Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Grabbing it from my jacket, I don’t look at the screen as I accept the call and bring it to my ear.

  “Yeah,” I greet.

  “Are you Stryker?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

  Instinct grips my gut and I feel the blood drain from my body.

  In an instant I somehow know I was meant to answer this call and my trained body transfers into a state of alert.

  “Who is this?”

  “She said she’d do the talking,” he mumbles.

  She.

  For a moment I think it’s the call I’ve been waiting for since I first saw my father put his hands on my mother, but then my hearing filters the noise of the call and I hear the distinct sounds of the city traffic.

  A bus.

  A horn.

  Someone screaming for a taxi.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I found a woman, she’s in really bad shape behind the dumpsters on Water Street. She said I could take the money.”

  Water Street is two blocks away from Gina’s office.

  It’s her.

  My pretty girl.

  “W…Wait!” I stutter, but the call dies and I lift my head in horror.

  “Good grief, you’re as white as a fucking sheet. What’s wrong, boy?”

  “Something happened to her,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Something happened to Gina.”

  Dread, fear and guilt swarm me, making it hard for me to breathe.

  “Go, I’ll call the boys for back up,” he tells me, pushing me toward the door.

  Wolf gives my shocked body the boost it needs to kick it into gear and I flee his room. My boots pound the linoleum floor of the hospital until I’m outside straddling my bike. I don’t know who Wolf plans to call, if he’s going to call Jack or Cobra, and I don’t care. All I care about is getting to Gina, making sure she’s safe and sound.

  I picture her face a thousand times as I speed through the streets of Brooklyn, over the bridge and into Manhattan. Eyes rare and unique blur my vision. Her smile so bright it has the ability to light up the city she loves.

  I need to see those eyes.

  I need that smile.

  The world needs that smile.

  The urgency to flee is a forgotten thought as desperation tugs inside of me. Sweat pours from every orifice of my body as I’m transcended back in time. I’m running in the sand, straight toward the little boy. I shout for him not to be scared, help is here. He’s going to be fine.

  But he’s not.

  The little boy fades as I park my bike in front of her building and run the two blocks, pausing on the corner of Water Street.

  “Gina,” I shout against the night.

  People stare at me.

  Blue eyes.

  Brown eyes.

  Not the pair of green eyes I need to see.

  I turn in a complete circle, searching for the dumpsters when I spot an alleyway. My eyes drift downward and my fists immediately clench as I stare at her leather briefcase haphazardly thrown on the floor.

  The next moments play out much the same as every nightmare I’ve experienced, only this time I don’t wake up screaming, my mind isn’t tricking me into believing I’m somewhere else.

  This is real.

  Spotting the dumpsters off in the distance, my boots make their way down the deserted alleyway as my eyes dart all around looking for my girl. I don’t see her at first and start to think the call was a hoax so I reach into my pocket and dial back her number.

  I hear her familiar ringtone, follow the sound and let it guide me to my new hell.

  The hell where the woman I love is lying on the concrete so badly beaten she’s unrecognizable.

  The hell where she’s covered in her own blood.

  A hell where her clothes are torn and all the parts of her that should be private are exposed to the world.

  A hell where she’s the victim.

  I drop to my knees, peeling the ratty coat from her and she groans.

  “Gina,” I soothe, swallowing the lump in my throat as I move the hair from her eyes and stare at her beautiful face that is swollen and smeared with blood. She flinches at my touch and a whimper escapes her lips.

  “No,” she whispers. “Please, no.”

  “Shh,” I rasp, gently wrapping my arms around her and lifting her into my lap. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.”

  Her cries ring in my ears as her body falls lax in my arms.

  I’ve got you.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  When Jack Parrish calls to set up a meeting, I drop every fucking thing I’m doing, including the woman I’m currently balls deep inside of.

  Fucking away my frustrations has become my survival. The world I know has been turned upside down and I’m losing my grip. I thought I had prepared for everything. That we had left no stone unturned, but I’m learning life as a mob boss is not something you prepare for. The mafia is an underground world full of surprises and unexpected enemies.

  No one can be trusted and those who can be are the ones that become casualties.

  Like Johnny.

  They found his body floating in the Hudson.

  The short list of soldiers I have under me is dwindling and everything my uncle entrusted me with is slipping from me.

  People have an unrealistic perception of the mafia. They think it’s all about the money, the power and the respect—for some that’s all it is. They don’t tell you you’re sacrificing your soul for nothing. At the end of the day, what is money, power and respect if you’re burying people to achieve it.

  A part of me wishes my uncle is burning in hell for bestowing this shit onto me but the logical part of me knows I wanted it. It was my choice to take this lifestyle on, and at the time of my decision I wasn’t thinking about the consequences.

  I wasn’t thinking I could mend the broken relationship I have with my sister or that she’d be threatened by the choices I made.

  I was only thinking about making the name Rocco Spinelli stand for something other than a deadbeat drug lord like my father was.

  I also believed I’d have the backing of the Satan’s Knights, something my uncle assured me would carry over when his body turned cold, but Jack Parrish wanted no part of me.

  He washed his hands of the mob the minute Vic was buried.

  Not that I blamed him.

  The Russian mob blew up his fucking clubhouse. A fact he would know if he gave me five fucking minutes of his time. While my uncle was locked in solitary for killing the G-Man, I started making moves, transitioning the power into my hands and I started with the waterfront. That’s when I first learned the name Vladimir Yankovich. He came to Triton looking to lease containers for export, claiming he was in the coffee business. He signed the agreement and listed a Boston address as his business address, coincidentally a property owned by the G-Man himself.

  Yankovich funded the rebirth of the Boston charter of the Corrupt Bastards, a motorcycle club that was distributing both Yankovich and the G-Man’s product; that product being heroin. Johnny started sniffing around, and before they caught wind and whacked him, he found out that Yankovich was using the Corrupt Bastards as the decoy.

  He set it up so the Satan’s Knights would be crippled and unable to assist me, leaving both the motorcycle club and the prominent mob family of New York vulnerable and at his mercy. If we were too distracted by the bomb, then he’d be able to control the waterfront, and the global distribution of drugs he was planning would easily move through New York’s harbor.

  The problem was he wasn’t planning on moving drugs.

  That was peanuts to a man like Yankovich.

  He would move women through those containers.

  Innocent women he planned on selling overseas as if they weren’t living, breathing beings.

  Johnny’s life was compromised but not the docks, and those women, they’re still here somewhere. They haven’t been sold to the highest bidder and for
ced to live a life of shame. I can still save them.

  The docks are still mine and it’ll be a cold day in fucking hell before I let that bastard move anything through my territory.

  Not drugs.

  And you can bet your dick, not a woman.

  So, Jack calling me and telling me to meet him at the Ramada Inn off of Victory Boulevard couldn’t have happened at a better time. Yankovich has plans to move cargo through the harbor soon, whether that cargo is drugs or women is yet to be determined, so is the date and time of his move. But having Jack and his club on my side will surely aide in shutting down his operation. We just need to find out when he plans to strike and then we’ll be waiting to intercept the Russian prick.

  My uncle used to fight with Jack to keep his streets clean of drugs. Now, I’m fighting to keep our waterfront clear and women alive. Jack Parrish is going to help me do that. He’s going to because I won’t take no for a fucking answer.

  Pulling into the parking lot I spot the biker leaning against his Harley, staring up at the motel with a look of disdain painted across his face.

  “Parrish,” I call, demanding his attention as I unbutton my suit jacket and shove my hand into my tailored pants. This fucking get up is getting old real fucking fast. Whoever said the suit makes the man never wore basketball shorts and a t-shit.

  His dark eyes dart toward me and assess me from head to toe.

  “Spinelli,” he sneers, shaking his head.

  Ignoring the look on his face, I cross the gravel parking lot and stand in front of him.

  “I’m surprised you called,” I admit truthfully. “But I’m happy you finally came around.”

  Leaving no time for small talk, I glance around the deserted parking lot figuring it’s safe enough to cut straight to the chase. Parrish is a finicky bastard; his mind can snap at any second so time is of the essence.

  “I didn’t call you to break bread,” he says, tipping his head toward the motel. “One of my brothers found something that belongs to you.”

  Narrowing my eyes suspiciously I begin to doubt the reason of his call. Before biker boy broke my sister’s heart and ran like a little bitch, he ordered me to tell Parrish everything I knew about Yankovich—not an easy task when the Bulldog doesn’t answer my calls. Then out of the clear blue sky Parrish called and requested a meeting. I figured Stryker must’ve reached out to his president, knowing Parrish is as thick headed as they come. A parting gift from biker boy before he hightailed it to God only knows where. He must’ve cared about Gina if he reached out to Parrish, knowing that as long as Yankovich is a threat to me then my sister isn’t safe.

  She’s all I have in this world.

  The only way anyone can hurt me is by hurting her.

  I peel my eyes off the motel and turn back to Jack. Regretfully, I ask the question I already know the answer to.

  “What could one of your men have that belongs to me?”

  My eyes move to his lips and I watch in horror as he says the two words I never wanted to hear.

  “Your sister,” he says, before turning around and heading toward the motel.

  The air deflates from my lungs as a million scenarios run through my head. I hang onto the fact he said she’s here and not in a ditch somewhere dead. I hang onto that because knowing she’s alive is the courage I need to follow Jack toward the door he’s pounding his fist against.

  Stryker pulls open the door, crossing his arms against his chest and barricades the door as he looks past Jack and directly into my eyes.

  There is nothing comforting about the expression on his face.

  “Where is she?” I demand.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” Stryker sneers, pulling his gaze to the man who gives him his orders. A guttural shriek sounds from behind Stryker, vibrating through my entire body as I realize the anguished sound belongs to my sister.

  Shoving Parrish out of the way, I grab Stryker’s leather jacket and push him out of my way, charging into the room in search for my sister.

  Pausing at the side of the bed, I stare in shock at the girl lying in the bed, twisting between the sheets in agony.

  This woman can’t be my sister.

  The blood.

  The bruises.

  The cries no one will ever be able to silence.

  Her clothes are ripped to shreds with nothing but a thin sheet covering her scarred body.

  None of this is real.

  This isn’t my sister.

  My sister is somewhere safe with Richie watching over her. She’s laughing at some bullshit television show or online shopping to her hearts content.

  My sister isn’t lying in this bed a victim of violence.

  Violence my choice cost her.

  “Get off of me.” I hear Stryker shout and my reality is affirmed.

  This is real.

  This is hell.

  “That woman wrestling her demons in your bed is Rocco’s sister,” Jack sneers, trying to rein in Stryker.

  But there is no reining any of us in.

  The truth explodes around us.

  Backing away from the bed, tears sting my eyes as I realize every bruise on my sister’s body, every drop of blood and all the shame she’s left with is my fault. It’s my truth and my undoing, a burden I will carry for the rest of my life.

  Reaching into my suit jacket I pull out the nine millimeter and aim it directly at Jack Parrish’s head.

  “You wouldn’t listen to me,” I growl. “You just fucking wouldn’t listen to me.” Clenching my teeth I pull back the safety on my gun.

  “Put the gun down, pretty boy,” Stryker orders, reaching behind him to pull his own out and aims it at me. “This is all you,” he sneers. “You were supposed to keep her fucking safe,” he shouts.

  My eyes meet his as the words sink in.

  Words I know are true.

  Words I don’t want to hear.

  Words that will be my damnation.

  This is all you.

  All me.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Keeping my hand steady and my gun aimed at Rocco, I shrug Jack’s hands off my shoulders and step further into my hotel room.

  “Drop the gun, pretty boy,” I seethe. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jack pull out his own piece and aim it at Rocco. I’ve got no business blaming him for what’s happened but shouldering the blame onto someone else for the mistake I made is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

  I left her.

  I vowed to keep her safe and then I fucking left her.

  I let PTSD control my life and Gina nearly lost hers as a result.

  I keep telling myself she’s alive and I need to be grateful for that, but the moment I scraped the broken pieces of her off the ground and took her into my arms, I knew she was dead inside. My pretty girl had no will to live left. Her spunk was ripped from her and not only was her body violated but her spirit as well.

  I don’t know how long we lay in that alley waiting for Cobra and Deuce, but every second that passed, she shed another tear and broke my heart a little bit more. I didn’t know what to do, where to touch her, so I just kept my arms loosely around her and waited for my brothers to show up.

  Both of them were respectful upon finding us, looking everywhere but directly at her. Cobra stripped his jacket from his body and handed it to me. I removed the dirty coat from her body and replaced it with Cobra’s jacket.

  When it came time to move her, she screamed, and at first I thought she was in pain because of the way I moved her; hearing her scream no, I knew she was reliving her attack.

  Torment.

  It won’t escape her.

  It’ll rule her for the rest of her life. She’ll try to bury it but it will dredge to the surface, and like a cancer it will viciously gnaw at her.

  I kept repeating the only words I could think of that might comfort her.

  I’ve got you.

  But wor
ds are just words and they won’t heal her.

  She moans, pulling me away from my thoughts and the silent standoff her brother and I are having. I turn my attention toward the bed and instantly lower my gun as I move for her at the same time as Rocco does. I glare at him, hold out my hand to prevent him from taking another step closer.

  It’s over.

  From this point forward, Gina is my responsibility and no one else’s. Going forward all her pain, all her grief, and every fucking nightmare she has is as much mine as it is hers. And when she smiles, when she laughs and traces of the woman she was before tonight surfaces, that’ll all be mine too. She will smile. She will laugh again. She’ll be that girl she was because I’ll spend the rest of my life bringing that woman back to life, shutting down the torment that lives inside of her.

  I’ll die trying.

  “Shh,” I whisper, leaning over the bed. “I’ve got you, pretty girl. Nobody will ever hurt you again,” I vow, reaching out to touch her hand.

  Cobra left to get medical help and until he comes back, I don’t want to touch her. She’s fragile and I’m not sure what her limits are. So far she’s allowed me to hold her hand but anything more—if I go to touch her face, she cries out, slaps my hand away and flinches.

  So I take her hand.

  “I’ve got you,” I repeat, my thumb stroking her palm, and she grips my hand.

  Her body is a shell, housing the spirit of a woman who is stronger than she knows. That strength is alive, and it’s alive in the way she squeezes my hand. I stare at her face, wishing she could open her eyes. I need those eyes.

  I need them bad.

  But it’s not about me and my needs.

  It’s about finding out what she needs and being the one who gives it to her. Not because I’m looking to save her. I didn’t save her, a stranger saved her. A faceless stranger who I’ll be forever grateful for. No it’s not about saving her or being the hero.

  That ship has sailed.

  It’s about being there for her. It’s about holding her tight and never letting go.

  It’s about realizing Gina is everything to me. She’s the reason I didn’t pull the trigger, the reason I wake up every day and fight my own demons. She’s my reason, my purpose…my heart.