Chaos

by J. C. Cliff

  When Cain passed, the club not only had to decide on a new president, but whether we should re-evaluate the path our club was on. Drugs had made us a lot of money through the years but it cost a lot too. We lost Cain, some of us lost our families and we all lost our dignity.

  Cain’s body was barely cold when I propositioned Blackie, promising to clean up the club. I told him we could make it something we could be proud of, to hold our heads up high to be a part of this club. He didn’t hesitate jumping on board and I knew he’d always have my back. He’d be my right-hand and we’d make things right again.

  I was diagnosed a manic depressive but I’d be damned if I would let a diagnosis dictate who I was. Sure, some people thought it was a glorified word for crazy and even argued I had no place getting in deep with the Knights, let alone be their leader. I proved all those motherfuckers wrong.

  And I’d keep proving motherfuckers wrong.

  I was crazy.

  But I was in control now. I had a handle on my illness and a good handle on my club.

  “Yo,” he said, as he closed the door behind him. “You wanted a word?”

  I nodded toward the chair to the right of me and watched as he took his seat.

  “Been something on my mind,” I started, flicking my cigarette. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”

  “You ready to share?” he asked, reaching for my cigarettes and taking one for himself.

  “You know about my visit with Victor Pastore,” I continued.

  “I know that Riggs is a permanent fixture at Xonerated because he asked you to protect Bianci,” he replied. “Now I know we used to be in bed with Victor, played nice and all that shit but the man is locked up. He’ll probably die in jail and we’ve got a guy sitting on his son-in-law making sure not a hair on his pretty little head is harmed. Not really sure where we’re going with this one. This some good Samaritan bullshit or you cut a deal with the don before he traded his designer suits for prison blues?”

  “Vic came to me a couple of months ago with a dilemma. The Fed’s were investigating him. They discovered a body and were putting together a case on him, probably gathering enough shit to put half the organization away. He sent me Bianci…” I continued, only for him to cut me off.

  “I remember,” he clipped, leaning forward, eyes set on mine. “You going to tell me where this is going?”

  “Danny was the one working the case,” I paused, running my fingers through my hair. It didn’t matter that my brother was dead for months now—the nagging pain never vanished from my gut. I learned a long time ago there was no time limit on grief. I never got over the loss of my son and I wouldn’t get over my brother being murdered. We may not have been close—I may have resented him for not being there for me when Jack Jr. died but he was still my brother. He was still the kid I looked after and shared half my life with. I made peace with my son’s death because it was out of my control. It took a long time and a lot of therapy for me heal.

  Danny’s death was different. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an unfortunate occurrence. It was murder. There was no excuse valid enough for him to be in the ground. I could avenge his death. I could make the bastard who took his life pay because he knew what he was doing. Jimmy Gold was in control when he killed my brother.

  “I had Bianci in my pocket. He would let me handle Danny my way. All I had to do was give him my word that the case would die. I could’ve made that happen. I would’ve done it but I was robbed of the chance.”

  “Because of the fire,” Blackie said pointedly. “Man, if this is about his house going up in smoke and you putting that blame on yourself…”

  “This is about Victor Pastore handing me his underboss on a silver platter,” I interrupted.

  Blackie’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. I turned around and pulled the manila envelope from the shelf and slid it across the table. He reached for the envelope, keeping his eyes on mine as he opened it and pulled out the contents. He dropped his gaze to the photographs of my brother’s corpse and I looked away. Those images were embedded in my brain, when I closed my eyes, night after night, they haunted me. His body charred, his finger gone.

  “Christ,” he hissed, turning the photos over so they were face down.

  “Riggs sits outside Xonerated because Victor gave me the proof I needed to kill Jimmy Gold.”

  “Whoa, hold it,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m all about an eye for an eye, you know that, but what you’re talking about is a whole different ball game.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Blackie. No one is going to change it either,” I declared.

  “Then why you telling me this?”

  “I’m going to take care of that motherfucker with or without the Knights behind me,” I said firmly.

  “The fuck you are,” he shouted, shaking his head and crossing his arms against his chest. “You’re talking about taking out a made man, a fucking boss. That shit don’t just happen without consequences. You give Gold what he has coming to him and you bring war to the Satan’s Knights.”

  “Dom, you’re not hearing me,” I said as I leaned forward. “This is happening,” I whispered harshly.

  He exhaled roughly and ran the back of his hand along his jaw before piercing me with a hard stare.

  “Then it happens in a way we’re covered,” he insisted. “Let me sit on it, figure out a way where you get your revenge and we still get to breathe. Pastore didn’t cut you no slack. He gave you a gift man, something he knew you wanted but he knew the rules. Fuck, he had a hand in making them. He knew you’d be fucked if you killed Jimmy now that he’s running the show. He used you to protect his interests. I’m pulling Riggs off Bianci. Let them guinea’s take care of their own.”

  “Bianci is good people,” I said.

  “Maybe so, but he’s not your brother,” Blackie stated. “Give me time, Bulldog.”

  I stared at him for a moment knowing I’d bide my time. I would let him do his thing but I wasn’t going to let him pull Riggs off Bianci. Anthony Bianci may not be a part of the Satan’s Knights but he was a good guy, dealt a shitty hand, and finally has a bit of happiness in his life now. I would not be the guy to take that away from him.

  “Riggs stays with Bianci,” I said finally. “You do your digging, find me a way to get the job done,” I glanced at the clock plastered to the wall, stood up and gathered the photos of my brother, shoving them back inside the envelope and tucking it under my arm. “I got someplace I gotta be.”

  I felt his eyes follow me toward the door as he muttered a curse. I pulled open the door and glanced over my shoulder, tipping my chin toward the table.

  “Oh, and have Bones sand down the table, maybe slap a coat of varnish on the fucking thing while he’s at it.”

  “Fucking hell,” Blackie hissed as I walked out the door.

  Chapter Two

  REINA

  I heard the engine even before I could turn around and peer out the window, I knew he was there. I watched him as he threw his leg over his bike. He parked right in front of Dee’s Diner; just as he did every night I worked the graveyard shift, which was five nights a week. I didn’t mind the hours, favored them even, the less people coming in and out of this place, the fewer who saw me. But him? He came in every night I worked and he saw me. It was unnerving the way he looked at me, those eyes of his seeing right through my armor, down to the scars that marked my soul.

  The bell chimed above the door as his boots scraped across the laminate flooring. I poured him a cup of coffee. He took it black with two sugars. I didn’t lift my eyes, or acknowledge his presence but I knew he parked his ass in his usual seat at the counter.

  Five weeks.

  Five nights a week.

  He came into Dee’s.

  Each night I poured him a cup of coffee and slid a menu across the counter.

  Each night he pushed the menu back.

  I reached behind me and pulled out my pad and pencil. As I kept m
y eyes focused on the blank ticket I spoke the same words I recited to everyone that came into the diner.

  “What can I get you?”

  “I’m good for now,” he said. I felt his eyes travel over me, pleading with me to lift my head and look at him.

  It wasn’t that I had anything against him. I treated all my customers the same. I took their orders and served their food but I didn’t give them anything more. Dee asked me a time or two why I wasn’t more personal with the customers, told me I’d make better tips if I treated them to a smile here and there. I didn’t want to disappoint Dee, nor did I want to lose my job but I wasn’t so sure I knew how to smile anymore.

  “Pie,” he said, jolting me from my thoughts. He never ordered anything other than a cup of coffee. It was a shock, an ad lib in a well-rehearsed script and it caused me to lift my head and stare into his eyes.

  They were dark brown, almost black, not a spectacular color, not even something that deserved a second glance. Yet, I gasped when I looked into his black irises. Dark eyes that hinted at a dark soul. There was hurt behind those eyes. There was pain.

  I wondered if it was his own pain or if it was just mine reflected back at me.

  “Cherry,” he added.

  I swallowed, tore my eyes from his and tried to focus.

  Pie.

  It was an uncontrollable force that brought my eyes back to his. His lips twitched slightly as he cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. God, there was something about this man. He was familiar yet he was foreign. I took a minute to take in his features. He had a strong jaw lined with the slightest hint of black and silver scruff. His lips weren’t thin but not quite full, just right and perfectly in tune with the rest of him. His nose was somewhat crooked—probably broke it once or twice and never had it set properly. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and something told me they weren’t from laughter. His dark hair, almost as black as his eyes, had some traces of gray scattered through it. He didn’t appear old, but rather a man who had lived and lived hard.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered and shook my head when I realized I had been staring at him for quite some time. I went from barely glancing at him to ogling him.

  “What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?” his voice sounded hoarse.

  “Pie,” I paused, glancing over my shoulder at the desserts that lined the shelf. “We don’t have cherry pie,” I turned and dropped my gaze back to my pad.

  “Then I’ll take whatever you have to give,” he said, in a tone I couldn’t describe but one that had me lifting my head again.

  “The blueberry is fresh,” I mumbled.

  “I’ll take it,” he responded instantly.

  I nodded and turned around to grab the man a slice of pie. I placed the plate in front of him and reached over to the seat beside him and took the silverware off the placemat. I handed him the fork and his fingers brushed mine as he took it. My body stirred and vibrated at the slight touch and I snatched my hand back.

  “Enjoy,” I mumbled, grabbing the rag from beneath the counter to wipe the surface clean to busy myself.

  “Name’s Jack,” he offered, breaking off a corner of his pie and stabbing it with his fork.

  I didn’t ask his name, and I wasn’t willing to share mine with him.

  “Reina,” I responded, defying myself.

  “Reina,” he repeated, as he brought his fork to his mouth and took a bite. As he chewed his eyes met mine. At least he was well-mannered enough not to talk with his mouth full. I hated that. I watched his throat as he swallowed. “Pretty name.”

  “Thank you,” I said nervously. “Is there anything else I can get you?” I asked, as he dug into the pie for another bite. His hand paused, and he dropped his fork piercing me with a look.

  “You want to get rid of me?”

  I felt my cheeks heat and I shook my head quickly. “No, please, I’m sorry.”

  “Five weeks,” he clipped.

  “Excuse me?” I questioned, swallowing hard

  “Five weeks I’ve been coming in here and tonight is the first time you actually looked at me.”

  “I…”

  “Five weeks and just finding out now your eyes are brown,” he interrupted. “I’m not a real patient man, Reina. That’s a long fucking time to realize that the girl who pours me a cup of coffee almost every night has sad brown eyes.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I pursed my lips together. I knew he could see through me. I felt it down in my bones and he had just confirmed it.

  “Pretty girl like you should smile once in a while,” he added.

  “I don’t have a reason to smile,” I replied quickly, delivering the only truth I knew.

  “Pity,” he said. “Almost makes me want to give you one.”

  “Jack,” I said, his name sounding strange coming from my mouth.

  “What’re you hiding from, Reina?” he pushed.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I said, feeling every bit defensive.

  “No, I suppose it’s not,” he whispered. His gaze lingering on me for a moment before he picked up his fork again and quietly ate his pie.

  I cleaned the counter.

  Then cleaned it again.

  A couple came in and I handed them their menus.

  I kept my head down and hid from them. They didn’t care. They didn’t even grant me a second glance but the man behind me, sitting at the counter, his eyes never left me.

  Jack.

  Familiar and foreign.

  I gripped the edge of the counter with one hand and with the other I slapped my hip, hoping to kill the tingling sensation at my side before my leg went numb. It happened now and then, the pins and needles that traveled from my hip down to my thigh. It was more irritating than it was uncomfortable but it was something I’d learned to live with.

  It was all that was left, the only thing that reminded me of a time when I used to smile. But it also reminded me I’d never smile again.

  I sighed and pushed myself, trying to hide my limp as I regained feeling in my leg. I grabbed the coffee pot and turned around to refill his mug, but he was gone. His plate was empty and a fifty-dollar bill was tucked neatly underneath it. I lifted my head and peered out the window as he revved the engine of his motorcycle and peeled out of the lot.

  He’d be back.

  Tomorrow night.

  And the night after that.

  And maybe we’d have cherry pie.

  Chapter Three

  5 Weeks Ago

  JACK “BULLDOG” PARRISH

  I straddled my bike, dropped the kickstand and turned off the engine. I pulled my helmet off my head and tucked it under my arm, pulling off my fingerless, leather gloves as I strode toward the gym. The doors were locked but the dim light shining through the glass told me Anthony was in there, no doubt working overtime to make his dream a reality. He had been working around the clock to get this place in order, to open it and start a new life.

  I had distanced myself from him, bitter he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain. But all the while I was being a prick he was getting Victor Pastore to deliver me his underboss. Bianci came through just like he vowed to, getting me proof my brother was murdered by Jimmy Gold.

  I rapped my bare knuckles against the glass door, peering into the window to watch Anthony walk toward me. I shoved my gloves into my pocket and took a step back as he opened the door. He greeted me with a cold stare, crossing his arms against his chest and leaned against the door blocking the entrance.

  “Need a word,” I said, breaking the silence between us.

  He studied me, holding his stance for a minute before backing away, clearing the entry for me to step inside. I glanced around the gym, impressed by the work he had put into the business. At first glance, one would think Anthony was a badass motherfucker, and he was. The streets made him tough, they made him wise—but beneath the surface Bianci had a heart.

  “The great enforcer goes legit,” I comme
nted, nodding my head in approval before turning around and glancing at him. “Looks good, Bianci.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “I take it you’re not too pleased to see me,” I declared, placing my helmet on the counter, bending my leg as I propped my boot against the wall and leaned against it.

  “Didn’t expect to see you,” he shrugged. “You fell off the face of the earth.”

  “Thought you left me hanging,” I countered.

  “I told you I was a man of my word, Jack,” he stated.

  “I paid Vic a visit.” I hesitated slightly before continuing. “I owe you an apology, Bianci,” I declared.

  “You don’t owe me shit. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it,” he said firmly. “I take it Vic gave you what you needed.”

  “He did. But I’m guessing he wouldn’t have if you hadn’t of gone in to bat for me,” I pushed myself off the wall and took a step closer to him. “Thank you, brother,” I whispered, holding out my hand.

  Anthony slid his hand into mine and shook it firmly. “Glad you got what you needed,” he sighed, the ice broken between us as we pulled our hands away and stared at one another. “I take it you have a plan,” he surmised.

  “I got a few things floating around my head, nothing concrete,” I replied.

  His lips smirked, and he shook his head.

  “Been around long enough to know that you aren’t going to disclose that shit to me,” he declared.

  “I will get that motherfucker,” I vowed.

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind you will,” he replied, cocking his head to the side as he peered at me. “Hope it brings you closure, but I don’t think it will,” he added.

  I pondered his statement.

  There was no such thing as closure. At least, not for me. I never got closure when my boy died, never made peace with the wrongs I did that caused his death. No, closure was a thing for dreamers.