The elevator doors open but Richie isn’t standing in front of the doors like I figured he’d be.
“Richie?”
Figuring he must be outside when my voice echoes in the vestibule, I step outside the glass doors of the firm and look around for Richie.
Nothing.
I glance across the street at the parking garage but there’s no sign of him anywhere. I guess I’m assed out of a ride and taking the bus. Shrugging my shoulders, I start down the street toward the bus stop.
Then it happens.
I get a weird feeling.
Dread.
Something’s not right.
Where did Richie go?
Stryker’s voice looms in my ear reminding me to be wary of my surroundings and to trust my instincts. I stop walking.
Richie wouldn’t have just left me.
Something happened.
I’m about to turn around and head back to my office when an arm snakes around my face and a hand closes over my mouth.
I scream. I scream at the top of my lungs but then a gun is brought to my temple and a man’s voice sounds against my ear.
“One more word and I’ll kill you.”
Something terrible is about to happen.
I want to tell you that everything fades and I don’t remember a thing but what happens next is something I’ll never forget.
What happens next will haunt me for the rest of my life.
-Thirty-
Gina
They’re strangers.
Women you read about in a newspaper or watch as their story unfolds in sixty seconds on the news. You gasp in horror, feel sorry for them for a moment but then you forget them. You forget the girl said no. You never hear her cry, never hear her scream for help or beg God to make it stop. Maybe if you had, then you’d remember her.
Maybe you’d remember her if you knew there were three of them torturing her. One who punched her in the face and smashed the back of her head against the concrete. Another who dragged her by her bare feet down a deserted alleyway and positioned her behind a dumpster. A third who held a gun to her head and promised to kill her.
Maybe then you’d remember her.
Would she be a second thought in your head if you knew she had closed her eyes and thought of her mother as they ripped her panties down her legs? That she wished for her mother’s spirit to save her as they tore her shirt from her body and pulled her breasts out of her bra.
If you knew they forced their tongues into her mouth and vowed to cut hers out if she didn’t respond. Would you remember her?
Or if you knew of the godawful things they whispered into her ear as they bruised, bloodied and shamed her body—maybe then you’d remember her.
You want it.
A girl dressed like you always wants it.
Open your mouth.
Spread your legs.
Do it or your brother will die.
Would you remember her?
She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize their accents; never saw their faces until they were between her legs and inside of her.
Her.
Would you remember her?
Would you remember the girl who cried as they shoved foreign objects inside of her, penetrated her with their dirty fingers all the while tearing her apart both physically and emotionally?
You’re so wet.
Would you remember the girl who heard those words and felt like her own body betrayed her?
The girl whose bare skin and scalp had been rubbed against the ground behind a dumpster while three erect men raped her repeatedly.
Her.
Would you remember that girl?
Would you remember me?
-Thirty-one-
Gina
Pain.
It’s how I know I’m alive.
Alive, wishing I was dead or at least able to crawl out of my skin, out of my body that feels no longer mine. I fight to open my eyes but they are so severely swollen that even the tears escaping the corners of them hurt.
I hear a noise and my already trembling body twitches in fear—they’ve come back. I’m not scared of dying but I’m terrified of living…living through that again. What if they came back for more?
No.
I don’t speak the word. I don’t scream it and I don’t cry it. It’s a meaningless word that didn’t save me. The only thing that will save me is lying here pretending I’m dead, maybe then they’ll leave my broken body alone.
Struggling, I sanction whatever will I have left inside me and force my quivering body to remain still.
Don’t cry.
Don’t make a sound.
You’re dead.
I repeat those three things over and over in my head as the sound draws closer and I’m able to tell that it’s someone walking. The footsteps stop and another noise I can’t quite decipher takes root. The next sound I hear is humming, and it’s like the angels are calling for me.
Help.
I say the word in my head but it never escapes my lips. Groaning through the red hot pain that sears through my body as I try to move, I open my dry mouth again and force it to formulate the one word that may save me.
“Help,” I croak.
The noise stops and by some miracle of God I manage to open one eye. Worn and tattered boots come into my line of sight.
“Holy hell,” the person grumbles.
Remembering that my clothes have been torn from my body, I struggle to cover myself with one arm. I’m sure it doesn’t help, that I’m not actually hiding anything, but still I try. I try to cover what they took and shield the scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
The soles of the boots flap as the stranger takes a retreating step backward.
“Please,” I beg, dropping the hand that poorly covers my chest and reach for the laces on his boots.
“I was just looking for food,” he mutters.
“Please, help me,” I cry, holding onto the laces as if they’re a lifeline. “Please,” I whimper.
The man crouches down beside me, his face comes into view and through the dirt covering his face I see remorse, pity. He removes his old coat and lays it over my body.
“It’s not much,” he mumbles.
Tears burn my cheeks as my fingers loosen over the laces and I stare at him with one eye.
“Thank you,” I cry.
“I don’t have a phone to call for help and the longer I stand here the more I chance being found next to you. They’re going to think I did this to you,” he rambles, hurrying to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”
“No,” I beg weakly. Exhaustion weighs heavily over me and I push through, grabbing onto the laces of his boots again.
“My bag…it's somewhere…there’s money…and a phone.”
“I can’t,” he tells me.
“Please! You won’t get in trouble…” My voice trails off as my eye closes. I may have temporarily passed out, I’m not certain, but when I open my eyes again all that’s left of the homeless stranger is the coat covering my battered body.
Then I hear his voice.
“I found the bag,” he grunts, kneeling beside me. “If I call 911 the cops are going to think it was me,” he rattles off again.
“No cops,” I choke out, forcing one eye open again. Blinking as I try to focus, I reach out my hand for the phone.
“Dial and I’ll talk,” I rasp, my body threatening to shut down on me as each word is a strangled breath.
“Dial who?”
I tell myself to hang in there, all I have to do is give the homeless man a name and then I can let go.
One name. One prayer. One hero.
“Stryker.”
I close my eye as I say the name, pray he answers the phone because if anyone can save me it’s him.
One name. One prayer. One hero.
Then I give into the aching body that betrayed me and fade into an unconscious state. My soldier, in his dress uniform greets me and I wonder if he’s t
here to rescue me or if I’ve joined him in hell.
STRYKER
My saddlebags are packed and I’ve got a full tank of gas. All that’s left to do is say goodbye to Wolf.
He’s the one who brought me here and handed me my patch after I was voted in. It’s only fair I turn my patch back to him. I tried to live up to his expectations. Hand to God I tried to, but I’m too fucked up to be anything other than a wounded soldier.
Too fucked up to even kill myself.
Since I left Rocco, I’ve been sitting in my filthy room at the motel trying to find the courage to end this fucking nightmare. I lifted the gun to my temple a total of thirty-six times, and every time I closed my eyes I saw her face. Her green eyes pleaded with me every damn time, begging me to stay and suffer, not to give up and be a statistic.
Choosing not to pull the trigger is the last thing I gave her.
That and the bruises on her neck.
I gave her those too.
Put a shit ton of fear in her eyes as well.
Another present from me to her.
Before I do anymore damage, like go to her house and beg her to forgive me or take her up on the fucking offer to get a dog, I need to drag my ass far away from here, far away from her.
I know how it goes, seen my own mother do it a thousand times.
I’ll apologize and Gina will accept my apology.
We’ll have some good days and we’ll both forget what I’ve done. We’ll pretend we’re a normal couple, that there aren’t demons beating down the front door looking to tear us apart.
Then it will happen again.
I won’t know it’s happening, won’t be able to stop it and I’ll lose control.
I’ll hurt her.
This time it’s a couple of bruises, but who’s to say I won’t break her wrist like I did her cousin’s. That’s putting it mildly, I can kill her and not even realize I’m doing so until I’m lying on the floor with her lifeless body in my arms, touching her with the same hands that took her life.
I won’t do that. I won’t allow her to be the victim.
Knocking on the door, I step inside and find Wolf standing beside his bed packing his shit.
“Going somewhere?” I ask as I lean against the wall.
He glances over his shoulder at me and grins widely.
“Haven’t you heard, boy? I’m getting the fuck out of here tomorrow,” he boasts, bringing his fist to his chest. “Heart’s good as new.”
“Glad to hear,” I say as I draw in a deep breath and push myself off the wall. Reaching into my jacket I feel his eyes on me as I pull the patch from inside my pocket.
“Whatcha got there?” he questions as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. His eyes tell me he knows what I hold in my hand and he also knows the words that follow once I hand him my patch.
“I—”
“Don’t do it, boy,” he warns, cutting me off as he places his hands on his knees and glares back at me. “Besides, I’m not going to be the one who takes that patch from you.”
I’m about to object and give him a list of reasons why I can’t do this anymore but my phone rings. Reaching into my pocket to silence it, it stops ringing on its own and I turn my attention back to Wolf.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask him, rubbing a hand over my head. “I’m sorry, Wolf—”
“Answer your goddamn phone,” he hisses as it rings again, interrupting the conversation.
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.
-Thirty-two-
Rocco
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.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 24
