Redemption (Vincent and Eve #3)

by Jessica Ruben

  She saunters away without a backward glance and I’m left staring mutely at her perfect ass. She enters the hotel lobby and my phone rings again. I check the caller ID. It’s Tom again.

  “Yo.”

  “Vincent. How many fucking times do I have to call you? Look man,” he sighs. “Things are getting hot here, and you’re not answering your goddamn phone.”

  “I’ve told you too many goddamn times. I’m not part of that shit anymore.”

  “It’s your father. He’s getting angrier. Darker. Doing shit you wouldn’t imagine. And he’s still fuming over your leaving—”

  “Look, I’ve got some work to do. I’ll talk to you—”

  “Don’t you fuckin’ hang up the phone!” he barks. “Your father is a dangerous man, or have you forgotten? I can feel bad shit coming your way. You know I’ve got a sense for these things. He blames you, Vincent.”

  “Me? What the fuck did I do? I’m not the one who aligned with lunatics. I’m not the one who got into business with untrustworthy men.”

  “You left—that’s what you did. And I can feel it in my bones. He’s comin’ for you.”

  “No,” I growl back. “I’m all the way out here. I’ve got Slade by my side nearly every damn moment. When the Mile opens, money will pour in and he’ll calm down.”

  “Open up your eyes, brother.” I can hear the stress in his voice over the line. “Because you aren’t in the fold, you don’t know the shit that’s heating up. You’ve gotta trust me on this,” he says desperately. “Your father has changed. You said it in lockup, but I didn’t really see it until now. He’s got a serious screw loose."

  “I know who my father is. But I can’t care anymore. I just can’t.”

  “And Eve? You still tryin’ to get her back?”

  “Yup.” My voice leaves no room for negotiation.

  “All right, man. What can I say?” he says dejectedly. “Just do me a favor and watch yourself. Don’t let your guard down.”

  I hang up and head directly back to the Mile. There’s a large art installation coming tomorrow and I want to make sure the space is ready.

  14

  VINCENT

  One Year Ago

  “Vincent,” the warden calls my name, shaking me out of my work-induced trance. When I’m focusing like this on the Mile, I’m on another mental plane. I don’t need to eat, drink, or take a piss for hours on end when I’m in this zone. I look out the barred window, noticing what looks like a torrential downpour.

  I turn my head to face him, straightening my back. “What’s up?”

  “Dinner’s on. I didn’t want to interrupt you, but you know how the inmates talk when they don’t see you at meals.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I stand, cracking my neck. Tension is always higher when people are stuck inside all day.

  No one knows the warden and I are friends, not even my boys. Hell would land on me if word ever got out. But I’m thankful for the guy. Our weekly chess sessions where we talk about current events helps to keep my mind sane. Otherwise, I’d probably rot in here, like so many men do.

  Our friendship started simply. He’d been reading my emails about the Mile, as prescribed by the judge, and started to ask some questions. Before I knew it, he became a great source of information. His brother is a builder and father an architect, so he knows a thing or two. And while the family negotiated the computers and email access for me with the DA before my entry, it’s my friendship with the warden that actually gives me the time and space I need to build the Milestone.

  We shake hands before he cuffs me, passing me off to a guard who brings me down the steps to the chow hall. My crew bangs on the table as I enter, a show of respect. The men around us quiet for a moment, looking down in a combination of terror and worship. Between fucking up Crow and creating the Mile, I’ve developed a reputation of power. I may be in handcuffs, but I’m the one leading the guard to the table and everyone here knows it.

  “Fuckin’ stop that shit,” I grumble, annoyed. The banging immediately stops. I turn my head around the room, feeling a change in the air. Everyone seems twitchy.

  I turn to Tom, who’s laughing at something Chris is telling him. “What are we eating tonight? Ribs?” I stare at the gruel in their plates. The guard removes the cuffs from my wrists before stepping away.

  “Sorry Vincent,” Tom replies. “Tonight, we’ve got Veal Milanese with a side of fried garlic and artichokes. Elios delivered your favorite a few minutes ago. Even brought a nice chunk of Parmigiana with fresh crusty bread and butter.”

  I chuckle. Elios is our favorite Italian on the Upper East Side of New York City, and Tom and I have been dreaming of it for years now.

  I walk over to the line still filled with people waiting for grub. The first guy notices me and immediately steps back so I can cut. There is a pecking order here, and things move smoothly because of it. My eyes scan the shitty food options when—seemingly out of nowhere—a fist comes barreling into my cheek before a weapon is plunged into my thigh. I’m caught off guard, momentarily stunned.

  “Fuck you!” the guy screams. I throw an arm around his neck and turn his back to my front, incapacitating him while gaining my bearings. The entire place is silent, watching in shocked confusion as a little pissant tries to fight me.

  Seeing as he’s black and this entire place is divided by color and race, the white inmates start to mumble, likely taking his act as a personal attack. He’s struggling, but I keep him in my hold, waiting for a guard to break this up and take him away. The last thing I want to do is spend a few weeks in the hole for fighting back.

  The talk in the room turns louder. The yelling begins.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  That’s all it takes for the entire chow hall to turn on each other. I can hear the walkie-talkies going off around me as an alarm bell turns on. It’s deafening.

  Meanwhile, this guy—who I’ve never even seen before—keeps trying to get out of my grip. He moves his head around, trying to bite me.

  “My f-f-fam,” he attempts to speak, but I shut his mouth with my hand, holding him against my chest. Moving my head to the side, I take a good look at his tear-stained face. He’s nothing but a kid, barely looks eighteen. And fuck, but he’s crying. I’m restraining him, but not causing pain.

  The chaos continues around us when I realize he’s trying to actually tell me something.

  “What is it?” I ask tightly, lifting my hand as blood soaks through my pants. I’m still keeping him in my clutches, but letting him tell his message to me.

  “Fuck the Borignone mafia!” he says, saliva dripping from his mouth onto my palm. His forehead is in my grip and I’m holding his head tightly. One twist and I could break his neck. I pull his head tighter, letting him know if he tries anything, his life is done.

  He takes heavy pants through his nose. “Killed my whole family. Burned my whole house down with them in it. Just because I was short. I hope you all die and rot in hell!”

  Before I can process what he just said, tear gas is thrown into the hall, and we all go down.

  I’m waiting in the cafeteria for my father’s bi-monthly visit. I got a corner table by a window. Prime real estate.

  The family’s business has been deteriorating in the last few years and it’s obvious to me that as of late, it’s only gotten worse. The men in here with me are organized and follow the proper command. But from what I’ve been gathering, disorganization is starting to reign back in New York. Worse, the family has been inducting sloppy kids with no sense of decency or respect. Rumors have circulated about the Boss Brotherhood MC getting in touch with my father on the outside and have struck some sort of deal. It’s hard to believe, considering the fact that here on the inside, we’re enemies. I’d never imagined the family would work with a bunch of skinheads, but my sources don’t lie.

  My father comes across from me, sitting down in the blue plastic chair and pulling it closer to the table. “Vin
cent,” he says calmly, “I want to know if—”

  “Not today,” I say, effectively cutting him off. He squints his eyes in confusion. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I know I’m going to need to keep calm in order to have this talk.

  He leans back into his chair, casually draping one leg over the other as though he were sitting at the opera as opposed to a prison.

  “I wanna know why I keep hearing about our nephews getting more...excited around town.” I say the word ‘excited’ slowly, so he understands I mean more aggressive. “Nephews” has always been our code word for younger men in the family. “Word is, they’re losing control. Control is paramount, yeah?”

  “I guess you can say the new nephews are more excitable. Especially these days,” he replies casually. “With the changing times, this is the path the family is taking.”

  I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “You have to get rid of them. They’re nothing but tr—”

  “Well Vincent, if you want to keep growing your family, new children are a must.”

  My heart pounds as I turn my head away from my father and toward the sea of convicts. This fuckin’ life.

  “I don’t like this route,” I practically spit the words out. “You know I’d never okay this. I hear some of them have priors.” I move myself closer to him and lower my voice. “Sexual assault? Stalking? Petty theft? What the fuck is that about? It’s unacceptable,” I say quietly with gritted teeth.

  “Too bad you’re not home and don’t get a vote.” He puts a hand in his jacket pocket, casually pulling out a piece of spearmint gum.

  I shake my head disbelievingly.

  He looks me over. “It takes numbers to maintain a stronghold. Otherwise, new kids come from other places and try to take what’s ours.”

  “But that was never our way,” I say tightly. “We’re better than that. Than them.” I point my finger to the men around us.

  “It’s where we are,” he states succinctly, chewing his gum and watching me pointedly, daring me to disagree.

  “You know the guys I grew up with and always fucking despised?” I draw a large B with my finger on the table. He sits up, nodding in understanding that I’m talking about the Boss Brotherhood. He knows our beef with them here in prison is dark. “Inviting them for a birthday party is the biggest mistake yet. I won’t attend if they’re included.”

  He leans forward, clearly aggravated. “You better fuckin’ be there, Vincent. Birthday parties are. Not. Negotiable.” His voice is a threatening growl.

  “I’m not sanctioning this.” I seethe, trying to keep my voice low despite my pounding pulse. “Neo-Nazis? These guys are dirty. You want to contaminate our lives with parasites?” I question. My body grows hot.

  “What you fail to realize is while you’ve been gone, the landscape has changed. We’ve got to make sure these new kids on the block don’t take our candy.”

  I move closer to him, our heads practically glued together over the table.

  “These new nephews of ours are nothing but trouble,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “They’ll never be effective members, and they’ll only bring us down in the end.” My mind rails. “Who the fuck is even in control of bringing in these morons? Good men are hard to find and even harder to train. The muscle we hired to help us out for the Mile were ex-Israeli Defense Force men. I spent months scouting them out and interviewing to make sure they were legitimate. These choices you’re making are fucked. Ya hear me?”

  Shock and anger mar his face; my father was always a narcissist, but his ego has grown tremendously in the last few years. I can tell I’m pushing him right now, but he’s gotta hear it.

  The bell rings, letting us know our time is up.

  “Listen to me,” I tell him as I stand, pushing my chair back aggressively and pointing my finger in his face, “show a little integrity—”

  “No, son. You listen to me.” He stands up quickly, grabbing me by the collar despite the no-contact rule. I can see a vein popping in the center of his forehead. “This is my goddamn show. My fucking party. Who’s invited? I say who’s invited! You’re nothing without me. I’m the leader. You don’t take a fuckin’ piss without my okay,” he exclaims.

  A guard pulls us apart, cold cuffs linking my hands behind my back as I’m roughly escorted away. I look around quickly. Luckily, with everyone hugging their loved ones, our altercation has seemingly gone unnoticed by the other inmates.

  I get back to my cell, sitting down on my cot as I’m locked back inside the cage. The bars close with a clang. Lifting my head to the small window, I stare up at the blue sky—free and clear of clouds. Somehow, in what feels like the first time in my life, I see things for what they are. I’ve had flashes of this truth, but now, it’s here.

  What the hell am I doing in here? Paying a debt and taking the fall.

  Why did I leave the love of my life, stage an ending, effectively ruining Eve’s world? To keep her safe from the life I live.

  I grip the side of my bed. I’ve got to get out of the family, or sooner or later, I’ll be back behind bars or dead.

  Ever since I came to prison, things on the outside with the family have disintegrated. The new guys they’re bringing into the fold? Sloppy. Hiring the BB to run guns for us? Disgusting. Over my dead body would I ever align with those fucks.

  I used to believe leaving the East Coast and beginning gaming would allow me to stay as part of the family without dealing with its day-to-day business. I figured my physical departure would be enough. I was wrong. The only way to be free is to leave the fold completely.

  I’ve told myself, all my life, that love and loyalty are who we are. Borignone mafia is power and strength. Borignone mafia is allegiance. I never considered us on the same level as these dirty street gangs. But now, it’s obvious the only family glue is greed. My father doesn’t care what he does, so long as the family stays on top. If that means selling us out, he’s willing. I’m not sure if Antonio Borignone was always this way, or if he’s changed. But regardless, this is where we stand—on opposite sides of the bay. I’d never imagined myself totally breaking free from the family; the stakes alone could mean my life. But for true freedom? It’s worth the risk.

  I drop my head in my hands. I’ve got to think strategically. If the family is doing business with that scum, it’s ten times more likely our work on the outside has turned into disorder. Luckily, the Milestone is set up and so tightly organized, it can’t be affected by any of their illegal business endeavors. My chest loosens. I’m glad to know the Mile’s secure.

  Ideas come and go into my head until I finally see a light go off. I’ve got to continue making myself invaluable. So much so, they can’t kill me without risking their own business. My father prizes money above all things, and he’ll do whatever he has to—so long as I line his pockets.

  I’ll leave the family and turn myself into their business partner instead. I won’t have to take any fall of theirs as my own. I will give them that option as the only one. Otherwise, I’ll take death. But if they choose to kill me, they’ll be losing out on all the money. I’d bet my father will take what I offer.

  Another thought jumps front and center: I need to call my lawyer and have him remove me from every single deed and business owned by the family. My ties must be totally severed. I raise my arms, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and pulling it up and off my head to stare at the tattoo on my arm. I’m sure I can find a way to blend it into something else. Get a nice sleeve when I’m out—cover this shit up and at least make the insignia less noticeable. I see Eve’s name blended into the swirls and feel an immediate sense of calm.

  Eve. Jesus, I miss her. I shut my eyes, ignoring the fact that I’m in a cold dark cell and picture her face. If I focus hard enough, I can even smell the coconut scent of her shampoo. What would she say if she knew I left the family? I imagine her smile when she hears the news. She wraps her arms around my neck, squealing with delight. I keep my eyes screwed shut, sm
iling at the images moving through my mind’s eye.

  15

  VINCENT

  “Vincent,” she says, opening the door to her room. Her voice is smooth and sweet in the way I love. There is no doubt that my name was meant to be on those lips.

  I bend down, kissing her soft cheek and taking in her clean scent. Her body shudders. “Hey.” She smells absolutely perfect. Like fresh soap and coconut cream.

  “Come in,” she turns and I follow her inside. “So, what are we doing for today? I know Kimber mentioned plans to look through files at your office?” She moves around quickly, not making eye contact as she grabs her tablet off the desk along with her phone and e-reader, dropping them into a black bag.

  Instead of replying right away, I just stand there, staring. How many years did I spend imagining her just like this, doing something mundane? My fantasies were never overly done. It’s Eve in her normal habits: freshly showered. Sweaty after our workout at the gym. Cooking in my kitchen. Reading in bed next to each other while she compulsively highlights passages in a textbook, wearing my shirt. We don’t have much time before she heads back to California. The clock on our week is ticking, and I’ve got to solidify us before she goes.

  She smiles innocently as I clear my throat. “We’ll go to my office first.”

  “Okay cool. Are we gonna ride there?” Her voice is hopeful.

  “Hell yeah,” I grin, noticing she’s already wearing her jeans.

  Instead of walking out, we both hesitate by the door. The air between us changes. I stare at her full lips and round brown eyes. I need her mouth on mine. I grip the keys in the palm of my hand, attempting to maintain control.

  Throat moving in a hard swallow, I can tell she wants this, too. Instinct says to throw her on the bed. Rip her clothes off. Make her come so hard until she’s yelling my name. But what if she refuses and everything comes crashing down? There’s still so much to talk about.