“Last I heard, you had a lot on your plate, now you’re here,” Rocco says. “I’m gonna assume that’s a good sign.”
“Never assume anything, Rocco, that’s what got your father pumped full of lead,” Victor retorts, smoothing a hand over his silk tie before continuing. “As I told you, the situation you found yourself in last night was no coincidence. However, you made me believe it was you that handled our little problem, but that wasn’t the case, was it?”
Victor’s gaze slices to me.
“You’re sharp, Joaquin, it’s a shame your mother didn’t get knocked up by one of our kind. You would’ve been perfect.”
I swallow, brushing off the insult and keep my face expressionless. I don’t know where he’s going with any of this but the tension in the room is multiplied and I can sense Rocco is just as nervous as I am. I want to ask him about Pablo and if we should prepare ourselves for any retaliation, but something tells me whacking the drug dealer is nothing compared to what Victor has in store for the two of us, so I keep my mouth shut.
Victor lifts a hand, signaling for one of the bodyguards positioned in the corner of the room. I watch as the beast makes his way to the boss, reaching into his pocket as if this was all rehearsed. He hands him a thick envelope before retreating to his corner.
“You should’ve known what was going on in the club,” he tells Rocco. “You should’ve anticipated Pablo before you even knew his fucking name, but you didn’t. You let Joaquin handle it and when I questioned you, you played it off like you had everything under control.”
“Uncle Vic— ”
“Shut up, Rocco. You don’t speak unless I ask a question and I haven’t asked you shit.”
Rocco clenches his fists on top of the table.
“Sir, if I may—” my words get cut off as Victor’s gaze slices toward me.
“You may not,” he grinds out. “I know this idiot has been too busy fucking anything with a skirt and that you’re the one cleaning up mess after mess around here, but that ends now, here at this table,” he roars, slamming his fist against the grain of the wood before turning to Rocco. “You’re coming back to New York with me. I want you to understand something, dear nephew . . . you are not a choice, you’re my last fucking resort. You are what happens when a dying man loves his children more than anything in this fucking world. You are what happens when a powerful man sacrifices everything he’s built so long after he’s gone, his daughters can live happily and without fearing the consequences of their father’s lifestyle. You are what the underworld gets when all the greats are gone.”
My gaze shoots to Rocco and I watch as he straightens in his chair, his eyes focused on his uncle. So long as I live, I won’t forget the look of fear in his eyes. For as much as he’s told himself this was the life he wanted, he suddenly doesn’t look so sure.
“By this time on Monday, you will be a made man,” Victor continues. “Do I think you deserve the honor? No,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “And if I don’t think you do, you best believe every man from here to Chicago won’t either, but as long as I’m alive, they’ll deal with it.”
“And when you’re not?” Rocco brazenly replies. “You’ve got stage four cancer. How much time does that give me before I wind up like my old man?”
“That depends on you,” Victor says evenly.
Rocco roughly threads his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends.
“What do you want from me?” he growls.
“I want you to be the man your father never was,” Victor replies, leaning forward. “I want the world to know Rocco Spinelli as they knew Victor Pastore. I want them to fear you first and love you last.” He pauses, cocking his head to the side. “Do you see where this is going, yet?”
I don’t know if Rocco does, but I sure as fuck do. He ain’t here to make Rocco a made man, he’s here to make him the fucking boss.
“It starts with inducting you into the family, but it ends with this,” he explains, holding up his hand. He points to the diamond crest ring on his pinky finger— the ring every made man bows to.
“You can’t be serious,” Rocco murmurs, shocked. “What about Anthony?”
“I’m leaving Anthony in charge of the only thing that matters.”
His true family.
His wife.
His daughters.
His grandson.
“But he— ”
“He’s out, Rocco,” Victor grinds out, pointing a finger in his face. “No matter what happens. If I drop dead tomorrow, he is out. Do you understand me? This world does not touch that man.”
For the first time since we sat down, Victor looks unhinged and as he turns to me, I spot the desperation in his eyes. It’s uncanny and so fucking poignant— here is a man who has lived his whole life as a criminal. He’s killed, he’s been shot, he’s done time . . . and yet, the only thing he fears is failing his family.
“Joaquin,” he calls.
“Nothing touches Anthony,” I reply. “I got it.”
Seemingly satisfied with my response, he breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to Rocco.
“I told you a man fights for what is important until he draws his last breath, well, I got a couple of months and my fight begins with me turning myself in to the authorities.”
“This is crazy,” Rocco hisses.
“This is what you do when your daughter shoots a man and kills him,” Victor fires back. “Now, pull yourself together, boy, and pay attention. Once I’m taken in, you’re going to need to relocate to New York permanently. My crew will keep things moving on the streets and I’ll be running things from the inside for as long as I can, that gives us time to prepare you. You will shadow Artie Donofrio and visit me twice a week in jail, that’s where you’ll get your education.”
“What about Temptations and the properties here?” Rocco asks.
Victor diverts his attention to me.
“You will oversee Miami for the time being,” he says, pausing to reach for the forgotten envelope. He stares at it for a beat before handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“When I die, you’ll need to come back to New York. A man named Primo will take over for you here, giving you, Rocco, and my Gracie a monthly cut of everything.”
I nod, lifting the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“That’s a birth certificate and a bloodwork report that states your mother is Sicilian. Her maiden name is Riccardi and your grandfather was born in Sardinia. They changed their surname when they came over here to flee the ties they had to the Beluzzi family.”
My brows knit together with confusion as I stare at him.
“None of that is true.”
“Wrong. From this day forward, that’s the only fucking truth you know,” he looks to Rocco. “That envelope holds your ammunition to change the rules, but keep in mind, the mob don’t like change. It runs on the Sicilian values of our ancestors. That being said, society and politics aren’t the same. Guiliani did a number on us and the Albanians are moving in, they’re taking over and without change, the Italian mafia is going to die. Drugs are going to flood the streets and every common criminal who knocks off a bank is going think they’re connected. Pizzerias from Brooklyn to Staten Island will be fronts for those cocksuckers and they’ll get the unions too. The longshoremen will be theirs and trade will be gone. For fuck’s sake, they got reality shows on this shit now. Be the change, Rocco.”