His electric-blue eyes shine; the idea that my casino and hotel complex is close to completion and all the money that’ll be rolling in excites him to no end. Still, seeing all my hard work in front of me like this is straight-up astounding. It was dirty business getting the Tribal Council on board to partner with me, but when one of the older board members died, there was a perfect spot open for the taking. The family managed to pressure them to grant me a seat within a year of my going to prison—with less bloodshed than we initially thought. Once that bridge was crossed, I let the Council know of my intention to start a gaming operation. Luckily, with a few well-placed and heavy bribes, my current predicament of being in prison while creating a gaming operation was dropped into the basket of sovereign immunity under the Tribal Nation.
I studied everything about building and development. Internet access could have been an issue, but my attorney had it worked out that the warden himself would monitor my emails. With nothing to hide, having him look through my electronic correspondence was the least of my worries. Every single detail of this business had to be perfectly constructed—and it is. I won’t allow ignorance of any law getting between me and my goals.
Negotiating with the builders and architects was difficult considering the circumstances, but I managed. People came to the prison weekly, and meetings were held on bolted-down plastic tables in the far corner of the cafeteria. Deals were brokered, and slowly, I built a team of trustworthy and hardworking professionals. Concurrently, my lawyers worked on my behalf to obtain all construction and building permits, approvals, and bank loans.
The Tribal Council came to me on the first Monday of every other month, flying across the country so we could work in tandem. It started out as an angry and awkward partnership due to the fact that Borignone muscle was used to force me at their table. But it didn’t take long for them to realize I wasn’t there to screw them over. I took my birthright seriously and expected the Milestone to advance and better the Tribe’s day-to-day lives; I made sure the Council understood that.
As the work took shape, the parts within me that were disjointed pulled together. The creativity. The business acumen. All my studies in school. Street smarts. Negotiation. My days of fragmentation were over and I’m proud as hell of what I’ve accomplished.
Taking our respective seats across from each other, I stare at the light shining off the corner facets of the crystal and glass dining table. My mind wanders into an idea for the front desk in the main hotel’s lobby.
My father shuffles in his chair. “I set up a work area in your bedroom; monitors with large screens have been outfitted.”
“Tomorrow morning I’ll move to my own place.” No way in hell I’d stay here willingly. A few weeks ago, I had my lawyer set up a rental for me in midtown; the lease begins tomorrow.
“What’s wrong with this fuckin’ house?” His voice is aggressive as he stares me down.
I squint my eyes, taking note of his overly exaggerated response. “I just want my space.” My voice is calm, meant to take the situation down a notch.
He hands me a file with hostility. I force my hands to steady as I open it. It’s the descriptions and numbers for the gaming floors, which I spent years meticulously planning out: 5,000 slot machines, 250 table games, as well as a race book.
I clear my throat, switching my gear to work-mode. “Economically, we should be able to employ roughly seven thousand locals. I’ve done the math— we’ll have about $1.03 billion in revenue per year. Concerts and boxing events will also bring in further employment and money.”
“Excellent,” his voice is enthusiastic. “I think the more locals we employ, the better the goodwill with the state.”
“A lot of people will move here specifically for the casino and hotel management positions. I’ve been toying with the idea of subsidized housing for the employees who live off the rez. We have a great team in place, so building that out shouldn’t be complicated.”
He looks at me in annoyed confusion. “Why not just build out a few apartment complexes and let the workers rent directly from us? Why should I spend my money helping the damn employees?” he scoffs.
I hesitate, not wanting to anger him, but still needing to get my point across. “That idea may mean more money in the short-term, but I think throwing a bone to the workers is smarter. For one, we’ll have higher caliber employees to choose from during hiring, because working here will be more desirable—cheaper housing is obviously a real benefit. And, it would mean better employee retention. People won’t want to leave their jobs when they’ve got a solid and cheap place to live and a short commute.”
My father looks pointedly over my shoulder and I turn my head, following his gaze. An entire spread of food sits on the white-marble kitchen island. I stand and walk over, noticing it’s from Pastrami Queen, my favorite deli in New York City.
“I was wondering when you’d realize I put food out for you. I’m not a total fuck, ya know,” he grunts.
I bristle, because that’s exactly what he’s become.
Letting my eyes take in what’s before me, there are over-stuffed turkey and roast beef sandwiches, a mountain of fries, and three variations of their famous meat-stuffed knishes. Shit, he remembered the fried onion. A bunch of Diet Cokes sit in a bucket of ice. Even though I already ate, the growling in my stomach starts up again.
Grabbing a glass plate full of food and a cold can of soda, I settle back to the table. Before I take a bite, I notice how quiet it is. I haven’t heard this kind of silence in years.
“Vincent,” he sits up. “I know you’re itching to get out of the city to run the business. But never forget where everything comes from.” Carefully folding his hands together, he rests them on the table. “The money. The ability to start up. You wanna take the family into billions territory? Trust me—no one is complaining. But when we call on you to come back, you better run home. You’re still my—”
I lift my right hand in the air, stopping him. “I was gonna wait to discuss this with you, but I guess now you’ve brought it up, then here we go. Once I’m out west, I’ll take a decent cut and make sure to clean all the family money. I’ll manage the Milestone to the best of my ability to make you rich. But the answer is a straight no about coming back to New York and sitting at the table.”
He stares at me in disbelief. “The fuck you talking about? You don’t go against my rule! I don’t give a shit how angry you are about the BB working with us. You don’t get to just wa—"
“I’m not sitting as your right hand,” I tell him straight. “The family’s changed since I went into lockup. And what’s going on now isn’t okay with me.”
Turning my head toward the window, I notice a new large fountain installed; two huge pink and white marble angels embrace while water spills from their lips. Grimacing from the utter excess, I shake my head.
He slams his hand down on the table to get my attention, but I barely flinch. “You owe me your life, son. In more ways than you can fuckin’ count. I groomed you for this role.” He bares his teeth. “You don’t get to just choose. You are the prince of this operation. Everyone knows who you are, especially after prison. Your days of hiding in school, not being marked—that’s what’s over,” he huffs, pointing his finger at me. “You’re home. And you belong. To. Me,” he punctuates every word like a final decree.
“You can’t control me,” I steadily reply, maintaining a clear thought process. “I’m in the middle of building one of the largest casino complexes on the West Coast. No one else in the family has the aptitude for it. You want the money I’ll bring in? You want a spot for your dirty cash? I’m your best option. Hell, I’m your only option,” I reply in all honesty. “But the only way I’m doing this is if I take a step back and become a business partner with no other family ties. Otherwise—end my life. But good luck running the Milestone without me.”
He balls his hand into fists. “You think you’re the boss of me, making fuckin’ choices? You think you can
tell me what to do?” His face turns redder by the second. “I groomed you for this, Vincent. I. Made. You.”
“You’re working with untrustworthy lunatics—they’re dirty. I told you that day in prison—I’ll never work alongside the Boss Brotherhood,” I growl.
He starts to laugh maniacally. “You’ll regret this decision.” His voice turns so low, I have to strain my ears to hear. “No one, and I mean no one, says no to Antonio Borignone.”
The words “or else” are unspoken but dangle in the air like sharpened knives.
My chair grates against the floor as I stand. Walking over to the sink, I drop my plate inside before turning to walk away.
“Vincent,” he calls out. I stop in my tracks. “You will not escape your destiny. I choose who comes and who goes. Who will live and who will die. Me.” His jaw is clenched.
I shake my head at him. “I’d rather get taken in a body bag than live this life anymore. What you stand for won’t be my way. I’m back, but I’m not the man I used to be. I won’t eat your shit just because you plated it.” I pause to gauge his reaction. His darkened eyes are trained on me. “I will continue to sit as the president of the Milestone as a business partner to you—only. No more family connection. I’m out.”
His face breaks into a liquid slow smile full of threat. I choose to ignore it, turning away and leaving the kitchen to walk up another two flights to my old bedroom. Truth? I’m not afraid. I know my father loves money above all things. If for no other reason than to keep the cash coming in, he’ll keep me alive. He’s angry now, but as he gets richer, he’ll calm down.
The amount of energy coursing through me is off the charts; I need to run. I open my bedroom door, pausing in the doorway. Peeking my head inside like an intruder, I note everything’s the same. Still, it feels like another man’s space. And metaphorically, it is.
My ornately carved wooden four-poster bed sits in the center of the room, covered in tightly tucked-in navy sheets. The red and blue Persian rug that Enzo bought for my sixteenth birthday covers the floor. A large antique bureau sits on the right corner by the window. On the opposite corner is a full computer system, just like he said.
I hesitantly step into the room and open my drawers to find fresh clothes. Pulling out a pair of black jersey shorts and a T-shirt, I press my nose to the small pile in my hands, shutting my eyes to take a deep inhale. The smell of fresh clothes? Heaven. Quickly changing, I run down to the windowless basement gym and alternate between running and lifting weights until I’m drained.
Dragging myself back upstairs, I tear off my sweat-drenched clothes and drop them in a pile on the bathroom floor before realizing the housekeeper must have come up while I was working out; four fresh towels sit beside the marble sink. I make a mental note to thank whoever’s doing the cleaning.
Eagerly, I turn on the shower, fixing the dial so the water is hot. Before stepping in, I take a look in the mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve really seen myself.
My six-foot-two frame is wider now—two hours a day of working out has its benefits. I’m solid muscle, more so than ever before; my six-pack has turned into an eight. My right arm is inked with the Borignone mafia insignia, Eve’s name etched within the tribal design. I’ll turn this tatt into something else. A sleeve, maybe. I glance down at my hip, touching the five-inch scar raised above my skin from a shiv. My mind roams back to the day in the yard when I was first approached by those Neo-Nazi fucks—the Boss Brotherhood.
I walk outside with my men behind me, the weather hot and stale. Like the chow hall, the entire yard is separated by race. Crow, president of the BB, saunters over to us; two of his boys with their heads shaved to the skin stand behind him like soldiers, ready to do his bidding. As the controllers of the tattoo shops and poker tables—as well as enforcing segregation—they’re often referred to as the old white guard.
I make a mental note as to how different the family is from the other factions here. We live presentably and cloak ourselves in legitimacy. The BB, though? They’ve got violent crime tatted all over them. In fact, the more obvious, the better off they think they are. Their style is extreme and caricature-like, so much so it’s easy to dismiss them as absurd. But if I ignored them, I’d be making a mistake. Within these walls, the BB is a highly powerful group.
Crow lifts his hand in greeting. “Yo. Borignone. Let’s go for a walk, eh?” He strokes his chin. I’d put him in his mid-thirties, although he could be younger. A hard life can age a man. A bold black swastika takes residence in the center of his pale throat next to the number 666. He sickens me.
I turn around, letting the guys know I’m going before giving Crow a small nod in agreement. We step away, walking toward the north side of the fence, facing C-Block.
“I think we could do some good shit together, Borignone,” he starts, puffing out his chest.
I inwardly laugh. Over my dead body would I ever align with these pieces of shit.
He pivots to face me, standing ramrod straight. “How I see it is simple. Here on the inside, you and I are small in numbers, but strong. We can align. On the outside, you guys run guns up the West Coast. The BB would like to help you with that. Inside and out, we can benefit each other.”
I keep my face passive and thoughtful as if I’m considering his proposal. Even though the answer is fuck-no, there’s no use in creating enemies. “The family doesn’t do work with outsiders. We’ve got our own routes and our own men. But I’ll mention it to Antonio for you,” I reply politically.
He squints his eyes, angered by my noncommittal response. “Well, I hear you can do more, eh? Or are you not as important as they’re sayin’?” He moves to his tiptoes, obviously trying to get a rise out of me. I stand strong and silent, unmoving.
He gets within a few inches of my face. “You’re the next king of the Borignone mafia. I may be living in prison, but I’m not under a fuckin’ rock.” His teeth are clenched as he speaks.
Silence, like heavy tar, sits between us before he lets out a slow and heavy chuckle. “Oh, I see. Daddy doesn’t let you make any decisions, huh?” He points a skinny finger directly to my chest. “You’re weak. Sent here to become a man, is that right?” He stares me up and down, laughing.
There are some truths in prison. The first one is the vulnerable get stomped. I’ve got to show this fucker and everyone who’s watching I’m not to be messed with. I already know it’s critical to fight as viciously as I can the first time I get into a confrontation. The best thing for me to do is act like I’m nothing but a sheep. Let him come at me and then, I’ll show him what I can do.
He clenches his right fist. He must be holding a weapon. “You’re a pansy, Borignone? Ready to take it up the ass, maybe? If that’s what you like, I got boys I can arrange who’d love that GQ mug of yours. Maybe I’ll even take a turn.” He puts his hands down the front of his pants, grabbing his dick.
I take quick stock of his build; he’s close to six feet and looks decently fit. I’m a few inches bigger, though. I purposely cower, trying to look scared. Meanwhile, I scan my surroundings to see if his crew is going to join him. I can feel a charge in the air. People seem to notice our tension and alerts have gone up among the prisoners. It’s only a matter of time before the guards realize something’s up. I don’t have long to make this happen.
The animal inside me starts to pound as I keep my body steady, the beast within me ready to break free. I must maintain outward calm so he doesn’t see my readiness.
I frown in mock fear. “Look, man,” I start, darting my eyes around as if I’m scared. “I’m not gonna fight you. Let’s just chill.” I adjust my footing, waiting for him to jump.
He comes at me quickly, jamming a sharp object into my lower abdominals. It slices straight through my clothes and into my skin. He thinks he can hurt me? He has no idea who he’s dealing with. I’m Vincent fucking Borignone! I see nothing but the blood I’m ready to spill.
Like a man possessed, I go after him, punching him
so hard in the face I can hear a CRACK—shattering of bones. I grab his skinny throat with my opposite hand, squeezing until his lips turn blue. This time, I’m the one laughing as I smash the side of his head over and over again.
A swarm of guards surrounds us, but I easily pull back. My work is done. He coughs hard before moaning in agony, water and blood dripping from his nose and eyes. His face is obviously broken and dislocated, the angle of his jaw harshly shifted from a few minutes ago. I’m smiling wide with adrenaline, staring at my blue shirt now stained black with blood.
I spit on the ground, relieved to have solidified my place in this hellhole. I’ve made it clear I’m not afraid of anyone or anything. As the guards cuff me, I glare at every man ballsy enough to stare, telling them with my eyes: I will kill whoever stands in my way. There’s only one alpha here—me.
The guards walk me to the infirmary and shackle me to the bed like the prisoner I am. After the doctor stitches my wound to stop the bleeding, I get sent underground to a blackened cell aptly named The Hole.
I sit in a concrete corner, shaking and sweating. Fever. How did my life land me here? My mind begins to struggle with the brutality of my hands. My father, blue eyes flashing as he locks me in the closet as punishment for disobedience. Faces of the men I’ve killed in the name of honor and allegiance. Piles of books in the school library. Professors lecturing to note-taking students. The man I always wanted to be, but couldn’t reach...I’m so far away from him. Freedom, in the true sense of the word, will never belong to me—at least not so long as I represent the Borignone mafia. I’m staring at nothing but darkness, farther from redemption than I ever was.
On my knees, I pitch forward. Eve, oh God, she makes me whole. With her, I rise. I thought coming to prison was the right thing to do. The honorable thing. What a delusion I lived under. There’s nothing here but death and degradation. I whisper prayers into the cell, begging for redemption as I roll in and out of consciousness.
Redemption (Vincent and Eve #3) Page 2
