Redemption (Vincent and Eve #3)

by Jessica Ruben

  Redemption

  Vincent and Eve Book Three

  Jessica Ruben

  JessicaRubenBooks, LLC

  229 E. 85th Street

  P.O. Box 1596

  New York, New York 10028

  Copyright c. 2018 Jessica Ruben

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7321178-5-3

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7321178-4-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contact me by visiting my website, JessicaRubenAuthor.com

  Cover Art Design by Okay Creations

  Editing by BilliJoy Carson at Editing Addict

  Editing by Ellie at LoveNBooks

  Publicity by Autumn at Wordsmith Publicity

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This is work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s wild imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Love what you just read?

  Acknowledgments

  1

  VINCENT

  Beads of sweat trickle down my chest and onto my abs within mere moments of stepping onto the gray concrete. Squinting my eyes from the blaring sun, I crack my neck from side to side, letting out tension as my eyes take in the huge cement blocks around me.

  Me and Tom, my best friend and brother in the Borignone mafia, are personally escorted off the prison grounds, our heavy strides silent against the dark pavement as we walk to our freedom. The warden and two highly armed officers flank our sides. A throat clears as a lone black Mercedes-Benz pulls up to the tall gates.

  Tom turns to me, smirking like a beefed-up demon as his green eyes twinkle with triumph. Prison did nothing but make my boy tougher both inside and out. The guards step back. Tom swiftly opens the door, bending his thick neck low and entering the car.

  I move to face the straight-backed warden, his bald head perspiring from the sun. He takes my hand in a firm shake.

  “I won’t forget what you did for me, sir. Thank you.” I feel nothing short of honest gratitude. If not for the warden, I’d be leaving as nothing but an ex-con. Instead, I’m heading out of here as the board president of what will be one of the largest gaming companies in the USA.

  “No doubt, son, you’re one of the good ones. I hope to never see you again.” He chuckles, his timber gravelly and strong as his hand continues to grip mine. I finally let go and step into the car, shutting the door firmly behind me. It closes with a satisfying slam.

  I’m free, sort of.

  It’s been six years, five months, and fourteen days; my sentence lessened due to good behavior. And now I’ve got six months on parole before I can leave New York behind me—for good.

  The driver starts down the dirt road wordlessly, his orders likely already given by my father Antonio Borignone, the boss of the Borignone mafia. Tom and I face away from each other, staring out our respective tinted windows. Boxy white mobile homes come into view as my eyes slightly water from the smell of fresh leather seats. It’s that new car scent everyone loves but always bothered me with its sharpness.

  Green trees enter my vision next, and the unexpected burst of color has my eyes widening. Prison is all grays and blacks, all the time. Absentmindedly, I rub the center of my chest as an acute feeling of worry seeps inside, blocking the relief I felt only moments before. What if a cop pulls us over and says there was an error with my paperwork during discharge? There are rumors that a misplaced signature can get a person back inside on the quick. I shake out my shoulders, telling my consciousness to shut the fuck up. It’s not like me to double and triple guess myself like this, but what can I expect after being locked up for over half a decade? Freedom is here, yet I have this sinking feeling someone is going to take it away from me.

  Being locked up is hell, although I know I deserved the punishment. I made wrong choices, which led me to ruin my world along with both Eve’s and Tom’s. I was an impulsive and hotheaded kid, believing I could have my girl in secret while publicly dating a socialite for the family. But this compartmentalized life brought me nothing but divide. Unable to get a good grip on the world around me, my life fell apart.

  I’ve had years now to go over my mistakes, and now that I’m free, it’s time I redeem myself. Once, being the son of Antonio Borignone defined me. But now I understand I’m my own man. What I do is on me, and me alone.

  The low growl of motorcycles ring in my ears. I’ve got to get myself a ride. Considering the fact that I’ve spent years caged like an animal behind steel and metal bars, the idea of being free on the road without the restriction of a roof and doors sounds incredible.

  The car begins to shake as a swarm of bikes surround us; my body and mind switch to alert mode; I look left to right, forward and back. Four motorcycles are on either side of the vehicle, plus two in front and two behind. They’re wearing leather vests but moving too quickly for me to identify the insignia on the back.

  One of the bikers pulls dangerously close to our car. He turns his head as a dark grin spreads across his face—raising a hand in what looks like...solidarity. My pulse quickens. I finally get a good look at his leather. This is the outside arm of the Boss Brotherhood, also known as the BB.

  They’re a group of white supremacist bikers with nothing but stupidity, muscles, and drugs between them. The fact that they work with the family is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what I see as the degradation of the Borignone mafia. It’s a downward spiral I’m not interested in taking part in—not anymore. And if I get my way, I won’t have to any longer.

  “Holy fuck, man. This is insane. Enemies inside, friends outside?” Tom’s voice has a hard and confused edge.

  We both knew the family aligned with the BB but still, seeing it in real time is a new thing entirely.

  “Christ,” I mumble, fantasizing about opening the window and grabbing the fucker’s throat.

  I clench my fists but lean back. “Sit, brother. We’re not packing and I’m not getting us back inside within twenty minutes of leaving. They aren’t showing aggression and we have no reason to fight.”

  “Fuck!” Tom slams his fist into the empty seat in front of him. He presses his lips together in a thin line, his tell for when he’s calming himself. “You’re right,” he replies after a few beats, his voice resigned.

  Finally, the bikes take off, leaving us unharmed.

  Tom leans forward and touches the back of the seat in front of me, getting the driver’s attention. “Stop at a restaurant, man. We’re starved.”

  I nod. “Good call.” The thought of food has my stomach grumbling.

  Thirty minutes later, we pull up to what looks like a 1950s-style diner. The structure is low and white with two rows of pink neon lights highlighting the r
oof. I strut inside, the door chiming with our entry. It’s strange walking into a restaurant as if I were just a typical law-abiding citizen when just an hour ago I had cuffs around my wrists. Yet, here I am.

  Tom follows me to the back corner booth where two over-sized white menus are already placed on the table along with silverware and a red and white checkered napkin. I’ve got a good spot, able to watch the entire diner as well as keep an eye on the parking lot. Can never be too careful.

  I sit down and scan the food choices, letting my eyes ping-pong between appetizers, main courses, and desserts. In prison, we had no choice when it came to food. Hell, we barely had a choice when it came to anything. I’m staring at over fifty potential meal items and the list seems endless.

  Frustrated, I drop the menu back on the table, noticing an overweight trucker sitting alone in the booth in front of ours. His red face shows a tired contentment as he digs into a huge slice of apple pie with a dull silver spoon. My mouth waters.

  “We did it, huh?” Tom’s voice brings my attention back to him. “There were moments, I swear to God, Vincent, I thought time would never pass,” he admits.

  “We were lucky though.”

  “True.” He nods his buzzed head in agreement.

  Our prison stay wasn’t as difficult as it is for most inmates. For one thing, the skillsets we were raised on easily translated into prison culture: mental toughness, physical strength, and ability to lead. We also had a pre-existing structure within the system to plug into, as seven of our boys were already doing time.

  The waitress steps over to take our orders, a pink apron tied around her short white uniform. She’s young with bleached-blonde hair; I cringe remembering the girl who Eve believes I was with in our bedroom that fateful night. Goddamn, but the memory of watching her heart break in front of my eyes still burns.

  Mouth widening in excitement, the waitress stares at Tom as if she just hit the jackpot. His eyes rove her body hungrily, like an animal starved. Not that I blame him. It’s been a long time.

  I clear my throat and the waitress turns to me. I order a double cheeseburger, fries, and Coke with extra ice. Apple pie, the same one as the guy in front of me, for dessert.

  Instead of writing down my order, the girl’s gaping at me, frozen to the spot. I look at her notepad, then her eyes, silently telling her to get her ass into gear. She swallows, pupils dilating, before finally jotting down my order. She’s attracted but also scared.

  “I’ll have the same,” Tom tells her with a crooked smile, causing her to erupt in a nervous giggle.

  “Uh, I’ll go get you guys your order.” She stumbles her words before scuttling away with a bright red face. I shake my head at Tom.

  “Not even a minute, huh?”

  “I’m just glad to see I’ve still got it,” he laughs. “I know what I’m doing tonight, and it isn’t jacking off like I’ve been doing for almost seven years. The first thing I wanna do, after this meal of course, is fuck my brains out.” He grabs the edge of the table and pitches forward to get closer to me. “You think the waitress would take a five-minute break to suck me off in the bathroom? After the burger?”

  “Five minutes? I’d put you at thirty seconds.”

  He happily shrugs his shoulders. “What about you? I’m sure she’d do us both. Although you might be too much for her.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, my ten-inch dick would definitely scare her.” I quirk my mouth in a half smile and Tom laughs out loud.

  “Man,” he says, shaking his head from side to side. “She took one look at you and almost pissed herself. You got a bad case of resting murder face. As scary as you looked before—you’re worse now.” He laughs. “Those Indian black eyes of yours. Shiiiiit.”

  “Native American, you fuck head.” I casually shrug at the dig, but he isn’t wrong. I’m bigger and harder than ever. We both are.

  “Not my type, anyway,” I reply, leaning back in the booth and crossing my arms over my chest. It’s been a while since I’ve sat without guards watching my every move and the independence is shockingly unnerving.

  “I won’t say that bitch’s name, because it makes me sick what she did to us. But tell me you aren’t still thinking about her after all these years.”

  I immediately sit up, gripping the edge of the table. “I may be leaving the life, but if I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I’ll kill you. I told you before we were locked up, and I’ll remind you again now that we’re out. She didn’t do shit. I made choices.” I point at my chest with my thumb. “I did those wrongs. What happened to me and you is all. On. Me.”

  He leans closer. “Man, this is why you’re supposed to be the Boss.” His voice is a conspiring whisper. “It’s in your blood. Don’t walk away from it, Vincent. You take responsibility for yourself. We both know if the tables were turned, I woulda said the girl had me whipped. But you—"

  “I love you like a brother, but I’m not on board with the new direction the family’s rolling in.” I shake my head slowly from side to side. “Just can’t do it anymore.”

  “Your dad is gonna freak the fuck out. I mean...” he exhales. “Maybe you wanna wear a Kevlar before you have your chat?” It’s spoken in jest, but I can tell Tom is worried. While we’ve discussed my plans about leaving the family for good, my father doesn’t know about my decision yet.

  Tom’s chosen to stay inside the fold, unable to see anything in his future outside of the family. If anything, prison solidified his loyalty. Still, we’ve lived our lives side by side since we were born. Leaving prison together was a given—the family made sure of it. While we’d never admit it to each other, parting ways is unsettling. Still, it’s just the way life goes. I know the conversation with my father won’t be easy, but truth? I’d rather die than keep this shit up and I’ve spent years now coming to terms with it.

  The waitress walks back to the table with large white plates of food. The moment I see the juicy burger sitting between a toasted sesame seed bun, every thought previously in my head disappears; I take a huge bite and groan. Neither of us speaks until our plates are completely clean. Dessert is more of the same; not so much as shifting until every crumb is transferred into our mouths and rinsed down with gigantic ice-cold sodas.

  The car pulls up to Park Avenue and Seventy-Fifth Street.

  “Wish it weren’t this way, brother.” Tom puts out his fist and I knock mine against his. He opens the door and steps out.

  The driver continues uptown, taking me directly to my father’s townhouse. My right leg bounces up and down as we swerve through city traffic.

  “Sir, do you mind if I take First Avenue? My GPS is telling me there’s an accident on Park.”

  “No problem,” I reply, noticing the super high-tech screen planted on his dashboard. Goddamn, a lot changed while I was locked up.

  The car turns east before taking a left on First. I squint my eyes in confusion, seeing designated bike lanes running up the street. The mayor must be insane to do this; I can only imagine the potential for accidents.

  Turning west, we drive up Ninety-Second Street, pulling over between Madison and Park. I thank the driver politely as I open the door.

  Stepping out of the car, I stand tall and inhale the city air. It isn’t fresh or clean, but it’s free.

  My eyes examine the block as the clouds overhead cast a dull gray tinge on the row of brick and limestone townhouses. Three black SUVs sit idly, double-parked along the quiet tree-lined street.

  Turning toward my father’s townhouse, the home I grew up in, I count ten security cameras framing the mansion’s entrance—five more than before I went into lockup. It still looks like an embassy opposed to a personal residence. I can just imagine him now, watching me like a hawk from the fifth-story window while he smokes cigarette after cigarette, stewing.

  The car drives away and I feel a surge of heat rush over my body. With a rolling stomach, sweat breaks out on my forehead. I slick my short hair away from my face, feeling
dampness at the roots. It must be stress. The combination of leaving lockup, entering this house, and the looming talk about leaving the family is giving me an emotional reaction. Fuck, I’ve got to get a grip.

  I inhale through my mouth and exhale through my nose as I walk up the wide steps to the front door, imagining myself setting fire to this entire place and burning it to the ground. Still, I’ve got no choice but to deal with what’s ahead. I move to ring the bell, but the door swings open before I make contact.

  “Vincent.” My father pulls me into the house before stepping into the doorway. His eyes scan the street. Seemingly satisfied there’s no one watching, he moves back inside and shuts the door; the crystal chandelier hanging above our heads sways from the force. Gripping my shoulders, he apprises me. His hands dig into my biceps as if to incapacitate. I can easily get out of his grip. Yet, I stand still, not wanting to aggravate him. In the last few years, he’s become increasingly more paranoid. I need to do my best to keep him calm, especially today. With a man like my father, the less I say, the better.

  Finally, he lets me go.

  “Come with me,” his voice is stern, “lots to go over.”

  I don’t reply. I was never much of a talker, but my solitary demeanor only increased with time and circumstances. With heavy steps, I follow him up the red-carpeted staircase.

  I crack my knuckles, noticing the place hasn’t changed at all, still showy and ornate like an Italian palace. We enter the white-marble kitchen on the second floor and my eyes zero in on the surface of the dining table, filled with files. “All for me?”