“Don’t these people know what a mop is?”
Anthony doesn’t respond—I told you. Three phrases. That’s all he’s got.
He leads me down a narrow hallway and that’s when I hear the rowdy bunch known as the Satan’s Knights. Bianci pauses in front of a closed door. I wait for him to knock, but he just opens it and strides through, leaving me in the fucking hallway.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite brother-in-law,” someone sing-songs from inside the room.
“Don’t recall you marrying my sister,” Bianci grunts.
Oh, look, more words. There’s hope.
“Made her my Kitten, Bianci, that shit is worth more than my given name,” the other guy responds. Before Bianci can get add another word to his limited vocabulary, another voice sounds. It’s deep and menacing.
“You’re late. Any particular reason?”
That’s my cue.
I straighten my shoulders and slide one hand into my pants pocket as I make my way inside the room. My gaze shoots past Bianci, to the long wooden table and the men gathered around it. Picture the last supper only the apostles are dressed in leather and instead of bread and wine, they’re passing blunts.
Very biblical.
“What’s he doing here?” the man at the head of the table growls.
I don’t need to look at his name patch to know he’s Jack fucking Parrish or more commonly known on the streets as Bulldog.
“Parrish,” I clip. My eyes sweep around the table. “Gentlemen.” It’s a stretch—a far one—but my options are limited.
“That’s a first. Don’t recall the last time anyone called any of us gentlemn,” the man with the grizzly beard scoffs.
“Your mother called me one last night when I bent her over,” his pal next to him says.
Very, very limited.
The two older brutes continue to bicker about someone’s dead mother until Jack slams his fist against the grain of the table.
“Enough,” he bellows. The leather clad apostles all go quiet as their messiah narrows his eyes on Bianci. “Start talking.”
Clearing his throat, Bianci’s eyes slice to me.
“What’s the matter, Bianci? The cat got your tongue?” another apostle calls and I wait for Bianci to speak, but instead he roughly drags his fingers through his hair.
I roll my eyes and stand tall, meeting Jack’s dark gaze.
“From this point forward, I am the boss of the Pastore organization. I will handle all prior and future endeavors that carry my uncle’s name.”
There.
Short and sweet.
Can we leave now?
“Your uncle?” the bearded fellow asks.
“Victor is my uncle.”
Come on, big guy, connect the dots.
“What the fuck kind of bullshit is this?” Parrish roars. He pushes back his chair, nearly knocking it over as he leans over the table. “And why am I finding this shit out now?” His eyes cut from me to Bianci. “Start fucking explaining.”
“I knew he was his nephew, I didn’t know shit about him taking Victor’s place, though,” Bianci sneers, fixing me with a look.
Yeah, you and everybody else, buddy.
“This shit is as much of a new development to me as it is to you,” Bianci continues, pacifying the big bad biker.
“So, Vic pulled the wool over your eyes?” the guy in desperate need of haircut asks. I squint to read his name patch.
Blackie.
“Vic did what he had to do,” I defend, making a mental note to give this Blackie character my barber’s number before I leave.
My gaze sweeps around the table and I shake my head. It’s amazing how they forget that I was the one who helped them not too look ago. Sure, I didn’t hand deliver the information myself, but it was my intel that tipped them off on Sun Wu’s shipment of drugs. They were at war with the Red Dragons, a Chinese gang notorious for trading blow, and at the time, I was filling in for one of my uncle’s foreman down at the docks—a guy who went by the name Rienzi—I gave the information to my uncle and he passed it along to these guys. Something I didn’t know actually happened until last week. Uncle Vic thought it would be a good time to reveal that bit of information and suggested I use it as an olive branch.
“You’ve worked with me in the past,” I say, keeping my focus on Parrish. “I don’t think I need to remind you people of the massacre you left behind on my pier after I gave you the tip on Sun Wu’s shipment.”
Olive branch extended.
Take the fucking bait so we can be done with this shit.
Please.
Unbuttoning my jacket, I slide my hand into my pocket and wait for a response. The guy with the beard leans over the table and snaps his fingers, getting Parrish’s attention.
“You want me to pop a cap in this fool’s ass?”
They’re not the most welcoming bunch.
Sighing, I school my features and begin to recite the same well-rehearsed speech I’ve given to the longshoreman’s associates and the other families.
“The way I see it, nothing has to change where your club and our organization is concerned. We all want the same thing—to be the only people who run these streets and keep them clean. I’m here to ensure that remains intact and to give you my word I will raise hell and bury any motherfucker who pollutes my city with shit.”
The more I say it, the more convincing my delivery sounds to my own ears.
“Your city,” Parrish repeats, rolling a toothpick between his lips.
“My city,” I confirm.
New York City is mine now and the sooner everyone—including myself—accepts that, the better off we’ll be. I take a step closer to the table and ignore the men who quickly react to my advance by jumping out of their seats.
They can pull their guns on me, shoot me dead, but before they decorate this pigsty they call home, they’re gonna hear what I came to say and they’re going to hear me loud and fucking clear.
“It could be ours, Parrish. We can take this fucking town and turn it into something no one saw coming. We can have people bowing and praying at our feet, but you’ve got to give me the same respect you gave Victor. I’m not looking to step on your toes, man. I’m looking for a partnership.”
A fucking coalition.
An army that has my back.
I don’t say any of that, though.
“I’m starting out small,” I continue. It’s a blatant lie. There’s nothing small about the operation I’m running, but a man never gives his full hand. “It’s going to take time to gain the trust and respect of every organization.” I know that, but I’m determined.
To do things my way.
To change the fucking underworld.
I don’t tell him any of that either.
“I want a partnership, Parrish, but I won’t be at your mercy.”
A bold statement, but one that’s true.
I remove my hand from my pants pocket and reach into my jacket. Blackie reaches too—for his gun. I don’t flinch. I don’t fucking blink. With the barrel of his gun pointed to my head, I produce a business card and lay it flat against the table. My eyes lock with Jack’s as I push the card toward him.
“Your call, Parrish, you can either sit back and watch me rise to the top or the Satan’s Knights can ride beside me. That’s what you people do, right? Ride to your death?” I pull my hand back and shrug my shoulders. “The choice is yours.”