Table of Contents
Dear Reader,
© Copyright 2018 Janine Infante Bosco
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
Other Books by Janine Infante Bosco
About the Author
Dear Reader,
Here we are again, staring at another book, wondering about the newest Knight and anticipating the love story between another couple. These Satan’s Knight Novels allow me to continue to tell the stories of the men we already have met and fell in love with and gives me the opportunity to share fresh new stories with all of you. Stories that center more around the couple than catching the latest enemy of our beloved Knights.
So, like Layla and Pipe, this story gears more towards Bas and Mac’s story than the looming threat of danger.
Also, like From the Ruins, and quite frankly every book I’ve written since I started this ride, I’ve had my back against the wall while writing it, which means so have the characters.
But like our fearless leader, Jack, the story and I prevail.
It’s that #PropertyofParrish thing.
That need to bring everything together and keep this ride moving to the end of the line.
That being said, the wait is over!
Rev your engines, you’re about to enter the unapologetic world of the Satan’s Knights.
The crass talking bikers with no fucking filter are back!
The motherfucks are going to fly, Bas has a filthy mouth and no filter.
The grammar won’t be on point and that’s because you are now riding with the Satan’s Knights and the men wearing the reaper on their backs aren’t scholars, they’re street guys who are rough around the edges…
Their words are just as rough as the filthy promises they make.
Now, that we’ve had this talk, it’s time for the drinking game.
However, I fear you might get alcohol poisoning with this one so, grab your bottle of choice and drink responsibly.
Take two Tylenol in the morning and write your review.
Remember, every ending is a new beginning and as long you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
Now, shut the fuck up.
Church is in session.
See you on the other side,
Janine
© Copyright 2018 Janine Infante Bosco
The Devil Don’t Sleep by Janine Infante Bosco
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by Janine Infante Bosco
Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco
Cover Designer: JB's Cover Obsession Design
Model: Joe Adams (Talent agent: PTS - Pathways Talent Services)
Photographer: FuriousFotog
ISBN: 9781983257629
To Joyce
Here’s to good health and a speedy recovery,
this one’s for you.
Prologue
Numbers.
The second you enter the world covered in your mother’s blood they appear. From the digits on the clock marking the time you’re born to the inches on the ruler measuring your height. All your firsts are logged, and your age is determined in months until it becomes a math equation your old man can’t figure out and your mother reluctantly starts to count your time on earth by years.
Those years go by, more numbers are thrown at you. Dollars and cents start to play a role and you quickly learn money makes the world go around. You wake up, chase that green and if you’re smart you get yourself a nine to five gig with a steady paycheck. If you’re born to a family of criminals, you follow in their footsteps and eventually you trade your name for a series of numbers.
“Inmate seven, one, six, five, zero,” the guard calls from behind me. Turning my head an inch, I glance over my shoulder and peer at him through the iron bars. “Let’s go,” he adds, reaching for the keyring dangling from his uniform.
Idly, I watch him turn the key and open the cell. When I don’t move he raises an eyebrow and steps inside the six by eight-foot room I’ve spent the last five years calling home. His eyes dart around the confined space before settling back on me.
“Why aren’t you packed?”
“Took what I need,” I reply.
My mind wanders to the old photograph I shoved in the front pocket of my prison blues earlier and I feel the corners of my mouth lift. The days of staring at a tattered piece of paper are over. In a few hours, I’ll be reunited with Mac and I’ll get the real deal. I’ll get to stare into the prettiest pair of eyes I ever did see. Eyes a photograph never did much justice for. Her sweet southern drawl will fill my ears as I wrap her wild, golden brown curls around my fingers. Once I’m sure she’s real and I won’t wake up only to learn it was another dream, I’ll touch every inch of her. I’ll reacquaint myself with her taste and bury myself deep inside her.
Yeah, that’s fuck of a lot better than a grainy photograph taken a bunch of years ago in the bed of my Ford F-150.
Still, that picture’s been good to me. It’s gotten me through the long days and hellish nights. It’s kept my memories intact and my fist firmly wrapped around my cock. Served its purpose is what it did and now it’ll retire to the inside pocket of my leather vest.
My grin widens as I glance at the guard.
“Burn the rest,” I tell him before stepping out of the cell.
Without looking back, I wait for him to join me and then I take my final trek down the cell block. The smile remains as I enter the discharge area, realizing every step I take brings me closer to Mac and all the shit that brought me to McCreary Federal Prison, the years wasted, it don’t mean shit anymore.
I sign my papers, change into my street clothes and step into the lace less Timberland boots I wore the day they I surrendered. Following the guard down the hall, I open the envelope containing my personal belongings and shake my silver rings into the palm of my hand before crumbling the envelope and tossing it in the trash. Reaching the metal door, I fit the rings to my fingers and take the final steps leading me out of Hell. Touching my boots to the gravel, I cup my hands over my eyes shielding them from the blinding sun as I look past the barbed wired fence for my ride.
Spotting Mooney leaning against a cage, I bite back the disappointment that Mac didn’t show and remind myself prison proved to be too much for her. We all got our limits and seeing her man locked away like some caged animals was Mac’s. It kept her from visiting these last 6 months
of my sentence, from returning my letters and receiving my calls. My brother said it was the goodbyes that got to her. He said it took her a week to recover from every visit and days to drag herself out of bed after a phone call. At first it pissed me off. Then, night after night, I’d stare at her picture and order myself to ease up. Mac didn’t ask for this life, I dragged her into it. Took her sweetness, tainted her innocence and shoved her into the wild. Forced her to throw caution to the wind and ride recklessly like she was born to.
Deciding she was subjected to enough of my shit, I put my faith in my family. My blood and my club. I trusted them to look after Mac, to make sure she was protected and cared for financially. In the beginning, Mac was there every month and never missed a visit. She also made sure my commissary was always full and when the guards dropped the mail, there was always an envelope from her. Other than Mac, there weren’t many who came to see me. Junior’s visits were few and far between. He was too busy kissing ass and trying to make a name for himself, to bother with his brother. Sometimes, my mother would come up but, she was never a fan of Mac’s which meant we didn’t see eye to eye. According to my mother, Mac was too prissy to survive club life and on her last visit, she made that perfectly clear.
“The sooner you realize that pussy ain’t made of gold, the better off you’ll be,” she sneered.
After that I removed her name from my visitors list and I haven’t heard from her since. Not a phone call or a letter, not even a message passed by way of a brother. Nothing.
“Jesus fuck, what do they feed you in there?” Mooney barks, bringing my attention back to the aging man I’ve known all my life. Tossing his cigarette on the gravel, he laces his thumbs through his belt loops and pulls his sagging jeans high as he strides toward me. Reaching me, he cups my shoulder and grins through his bushy gray beard.
“You’re three times the size you were when you went in.,” he boasts.
It’s true. Five years incarcerated with nothing but weights and push-ups to pass the time will add mass to a motherfucker. I bulked up in the can and it’ll only benefit me on the streets.
“What’s the matter kid, you ain’t got no love for Uncle Mooney? I was only good enough to change your diapers when you were a little shit, that it?”
The scent of worn leather and motor oil wafts past my nose and a sense of nostalgia washes over me, reminding me of my old man. Cole Turner, or more commonly known as Rack, Mooney and my pops were tight back in the day and when my father was killed, Mooney took it the hardest. In truth, since his death, Mooney’s been more of a father figure to me and Junior than the successor of the club, Crank, ever tried to be.
Smiling at him, I bring him into an embrace and pat his back.
“It’s good to see you too, Mooney,” I tell him before pulling away. “I was just hoping the person picking me up, had a killer rack and wicked pair of legs,” I add, tossing him a wink. “You, my friend, don’t have neither.”
His smile fades as he turns to the truck and slaps his hand against the hood.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he mutters, looking back at me. “But, I got four wheels and a ticket out of this shithole. What do you say?”
“I say, take me home.”
“Where the grass is green, but the Devil don’t sleep,” he says rounding the front of the truck. He makes his way behind the wheel as I climb into the passenger seat. Staring out the window, I bid a final farewell to prison and hope the cocksuckers I left behind don’t rot.
The ride back to La Grange seems to take forever, mainly because I’m anxious to be reunited with my girl. Mooney makes small talk and I pretend I’m paying attention, that I’m not thinking of all the ways I’m going to fuck Mac.
Before she stopped coming to see me, I told her to start looking for apartments. Something we were supposed to do before I took the plea deal that sent us into purgatory for five years. I hope she found something, I hope she didn’t let the last six months sway her because I got big plans for us. When a man spends five years apart from the only woman he’s ever loved, it puts things in perspective. The trivial shit you thought mattered, don’t mean shit and you realize life is too short not to live it happily.
I wasted too much time staring at a picture when I could’ve been waking up every morning staring at the real thing. Well, I’m done wasting time. From this day forward, it’s me and Mac. I’m going to ask her to marry me, take her to City Hall right after she says yes and put a ring on her finger forever. Mac wants a house full of kids so, we should probably get cracking on that too.
By the time Mooney pulls into the compound, I’m ready to jump out of the truck. However, I rein myself back, in fear of looking like a pussy in front of my brothers.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I say as I reach for the door handle.
Before I have the chance to open the door, he hits the locks and stops me in my tracks.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” he growls.
“No offense, Mooney, but you’re not the person I want to see right now,” I reply, pressing the unlock button on the arm rest. Without giving him a chance to trap me again, I swing open the door and slide out.
“Don’t be a fool,” he calls out. “Time don’t stand still on the outside, Bas. The Devil don’t sleep, not for no one.”
Brushing off his warning, I crossed the lot and pull open the door to the clubhouse. The place was just as I left it. The paint on the walls was still chipped and the scent of stale cigarette smoke still filled the air. And in the center of the room stood the girl I left behind. Her back was toward me, but I’d know that ass anywhere.
“Mac,” I rasp. “Baby, I’m home.”
Whatever she was holding fell to the ground and she slowly started to turn around. Savoring the moment, I let my eyes travel the length of her body, starting from her feet. As my gaze slowly works its way higher, I notice the swell of her belly and my heart stops.
It was as if someone tore a page from one of my dreams and brought it to life.
Then clarity started to settle in.
Mac was pregnant.
I was in prison rotting away and Mac was busy getting herself knocked up. Suddenly a pair of hands wrap around her waist and cover her belly, laying claim to the child growing inside her.
A child that isn’t mine.
Lifting my eyes, I look past Mac and into the eyes of my brother.
My flesh and blood brother was having a baby with my girl.
With my Mac.
This was no dream, this was a fucking nightmare.
Chapter One
Dead on my feet, I flex my fingers around the leather handle of my duffel bag and lift my eyes taking in the never-ending staircase. The thought of dragging my aching body up five flights of stairs makes me cringe and curse the day I decided to rent an apartment in the projects. To be fair, I had no fucking idea what I was getting myself into. The move from Albany to Brooklyn, wasn’t expected and after Needles and I decided to buy our way into the Brooklyn charter of the Satan’s Knights MC, we were both tapped out. The rent was cheap enough to ignore the junkies lining the hallways and the drug deals in the courtyard. No one fucked with my bike and so, while my living arrangements might not be ideal, they serve their purpose and provide me with a place to hang my cut after being on the road for days.
Reaching the landing, I turn the corner and stare down the length of the hallway. That’s when I spot her. Sitting on the dirty linoleum outside my door, she draws her knees to her chest and wraps her bony arms around them. Pausing, I watch as she lays her cheek against her knee and closes her eyes.
Fuck me.
A groan rumbles from my throat and escapes my lips as I reach for my keys and, make my way toward the roadblock parked in front my door. Normally coming home to a waiting Dori wouldn’t bother me. Most nights I’m the one knocking on her door for a fix. Some people drown their sorrows in watered-down whiskey and the cheap therapy of a bartender, others look for a needle and a
viable vein. Me, I’m a firm believer that pussy heals all. We all got our vices and fucking is mine.
“Dori,” I call.
She doesn’t reply, causing me to drop the duffle bag with a thud. Rolling my neck, I try to muster the patience to deal with her. Taking another look at her, I wonder if she passed out. Dori likes her drugs. Give her a line of coke and a dick and she’s content.
“You said you’d call,” she finally replies.
So, she’s not fucked up.
She’s just crazy.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, scratching the beard lining my jaw. “I swear to God, I don’t need this shit, Dori.”
Especially not after the week I’ve had. Like I said, relocating to Brooklyn wasn’t something I had planned. After discovering Rush, the president of my charter, was working closely with Vladimir Yankovich, a Russian gangster who got his rocks off on snatching little girls off the streets, the decision was made. Fucking with innocent children was off limits. Needles and I offered to join forces with the man gunning for Yankovich, Jack Parrish, the self-proclaimed Bulldog and president of the Satan’s Knights Brooklyn charter.
After hitting one dead end after another since we parked our asses in the city that never sleeps, we finally nailed that motherfucker to the cross. Everything in this world has a price, even vengeance, and I paid that expense by sacrificing my ethics. I pissed on my morals and compromised my beliefs without blinking an eye.
If my old man was alive today, he would’ve probably killed me. Instead, he’s rollin’ in his grave asking himself the same questions I’ve asked myself since I left Purchase, New York. Since I watched the state take control of two small children and their mother. The same two kids, I suggested my club use as bait to bring down Yankovich. Innocent children who clung to me like I was some sort of fucking hero when they were seconds away from suffering the same fate as their cunt of a father.
I can still feel the little girl in my arms, holding onto my neck as she buried her face against my chest. I can hear her mother thank me for saving them and the boy, well, his cries still ring in my ears, drowning out the sounds of his father’s death.
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