He’s crazy.
Yet, right now he’s giving me two thumbs up.
Crazy.
“Fuck,” Stryker mutters, forcing my focus back to him and not the old man telling me to go for it.
“What?” I follow his eyes to the curb.
“Fuck,” I repeat, watching as Rocco steps out of his fancy car.
“Give me a minute,” Stryker says, dropping his hands from my face before stepping around me and meeting my brother halfway.
Curiously I watch the exchange between the two men, inching my way closer to eavesdrop. Stryker reaches behind him and pulls out a piece of paper, no bigger than a business card, and hands it to my brother. Rocco glances down at his hand, takes the card and slips it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
The only reason I know they’re speaking is because Rocco’s lips are moving, but for the life of me I can’t decipher what he’s saying. As quickly as the exchange happens, it ends and Rocco turns back to his car. He reaches into his pocket for his ringing phone as I tiptoe back to the stoop.
Stryker shakes his head and finally turns back to me when Rocco pauses in the middle of the street.
I glance over Stryker’s shoulder at my brother and watch as he goes still, ignoring the oncoming traffic.
“Rocco,” I shout as a car zips by him, nearly running him down.
He drops his phone into the street and turns around. Shock masks his features and I don’t know if it’s because he almost got hit by a car or the phone call he received.
“Uncle Vic passed away,” he says.
And I have my answer.
One phone call.
One death.
The shock on Rocco’s face is the realization that he has just inherited a criminal empire.
Rest in peace, Uncle Vic.
Rest in peace, Rocco.
For you just sacrificed your soul.
Chapter Twenty-three
The last time I saw my Aunt Grace or my cousins was my mother’s funeral. I barely paid them any mind and when they offered their condolences I laughed. Saying you are sorry won’t bring my mother back. It’s kind of ridiculous don’t you think? Apologizing because someone died when you’re not the reason they died. Why is that the acceptable thing to say?
Maybe we say it for lack of anything better to say because it doesn’t sound right when you tell someone the truth.
The truth being you will never see your parent again.
Your life is different now.
There is no picking up the phone to call your mom or dad.
Now, you must rely on your memory and hope it never fails you.
Your life will go on but something will always be missing.
I guess I’m sorry does sound better than all that.
“Stop fidgeting,” my brother whispers through gritted teeth.
“I’m nervous,” I hiss, staring up at the crucifix hanging above the altar of the church.
“Then you shouldn’t have come,” he bites back.
“Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, making the sign of the cross before turning to my brother. “You’re an asshole.”
“Say a Hail Mary and calm the fuck down,” he whispers, plastering a somber look on his face as the church begins to fill. I watch in fascination as every person who enters the church greets my brother. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone and lets them assume I’m his flavor of the week.
Weird.
Not that I’m complaining.
I have no desire to know these wise guys.
There are tons of them though, old and young who traveled near and far to pay respects to the legend that was Victor Pastore.
I could only imagine what the funeral home looked like. After my mom’s wake I made it my mission to avoid them at all costs, there is nothing pleasant about sitting in front of a coffin for hours. I don’t like remembering people like that.
Turning to the photo displayed on the easel in front of the altar, I stare at my uncle’s smiling face. Dressed to the nines as usual, with an arm slung over Aunt Grace’s shoulders and a cocky smirk on his mouth.
That’s how I’m going to remember Uncle Vic.
Not as the gangster, but as the man who loved my aunt.
The church choir begins to play ‘Amazing Grace’ and everyone stands, turning around to face the gold casket and the men carrying it. Goosebumps cover my arms as I stare at the men posing as pallbearers. They’ve removed their leather jackets but there is no denying who they are. Jack Parrish’s face has been on the news as much as my uncle’s and the man on the other side of him is the man everyone knows as Blackie. I don’t recognize the one behind him but he must be the one that married Adrianna’s sister-in-law. Then my eyes land on the man standing behind Jack Parrish and I swear the air leaves my lungs. Subtly, Stryker winks at me as he carries my uncle to the altar.
After Rocco told us Victor had passed, Stryker got a phone call from one of his brothers and our reunion was cut short. I expected to see him here today, but I didn’t expect him to have such a profound role in my uncle’s funeral. Stryker might not have known Victor Pastore well, but the Satan’s Knights held my uncle in high regard.
The church grows silent as the men in leather position the coffin in front of the altar and the priest blesses it with holy water. A sob belonging to Aunt Grace rings out against the silence and everyone watches as she breaks down. Her daughters flock to her sides, lacing their arms with hers as the priest tries to comfort them. Tears fall from my eyes as I watch them band together and turn to my own brother.
We never had that.
We didn’t console one another.
We ripped each other apart.
Rocco takes a seat in the pew, wraps his arm around my wrist and pulls me down next to him. I’m about to punch him in the shoulder when I realize everyone else has taken their seats, and the mass has begun.
And a beautiful mass it is; one that centers on Uncle Vic’s love for his family. His sins are forgiven, his crimes forgotten. He’s with his maker now waiting for the love of his life to one day join him.
The same mantra continues at the cemetery as everyone takes turns saying goodbye. Anxiety builds as the crowd thins and the time for me to face my family draws near. By the way I stick to my brother’s side you’d never know we fight like cats and dogs. Rocco’s not a big source of comfort, big surprise there, and I search the cemetery for Stryker. I find him standing off to the side with the rest of the leather clad men.
Disappointment grips me like a vice as I watch the men he’s surrounded by stand beside the women in their life and I realize Stryker hasn’t even acknowledged me in front of them. He lifts his head and his eyes meet mine just as my brother proves he’s got no problem throwing me in front of a bus. Grabbing me by the shoulders he shoves me in front of him and into Aunt Grace’s open arms.
“Gina,” she says, shock evident in her voice. “Sweetheart, thank you for coming.” She cocks her head to the side and smiles faintly. “Wow, you look so much like your mother.”
“Thank you,” I reply, feeling like a complete tool as the ridiculous words flee my mouth. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She squeezes my hand.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she continues to hold my hand and looks over her shoulder. “Adrianna,” she calls.
Shit.
“You remember your cousin Gina, don’t you?”
I force a smile and turn as Adrianna steps to her mother’s side. She’s prettier than I remember her. The newsfeed from the bomb did her no justice at all, probably because she was bloodied and covered in soot. But even without a stitch of make-up on and big black sunglasses shielding her red-rimmed eyes, I can tell she’s beautiful.
“Of course I do,” she says, sliding her sunglasses on top of her head. “It’s been a long time. It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten you have a family.”
I hear Rocco mumble something and
I go to elbow him in the gut when another voice sounds beside me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Stryker says.
I forget whatever I was about to say and watch as Adrianna turns her attention toward him, her gaze softening slightly as he nods at her.
“How’s your wrist?”
My eyes immediately fly back to her and watch as she lifts the black sleeve of her dress and exposes a cast.
“Coming along,” she answers.
“I’m going to say my final goodbyes,” Aunt Grace announces.
“I’ll come with you,” Adrianna immediately responds. “My wrist will be fine and so will my sister and her husband thanks to you.”
Stryker simply nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“I hope you won’t be a stranger, Gina,” Aunt Grace says, leaning forward to place a kiss on my cheek. Then she looks behind me at my brother. “I know you won’t be,” she tells him. “Buy yourself a tie, Rocco; your uncle would be pissed.”
Yeah, we’re definitely the misfits of the family.
“I’ll do that,” he promises.
Aunt Grace and her daughter make their way back to the coffin perched on top of the hill and everyone watches as Grace Pastore says her final goodbye to her eternal love.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rocco says, grabbing my arm.
I turn to Stryker as he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step back.
“What about you?”
“I’m going to ride back with the club and then I’ll check on you later,” he says.
“Right,” I reply, biting the inside of my cheek as I glance down at the bikes lining the curb and the men laughing around them.
“Shit,” Stryker says, and I follow his gaze as Rocco starts for the president of his motorcycle club. “I’ve got to go,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later, pretty girl.”
I don’t get the chance to say anything because he’s hot on my brother’s heels. Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms against my chest and start for my brother’s car.
Fuck him, let him hitch a ride on the back of Stryker’s bike.
I’m taking the fucking Maserati home.
I spent the whole fucking day pretending like I didn’t know Gina. Like I don’t know how she feels wrapped around me, like I don’t own her fucking eyes. Then her brother goes running to Jack and I take off behind him like a fucking chimp.
I’ve been around the MC life long enough to know how most brothers operate, long enough to know I’m not like most of them. Most, not all of them flaunt their pussy for every man to see. Hell, some of them get off on trading their woman for a taste of someone else’s. Then there are the brothers that find that one woman that turns them upside down and they go and claim her, give her a property patch and tell everyone else to back the fuck off.
That’s not me.
Never has been.
Being mine means exactly that.
I don’t share.
I don’t put on a display.
As long as I know who I belong to and she knows where she belongs every night that’s enough for me. No reason to shout it from the rooftops. If someone is stupid enough to make a play for what’s mine, then they better have a fucking army of soldiers behind them.
Keeping Gina to myself wasn’t a premeditated thing. It was just my thing. Besides, the club was already in a state of disaster, dealing with the repercussions of Victor’s hit on the G-Man, I doubt anyone gives a flying fuck who I’m with every night.
Jack’s concern lies with Victor’s family and he doesn’t give a damn about Rocco or the sister he doesn’t even know he has. The club’s not in the market to protect Gina from a threat Rocco seems to be the only one who thinks exists.
To be honest, I wasn’t really sold on Gina being in any danger.
Sure, it was a possibility but not a legit one until Victor died, and now that the man is buried and Rocco is in charge, it’s a more realistic option to believe any of Rocco’s new enemies are out for blood.
Before today it was about Gina.
All about Gina.
And me wanting to be the guy close to her.
I used the bodyguard gig as an excuse.
Then in the middle of a war zone I spot the one thing that might hold merit to Rocco’s case.
Vladimir Yankovich’s business card.
I don’t know why Rocco knew the name, but it was no coincidence finding that card in the Bastards' clubhouse.
Now, to figure out what all that means—that’s a whole different ball game.
One I’m playing by myself.
Batter up, Stryker.
“Jack, I need a word,” Rocco calls over Jack’s shoulder.
Slowly, I watch my president turn around, acknowledging the gangster as he gives him the once over.
“We have nothing to discuss,” Jack tells him.
“It’s about the bomb,” Rocco replies.
He gave me a name and nothing else. Now this motherfucker wants to lay his shit bare? I inch closer as Jack chuckles.
Not a good sign.
“Thanks, but we’ve got everything under control,” he dismisses, turning his back to him.
I cringe as Rocco reaches out and grabs a hold of Jack’s arm, holding him back. Jack pulls his arm back, spins around and gets in Rocco’s face.
“Don’t you ever put your fucking hands on me again, not unless you want me to cut them off—”
“I don’t think the Corrupt Bastards sent that guy into your clubhouse with the bomb. There’s another enemy moving into our harbor and our streets and his name is Vladimir Yankovich. I have reason to believe he was working with the Bastards. Now, I think we can shut him—”
“Hold it,” Jack interrupts, throwing up a hand. “First, what happened to my club isn’t your concern. I don’t give a fuck about your theories, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for them. Second, you made a mistake assuming there is a we here,” he growls, waving a finger between them. “My alliance was with Victor. That alliance follows that coffin into the ground today. The Satan’s Knights are done with the mob.”
“But—”
“And they say I’m the one with failing ears,” Jack grunts. “We’re done here. Good luck, boy, you’re sure as hell going to need it.”
Rocco doesn’t get a chance to change Jack’s mind when his daughter screams out declaring Reina’s water broke. And I don’t get a chance to grill the son of bitch for keeping me in the dark because the shit got crazy real quick after that.
Real fucking quick.
Chapter Twenty-four
Dead on my feet one would think I just pushed out the kid born today. Hospitals are shit. They’re full of politics, sickness and death, but then something like today happens. An innocent life is born to the world and all that ugly fades away. There’s hope, and it’s found in the cry of a newborn child.
Looking at Jack as he walks into the waiting room with a grin from ear to ear, I see it, the beautiful. The shit that makes you forget the ugly and the cruelty that surrounds us. It was there in his eyes, eyes that are dark and usually full or torment manufactured by his illness and the death of his son, were full of joy.
It was nice to see.
Real fucking nice to see.
But now I’m fucking exhausted and desperate to catch a couple of hours of shut-eye. I head to the motel, park my bike but never dismount. Never even drop my kickstand.
As much as I want to close my eyes I want to close them seeing Gina next to me.
Fucked.
That’s what I am.
I peel out of the seedy parking lot and drag my ass back over the fucking bridge to Brooklyn.
To my pretty girl.
It’s late when I knock on the door. Not sure if she’s sleeping, I reach behind me to pull out the keys I duplicated from her key chain when she swings open the door wearing nothing more than my t-shirt.
There’s that too.
The beautiful she brings to the world.
“Oh it’s you.”
Until she opens her mouth.
Flipping her hair behind her ears, I spot the gash on her forehead. I reach out but she immediately spins around and starts for her apartment.
“Whoa,” I say, closing my hand around her wrist, dragging her back to me. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says, pulling her arm free. Seeing the fire in her eyes and the sass in her pretty features, I shake my head.
That shit won’t fly sweetheart.
“That wasn’t the question.”
Reaching for her again, she swats my hands away but I grab her and pull her toward me. Pushing her hair out of the way, I inspect her face for more injuries.
“Five seconds.”
“Or what?”
“Don’t test me, pretty girl.”
“I got into a car accident,” she says flatly.
“You don’t have a car.”
“I robbed one.”
Jesus fuck.
“Come again?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I lead her into the apartment, closing the door behind me I let her go.
“I couldn’t stay at the cemetery anymore. I needed to get out.”
“So you robbed a car?” I ask incredulously, swiping a hand over my head. “I thought you were going home with your brother.”
“I was until he decided to hang around the cemetery with your boss,” she seethes, cocking her head to the side as she crosses her arms underneath her perky tits. My t-shirt inches up her thighs and I lose my fucking head for a minute, forgetting all about her little game of Grand Theft Auto as I lick my lips wishing I had her pussy on my mouth. I bet that would get her to lose the attitude.
“Should I have asked you for a ride?”
I lift my head, shake my head clear and narrow my eyes at her.
“You could have.”
“Bullshit,” she hisses. “What would you have told your motorcycle buddies?”
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