the table in the corner of the cafeteria and the lone man sitting at it devouring a pudding cup.
“How do you want to do this,” I hear Val’s voice say.
I glance at the man in front of me, peer over his shoulder as he loads his tray and smiles.
“You can’t be serious, Vic,” Val’s voice dares.
My grin widened.
Watch me.
I lift my tray over my head and slam it against the inmate in front of me before stepping to my left. He drops his tray, spins on his heel and glares at the man who stands in line behind me. I watch as he rears his fist back, his knuckles colliding with the poor innocent man just waiting for his grub.
“FIGHT!”
We like to think times change but they don’t, society is just as fucked as it was before Martin Luther King had a dream, and segregation was just as much alive in this cafeteria as it was on the streets. White attacked black, black attacked white, yellow went for red and so on and so forth.
And me? I, like Moses, parted the sea, holding my head high as I walked through the chaos, through the disruption, straight to the end.
The G-Man didn’t flinch as he continued to eat, ignoring the war raging around him and the man headed for him.
I pull my shirt out of my pants, my hands closing over the metal as my form casts a shadow over the man I’ve been hunting for since he ordered the hit on me.
He calls himself a boss, a fucking leader, but he isn’t worthy of the title and this boss, is about to strip him from the label he cherishes. A boss doesn’t order a hit and miss the mark. A boss doesn’t kill the wrong man and never gets a chance to get the right one. A boss doesn’t rest until he gets revenge. A boss does things his way—until he’s dead and buried.
I’m the boss.
And it’s time for me to rest.
The G-Man’s tongue takes a swipe across the plastic spoon, licking the remnants of the pudding as he lifts his head.
The flicker of surprise spikes my adrenaline, transfixes me back to the man I was thirty years ago and for a moment, I’m not dying. I don’t have fucking cancer and I didn’t just say goodbye to the people I love. I am the fucking man who ruled
the most powerful organization in New York City.
I am the legend.
I pull the scissors from the waistband of my pants and watch as his lips move. His words are deaf to my ears as he grips the edge of the table and slowly rises. The lights flash around the room alerting me that the prison is on lockdown.
I’ve created a riot and now before the riot squad comes barreling in here with their guns blazing I’ve got to do what I came here to do.
He continues to talk with every step I take toward him. In my mind he’s begging me not to kill him but my conscience knows better and tries to get me to listen to what he’s preaching.
I don’t though.
I lift my gaze from his running mouth to his eyes and spot the black ink just beneath the corner of his eye.
Three little dots that resemble tear drops, a trademark for gang members when they take a life. One of those tear drops represents the life and death of my underboss. I pull the scissors out and lift them in the air.
Forgive me father for I have sinned.
He lunges for me as I rear my hand back and push the blunt tip of the scissors right into his jugular. The instant the metal pierces his vein blood squirts from his neck, spraying over my face.
For I have committed murder.
His hands close around his neck as he sputters blood from his mouth and begins to bleed out from his neck. A moment later he drops to his knees and falls face first at my feet, staining my white canvas sneakers with his blood.
Forgive me father for I have performed my last hit.
The scissors fall to the floor as a pair of hands tighten around my neck and drag me to the floor.
I close my eyes and see my Gracie’s face before everything fades to black.
Forgive me Gracie
Dear Daddy,
I have never been much for letters. I never kept a diary when I was younger and I can count on both hands how many times I wrote to Anthony when he went away. Yet, writing to you seems almost painless. In fact, it might be the best idea I’ve ever had.
The beauty of writing a letter is that I have the final say. You can’t interrupt me and put your two cents into my conversation, all you can do is listen. Well, not really listen but you know what I mean.
Before my words bleed onto these pages and I profess the truth of our relationship, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to think back; I want you to collect all the memories we’ve created but only the ones that made you smile. Go on, my words can wait, just do it. Go all the way back, to the day I was born, and you held me in your arms for the first time.
Knowing you, you’re skeptical, looking for the catch hidden within my request but I assure you Daddy, there is no catch, no gimmick, this is just a daughter trying to reconnect with her father one last time. I want to see if my memories match yours and I hope I can add to your list, reminding you of some of the great ones I’ll always cherish.
I was five years old; it was my first time riding my brand new bike, the one with the pretty pink basket on the front and the little bell I pretended was a horn. You remember the one, don’t you? It was my first bike without training wheels and you couldn’t wait to teach me how to ride it. With a steady hand, you guided me, balanced me until I got the hang of it and then, and only then, did you let go. I flew down the block, listening to your laughter fade behind me.
I did it! I rode a two-wheeler. All thanks to you.
The next day, I fell off my bike and broke my arm. You met me and Mom at the hospital just in time for the doctor to tell us it was broken and needed a cast for six weeks. I remember being scared, so scared but then you held my good hand as they fitted the cast and promised everything would be okay. You were the first person to sign my cast and I still remember the stick figures meant to resemble you and me that you drew.
I was eight years old, and it was my First Holy Communion. You and Mommy threw me this huge party, and it was the first time you and I ever danced to ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’. The dance started off with me standing on top of your loafers and ended with me in your arms.
Do you know how many times I’ve caught you playing that video over and over? Always rewinding the tape after the song is over to watch it again. I lost count how many times but it was many.
I was eleven years old, and we went to Saratoga for the summer. You took me to the track and showed me the racing form and let me pick the horse in the fourth race. Native Dancer came in first and you won a whole lot of money. I don’t remember how much but you gave me a cut and told me not to tell Mommy.
We went to the track a lot after that and I grew to love horse racing. I don’t know if it was the thrill of winning or the thrill of spending time with you.
I was thirteen when you took me on my first date. I didn’t know it was a date at the time. I thought it was just one of our typical father-daughter dinners. You remember those don’t you? The nights you would take me to Villa Pasquette restaurant and had the owners Gino and Maria serenade me at the table. Anyway back to the date, I was thirteen and instead of going to dinner with my father I wanted to hang out with my friends. I didn’t want to go, but you insisted I did and promised it would be the last time.
After work you picked me up and handed me a bouquet of flowers. I looked at you like you were crazy but then you told me, “Remember, Adrianna, a good man will always try to remember the little details.”
That night you tried to teach me what I should expect from a boy. You told me to set my standards high and never allow a boy to disrespect me. “To some you’ll just be a girl, but to one you’ll be the world.”
I didn’t need for you to show me how a woman deserved to be treated because for thirteen years I watched you treat my mother with the utmost respect. And long before that last dinner we had at Villa Pasquette, I knew I wanted to walk in my mother’s shoes one day. I wanted the man I married to look at me, treat me and love me just the way you loved my mom.
Even now, at twenty-nine, married to the love of my life and two kids—you and Mom’s story is still my favorite one ever written. Thank you for loving my mom.
I was fifteen, almost sixteen and learning how to drive. I had taken lessons, but I was still nervous about failing my upcoming road test. You had a Lincoln at the time, a navy blue one to be exact, and you didn’t even let Mommy drive it. But you let me drive it. You took me out every Sunday morning for thirteen weeks, showed me how to parallel park, how to pop a U-turn and when I told you I was afraid of the highway, you tricked me into driving straight onto the Belt Parkway and over the Verrazano bridge. I passed my road test thanks to you. Thank you for teaching me to face my fears.
It was my sweet Sixteen, and we were on our way to the catering hall when you pulled out a tiny velvet box and gave me a pair of diamond hoop earrings. I had wanted them so badly and I remember you telling me in the limo “I never disappointed you yet and I’m not about to now.”
I cherished those earrings. Still do and when Victoria is sixteen, I will pass them down to her.
Even when things got tricky for us, and I started to date Anthony, the dynamic between us, that incredible bond a daughter only has with her father, well, it shined through, allowing us to still build great memories.
Like the subway series tickets, you surprised me with. You wore your Mets gear, and I wore my Yankee gear, we ate hotdogs and rooted for our separate teams, never truly allowing our differences outweigh the bond we created throughout the years.
And differences we had.
I wish we would’ve done things differently. I wish you would’ve talked to me about how you were feeling instead of acting out of fear. I wish you would’ve remembered that before everything, my first role in life was your daughter and I’d always be your girl.
The years Anthony served in jail, I wish I would’ve been courageous enough to tell you how much I missed you. I wish I would’ve found the strength to tell you how much I needed one more memory. Maybe a trip to the racetra
ck would’ve reminded us of all the memories we made and the ones we still had to make.
We lost three years of our bond to fear and resentment when all we needed to do was be honest with one another.
If you would’ve come to me, I would’ve told you all the things I am now about to say.
I will always be your little girl.
I took your advice and found a man who always remembers the little details.
A man who is a lot like you.
I found someone to live up to the great man that is my dad.
And to him I am his whole world.
I found that one person just like you said I would.
And I am now Anthony’s wife.
I am a mother to two amazing children.
But at the end of the day I am also your daughter.
I will always be your daughter and you will always be my father. The man who taught me to expect greatness, to never settle for less than I deserve and to conquer my fears.
Three great lessons that I will teach my children.
But there is one lesson I’d like to teach you and that is to know life may end but love doesn’t. I’ll always love you, Dad. I’ll think of you every time I drive pass the boarded up restaurant we used to go to. I’ll think about you whenever I wear the earrings you bought me. I’ll smile as I speed down the Belt Parkway and imagine you’re right beside me in the passenger seat and when the Belmont stakes come around, I’ll always bet the fourth race.
I’ll miss you.
But you’ll always be in my heart.
Thank you for loving me.
Love Always,
Your Little Girl
Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6) Page 22