The ritual changed as I got older. I took to God before I slit a throat or pulled the trigger; I prayed for the unsuspecting soul that would meet his maker and while I was at it I threw in an Our Father for myself. It was a crap shoot, really, asking our Heavenly Father to relieve me of all the crimes I committed and those I had yet to, but still, if there was a chance he did then why not take it?
It was selfish of me and in some sense, I felt like a coward.
You see, I didn’t think twice before murdering someone. I did it with ease and with confidence. Hell, I did it with grace, each hit becoming more of a work of art than the one before. Even as I dug the holes and covered the bodies with the Earth’s soil I had no regrets. I was cocky and arrogant in murder just as I was in everything else. It wasn’t until I went home with blood on my hands and saw Grace asleep in our bed that I questioned my actions.
I wasn’t afraid of dying; it came with the power, with the suit and the gun. I was afraid of leaving this earth and never seeing my Gracie again. Saint Peter will wait for my beautiful bride, not I, my ass was headed straight to the depths of Hell.
There was no way my sweet, innocent Gracie would ever meet Satan.
Grace and I were over. We ended when my bride of thirty years kissed me one final time and walked out of that visitor’s room in Otisville. It ended when my shackled legs shuffled onto the bus that dragged my ass here.
There is nothing left to my existence, nothing to look forward to, all that’s left is the last hit. I had a vision for my last kill, a premeditated hit that would be just as dramatic as the first one I ever committed. I contemplated reenacting my first hit but my connections were gone and getting my hands on a gun and a bottle of bleach was goddamn impossible.
Along with my connections, my body failed me. I was running out of time and didn’t have time to sit on the G-Man. Once that motherfucker’s eyes find mine he’ll know exactly what’s about to go down and if I don’t strike first, then I’ll be the one in a body bag by the end of the day.
And I’m not going out like that.
Revenge is a beast that’s been living inside of me since I watched the life fade from Val’s eyes, his body riddled with bullets, each one meant for me. It was finally time for me to lay down my life for his memory, time for me to give the brothers of the Satan’s Knights the peace they so badly craved. It was time to avenge the deaths caused by the G-Man running his product through mine and Jack’s streets.
It was time for the last hit.
This body of mine may be weak but it does not know defeat.
I will paint the world one last picture; give them one last piece of Victor Pastore. Everyone will learn what happens to a man when he has nothing left to live for. The Victor Pastore you know, the man the newspapers love to write about is about to resurrect the hitman within him, the soldier before the mob boss. I hope the media is ready because this prison is going to become uncontrollable as I get reckless and this vendetta turns lethal.
There is no sharpened bolt under my cot, no guard to hand me a bible and turn his back as I kill yet another. I’m running on nothing but adrenaline and instinct.
Upon my arrival the correctional officers removed the shackles wrapped around my ankles and brought me into the main building to process my paperwork and complete my transfer. I was then escorted to the medical building where they would take my vitals, learn I was a lost cause and send me to my new cell.
My lungs were closing in on me and I gasped for breath.
“The doctor should be here any minute,” the young officer said.
I lift my eyes to him, taking in the helpless expression he adorned and the way he fidgeted, glancing over his shoulder to see if the doctor was on his way.
“What’s the matter, son,” I struggle. “This your first time watching a man die?”
He chose not to answer and instead wiped the sweat from his brow, making me wonder if he was a rookie.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir, should I?”
My lips quirk at his response.
“No, I don’t suppose you should,” I replied, struggling to breathe and bowing my head to focus on the linoleum floor.
The less you know, the better. The simpler this is for me.
Something shiny caught my eye causing me to narrow my eyes and focus on the silver circle that glistened against the black and white checkered flooring.
“Mr. Pastore?” I hear a soft voice say.
My eyes travel the sound of my name and find the face of a woman. She has innocent brown eyes that speak to me telling me she couldn’t be any more than thirty years old. Her brown hair is pulled back from her face, tied into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She smiles softly, cocking her head to the side as she averts her eyes back to my chart and her top teeth dig into her lower lip. I couldn’t peel my eyes from her, studying her features that were so like both my daughters but when her eyes find mine again, I decide she reminds me more of Adrianna than she did Nicole. It was the dullness reflected in her eyes that decided for me. I spent three years staring into similar eyes after Anthony went to prison. This doctor, like my daughter, had someone rip the sparkle right out of her eyes.
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, re
minding 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.
The Tempted Series: Collectors Edition Page 178