Chapter 1
Joaquin Cabrera
Rolling up my sleeves, I ball my fists and take a step closer to the piece of shit handcuffed to the radiator. Pablo Rodriguez thought he was untouchable— and with good reason. The guy made a name for himself by successfully pushing his product through the streets of Miami without ever getting pinched.
Coke was his bread and butter, but he didn’t do too bad with heroin and pills either. He didn’t give a fuck who he sold to and mostly took advantage of young girls. Normally, I wouldn’t insert myself into this bullshit. Pablo isn’t the first cunt to pedal drugs and he sure as fuck won’t be the last, but tonight, he made two grave mistakes.
He walked into the wrong nightclub and sold his product to the wrong girl.
Rearing my fist back, my knuckles collide with his jaw and immediately, the muffled music from the dance floor above us fades from my ears. It’s replaced with the splitting and splinting of bones, a sinful melody I learned to love back when I was a punk-ass teenager on the streets of Bensonhurst, fighting my way through life.
You can tear the man from the streets he was born and raised on, plant him in Miami, and fit him for a suit— even buy him a gold chain that would make Mr. T green with envy— but you can never take the lessons he learned from those streets away from him. Those lessons are my commandments. They’re my fucking religion and they were instilled in me by a bunch of wiseguys who took pity on the only Puerto Rican kid in an all-Italian neighborhood.
Pablo cries in pain as I open my fist. Reaching behind me, my fingers close around the piece tucked into the waistband of my slacks.
A sleek and fully loaded forty-five.
Before I made my way down here to finish off this cunt, our security detail primed him by beating him senseless. Blood oozes from the open wounds and his eyes are so swollen he can barely look at me, but they manage to latch onto my gun, and he starts to plead for his life.
I guess no one educated the poor bastard on what happens when someone sells drugs in a club owned by Victor Pastore and operated by his nephew, Rocco Spinelli.
“Te jodiste con la gente equivocado, Pablo. Ahora, pagas el precio,” I sneer, speaking his language.
Being of Puerto Rican descent isn’t ideal when you’re surrounded by mobsters your whole life, and I knew from an early age I could never be one of them. I could never be a made man because I didn’t have Italian blood running through my veins. A rule set in stone by men like Lucky Luciano and carried through by guys like Paul Castellano and old-timers alike. All I could ever be was an associate and even that was a stretch.
It didn’t matter that I was loyal to a fault, I was only accepted into their fold because of my association with Rocco, and once he left New York— they cut me off.
You see, his father was another guy who thought he was invincible and when he got caught selling drugs out of a dump truck, he got deported. Rocco’s mother insisted she, Rocco, and his sister, Gina, relocate to Italy. They weren’t there long enough to get dual citizenship because Rocco Spinelli, Sr., was massacred by the Sicilian mob shortly after. It turns out the mother country is even more ruthless than the five families.
Rocco and his family moved back to New York and his mother did everything she could to keep him away from Victor, fearing he’d wind up like his old man. Then she died of cancer and all bets were off. Rocco came back to the neighborhood and his mother wasn’t even cold in the ground before he and I picked up right where we left off. Things got messy because of what went down with his father, and no matter how hard Rocco tried to break away from his old man’s tarnished name, he never could— which meant we were both fucked.
Torn between his respect to honor his beloved sister-in-law’s wishes and the urge to prove his nephew was more than the spawn of a fuck up, Victor took Rocco under his wing. Whether it was an effort to keep him from getting whacked by his father’s enemies or a true testament to his belief in his nephew’s capabilities was yet to be decided. The man didn’t need another protégé, he was already grooming Anthony Bianci for that role, so he made Rocco an offer to run this nightclub.
That’s where my heritage came in handy for the first time. Miami was a hot spot, but it was also saturated with Latinos and while he wanted to cut Rocco a piece of the pie, he knew he’d be fucked without the proper resources.
“Mirame hijo de puta,” I order as I take a step backward, careful not to step in the blood pooling around him. Responding to my command, he slowly lifts his head. Adrenaline soars through my veins as I watch him struggle to look at me.
This is the moment.
Some people get high on pussy, others get high on drugs. My fix comes every time I pull the trigger. It’s watching the life drain from a person’s eyes that makes me soar.
“Quiero que tus ojos estén abiertos cuando te mate,” I add as a sinister smile ticks my lips and big fat tears roll down his cheeks.
He’s got a wife.
Two kids too.
And in ten seconds, he’ll have nothing.
If he had sold to anyone else, another girl, it wouldn’t have ended like this. I’d rough him up and send him back home with his dick in his hand, but he fed that poison to Pilar.
“¡Lo siento! No sabía que ella era tuya,” he sobs.
I let those words linger between us for a moment as I pull the safety back on the gun.
He’s sorry.
He didn’t know she was mine.
No one knows Pilar is mine. Not Rocco. Not anyone. She’s been my dirty little secret and my sweetest fucking escape. She’s peace and she’s heaven. She’s also overdosing in the next fucking room.
Shaking his words from my head, I take another step back, making sure I’m not in close range. The last thing I need is for this cunt’s blood to splatter on my suit. That’s the first lesson Victor taught Rocco and me.
Appearances are everything.
The second lesson he taught us was how to pull the trigger so you only do it once.
One and done.
Keeping my eyes on his, I fire.
He screams.
I laugh.
The bullet pierces him between the eyes.
Silence.
The bass returns, drumming in my ears as I stare into Pablo’s dead eyes.
I lied.
Peace isn’t only found in Pilar— it’s also found in death.
Now, there is another lesson I learned that I forgot to mention, and it didn’t come from Victor. In fact, it came way before I took a liking to the mob boss and it came from Rocco Spinelli, Sr.
There’s no such thing as dirty money.
Dropping the gun to the floor, I step over Pablo’s body. Kneeling, again mindful of his blood, I reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of cash. I flip through it, roughly counting the bills before shoving them into my pocket. In a flash, I’m back on my feet.
I don’t give Pablo another look as I roll down my sleeves and start for the door. Before I open it, I button the cuffs on my sleeves and smooth a hand down my front. Once I step out of the room, I look to the three men standing guard. One of them hands me my jacket and I slip my arms through the sleeves.
“Take care of the gun and throw Mr. Rodriguez in the Atlantic. Be sure to tie some weights to his ankles. We don’t want that motherfucker surfacing. And while you’re at it, get a mop. He’s bleeding like a pig.”