Dismissing Leo, I turn to Milly and watch as she does a sweep of the house, taking in everything from the pictures on the walls to the shoes in the hallway.
“This is cute,” she patronizes. “You and Bas playing house with Ryder…”
“Milly, you’re wasting your—”
“The cartel is no longer a threat,” she reveals, cutting me off. “Sergio is dead.”
Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head.
“I don’t even know who Sergio is,” I tell her.
“If you would’ve paid attention to anything you would know that Sergio killed Junior, but you never gave a shit about that son, did you?”
“You have got to be kidding me, lady,” I shout furiously. “You might’ve turned your cheek to everything he did to me but that doesn’t erase it. Bas knows the truth. He knows everything now and if you think he’s going to let you charge in here like the Queen of England, you are sadly mistaken.”
She laughs at me.
“Laugh all you want, Milly, but believe me when I say, this is over. You don’t get to control me anymore. Now, I believe you love Ryder and I know he loves you too so, I will continue to let you be a part of his life but under my terms and my terms only.”
“You’ve always been too mouthy for my taste.”
“Bas doesn’t seem to have a problem with it,” I retort.
Mac, one.
Milly, too many to count.
Yet, the look on her face is enough satisfaction for me.
“I don’t imagine he does,” she mutters. “That boy always lost his head around you,” she adds, stepping toward me. “I didn’t do everything I’ve done to walk away from here without my grandson so, I suggest you start packing your bags.”
“No,” I say, standing my ground. “You were a horrible mother to your two sons. You pinned them against one another their whole lives and made them compete for a club I’m not even sure either of them really wanted to be part of, but you forced that life upon them and gave them no other choice. My son is going to have choices. He’s going be his own man, someone who can hold his head high not a man who dies like some animal. Tell me, Milly, how did it feel to wipe your son’s blood from the floor of your beloved clubhouse?
“Shut your mouth,” she shouts.
“Grandma?”
“Ryder, come here,” I say sternly.
“Ryder, baby,” Milly recovers, forcing a smile as she turns to him and opens her arms.
“Ryder,” I warn.
“Give grandma a hug,” she encourages. “I missed you so much.”
“Right now, Ryder,” I command, holding out my hand. He doesn’t take it as he continues to stare at Milly.
“Why were you yelling at my mom?”
“We were just talking.”
“I heard you,” he says. “Uncle Bas wouldn’t like you yelling at her and I don’t like it either.”
“Ryder,” Milly starts. Whatever she was going to say next never comes to fruition as I take my rightful place in front of my son and shield him from her.
“We’re done here,” I tell her.
Just as she opens her mouth to speak, the front door swings open and Leo storms in. Charging straight for me, he pushes me to the side and grabs Ryder.
“What the hell are you doing?” Milly shouts at him. “Get your hands off my grandson.”
Swooping Ryder into his arms, he grabs my hand and looks me straight in the eye.
“We gotta go, and we gotta go right fucking now.”
Before I can ask him, what’s happening, I hear the distinct sound of gunshots being fired and my eyes widen as I reach for Ryder.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Leo presses Ryder’s head to his chest and spins around frantically. Milly reaches around her and draws the gun tucked into the waistband of her pants. I watch in horror as she aims it at the door and shouts at Leo. Tugging my hand, he pulls me toward the coat closet and opens the door. My ears ring as I reach out for my son, but Leo pushes me inside the closet before handing him to me. He tells me to not let him go and orders Ryder to get down on the ground. Setting him down on his feet, Ryder cries and drops to the floor. Leo takes Ryder’s hands and gently places them over his ears before ordering him to close his eyes and count to one thousand. Then he turns to me and reaches into his vest. Pulling out a gun, he hands it to me. Closing my eyes, I will the ringing in my ears to stop and force myself to focus on the instructions he gives.
Then he promises we’ll be okay before he closes the door.
“Five, six, seven…” Ryder cries as I stare at the gun in my hand.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Eight, nine, ten…”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death,” I pray, making the sign of the cross. “Amen,” I rasp.
Lifting the rosary beads from my neck, I kiss the crucifix before tucking it back under my shirt. My gaze moves to the orange prescription bottle resting on top of the mahogany dresser.
A few weeks ago, my psychiatrist prescribed a new medication to treat the fucking crazy living inside my head. Lithium wasn’t working any longer and Vraylar was the newest drug to hit the market. I was warned there might be side effects. Dizziness and fatigue—the typical run of the mill bullshit.
The cunt didn’t say anything about getting so physically ill that my wife would have to peel me off the bathroom floor and wipe the vomit from my mouth.
No, the bitch left that shit out.
She also forgot to mention the uncontrolled movements in my face and hands. Fucking shit had me twitching and the left side of my face started to spasm. It’s one thing to be fucking deranged, it’s another to look like a fucking freak. I’ve always worn my illness like a badge of honor, put it out there for everyone to know.
I gave a name and face to the silent disease so many people struggle with.
Pushed through day after day and battled that bitch of a maker with everything in me.
Every day I wake is another day I win.
It’s also another day closer to the end.
And the end ain’t pretty.
It comes with a padded room and a straightjacket and the day I lose sight of everything I love.
The day I forget my wife’s light is turned off.
It’s looking at my son and daughter and not knowing their names.
It’s living in a world where I don’t remember my son Jack.
I can live with a lot of things. I can live with scrutiny and doubt. I can live with the voices inside my head. What I can’t live with is my wife carrying me to my bed in the middle of the night and my son looking at me with frightened eyes because my left eye won’t stop blinking.
Every man has his limits and those are mine.
Swiping the bottle from the dresser, I make my way into the bathroom and pop off the cap. Turning the bottle upside down, I watch as the pills rain down into the toilet. Before my mind has a chance to change, I flush that shit down and pocket the empty bottle.
You can’t walk with God and hold hands with the Devil, Parrish.
Lifting my eyes, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“Maybe not always,” I tell the voice inside my head. “But today I walk with both.”
I wait for her to reply.
For the confusion to set in but it doesn’t.
Another pardon from the man upstairs.
I think he likes me.
He’s going to fucking despise me after today.
When I first took the gavel, I vowed this club would stand for more than it ever did in the past. With the help of one of the most notorious gangsters this world will ever see, Victor Pastore, we cleaned up the streets of New York. There was none of this Molly shit running through our territory. Oxycodone was a fucking thing only privileg
ed kids got their hands on. And, heroin was found in the slums, not the treelined streets your son or daughter rode their bike down. If you tried to sell drugs on our streets, you got yourself a pair of cement shoes and a one-way ticket to the bottom of the Hudson.
Between the mafia and clubs like mine, no cartel from Mexico or any other fucking country would even consider pushing their shit through these parts. We had the Eastern seaboard on lockdown.
But, the times…they’re changing.
Making my way downstairs, I kiss my wife goodbye and tell her I’ll be home for dinner. Whether that’s true or not, neither of us know. I tousle my son’s hair and tell him to have his glove ready for when I get home and I head out the door with an angel on my shoulder and the Devil in my ear.
Outside my house my brother’s wait with their engines running. None of them are on board with what’s about to go down. All of them are just too fucking scared to call me out on it. They know the clock is ticking, and the men dressed in white coats will soon strip me of my leathers and fit me for a new jacket. Yet still, they let me lead.
They give me my final performance and stand in the shadows while I take my bow.
Today is a date that will go down in history for these guys and for me. It’s the day we piss on our morals and sacrifice our beliefs to save one of our own. For some it’s a lot to digest, for others, for the ones who have sat in front of me and asked for my hand to guide them, they know there is no limit to what I will do for what’s mine.
Bas, his woman, and his child are mine.
Like, Blackie, Pipe, and Riggs are mine.
Like, Stryker, Cobra, Deuce, and Linc are too.
Even that old fuck, Wolf.
My brothers and sisters.
Nieces and nephews.
They’re all mine.
Like my wife and children, they’re all property of Parrish.
That might not mean anything in your world but in mine, it’s the core of our existence.
It’s the destiny that makes us brothers and the legacy that makes us a family.
As we reach the old paper factory in downtown Brooklyn on two wheels, Javier and his men arrive on four. We all pull into the back lot of the building and as they file out of their vans we dismount from our bikes. For a powerful man, Javier is a scrawny little fucker. If I was twenty years younger, I might’ve said fuck this shit and put the little Mexican into a fucking headlock. Choked the life right out of the drug dealing prick. Killed him before he ever had a chance to kill a child with his product.
Pipe walks up beside me and turns his back to them as he speaks in a controlled tone.
“Stryker and Cobra hid the guns inside the machines,” he informs me. Thirty pieces for a meeting with Sergio. He wants more that can be negotiated but for a price and at a later date. No funny business Parrish,” he warns. “I got a kid on the way, I wanna see be born and three others I still got to help raise.”
With a nod, I glance behind me.
“The six of you stay out here,” I say, pointing to Stryker, Cobra, Deuce, Linc, Bas, and Needles.
“You sure you don’t want me to go in there with you? I speak Spanish,” Deuce offers.
“So, does Blackie,” Riggs answers. “These little taco loving motherfuckers aren’t going to get over with their native tongue.”
Bas steps forward and removes his sunglasses. His light eyes meet mine and I reach out, patting my hand against his cheek.
“Thank you,” he says hoarsely.
I don’t want his gratitude.
Or anyone else’s for that matter.
I just want to be remembered when I’m gone.
Not for my sins but for the times I stood tall and defended the sanction of brotherhood.
I don’t got a lot to be proud of. There aren’t many stories to tell my grandkids but, maybe these guys will let them know their pop was a stand-up fella when it came to family.
“Let’s get this over with,” Blackie says, pulling me away from my thoughts. With one more reassuring pat to Bas’ cheek, I turn around and shake the enemies hand. Together we walk with brown to the abandoned factory. As we reach the door, Blackie stops in his tracks and looks at me.
“You sure about this?”
“No turning back now,” I reply, tossing my arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go, Black, the Devil awaits.”
His feet don’t move as he raises his hand and brushes his unruly hair away from his face. Lifting his chin, he meets my gaze.
“Pipe ain’t the only one here who is going to be a father,” he rasps. “Lacey’s pregnant.”
It takes a moment for his words to register.
“One more time, Parrish,” he croaks. “Are you sure about this?”
My baby is having a baby.
I’m going to be a grandpa.
“No, I’m not,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “But it’s too late now.”
Lifting my hand, I pull the rosary beads out from under my shirt. My thumb traces the cross and I look up above, to my real maker and ask for one more pardon.
Just one final hallelujah.
God doesn’t answer.
But guess who does?
You can’t walk with God and hold hands with the Devil, Parrish.
A final fuck you from the biggest cunt of all.
Chapter Thirty
It’s always when I’m on the brink of some life altering change that I hear my father whisper his wisdoms in my ear. This time, as I stand outside the paper factory, in front of a gang of drug dealers, he reminds me there are six ethics to life.
Before you pray, believe.
I believe in my club and the man who leads us.
I believe in property of Parrish.
Before you speak, listen.
I’ve struggled with this one in the past. I assumed the worst before I got the facts.
I didn’t listen.
Before you spend, earn.
I’ve always been an earner and a saver.
Which gives me the liberty to provide for a family I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have.
A family we’re selling our souls to protect.
Before you write, think.
I’m not sure how this one applies to me and seeing how my father wasn’t much of a writer, I think he missed the mark on this one. Still, I’ll keep it in mind and when it’s time to marry Mac, maybe I’ll write my own vows.
Before you quit, try.
This one is big.
It’s the one I’ll tell my own children.
Before you die, live.
That one causes me to glance around at the group of men standing around me.
I don’t imagine any of us have done a ton of living—not the good kind, anyway. It would be a real fucking shame if we all died here today.
“Quit looking at them,” Cobra growls under his breath as he elbows Deuce.
“Fuck these motherfuckers,” Deuce says. “I’m pretty sure they’re talking shit about us.”
Glancing across at them, I note they are huddled together, laughing and pointing at us.
“Who gives a fuck?” Needles says.
“I give a fuck,” Deuce says “If I’m going to go out by a bunch of sombrero wearing motherfuckers, I’m going to get my kicks in.”
“None of them are wearing sombreros,” Stryker points out.
This is true. Dressed like a bunch of street thugs, these guys make us look like a group of choir boys. I don’t say that to Deuce though. He’s itching for a fight and decides to pick one when the leader of the pack answers his phone.
“Oye, cara de perra, ¿es tu madre? Dile que es una maldita mierda,” Deuce shouts.
The second the words leave his lips all hell breaks loose.
“No hay trato, Sin trato, los hombres nos disparan,” the guy on the phone yells.
“What the fuck did you say to him?” Cobra barks as they draw their guns.
Turning to Deuce, I watch his brows knit in confusion as his eyes dart arou
nd the lot.
“What’s happening? What are they saying?” I shout.
“He’s making no sense,” he replies. “He’s saying there is no deal, that our men are shooting at them.”
“Fuck,” Stryker grunts, reaching for his gun.
“Man, look around,” Deuce argues. “There is no one shooting at them. We’re all fucking here. These fucks are crazy.”
“Crazy or not they’re running into the fucking building,” Needles says.
Turning around, I see them charge for the factory. Without hesitation, we draw our weapons and run after them.
Before you die, live.
“No hay trato, el trato esta muerto!!”
Everyone turns to the man screaming in Spanish as he slices his hand across his throat.
“What the fuck is he saying?” Jack shouts.
“Crees que puedes jugar conmigo?”
“No one’s playing you,” Blackie argues surrendering his hands in the air.
“Tenía a mis hombres fuera de la casa en caso de que intentaras alguna mierda. Ahora tengo que de mis mejores ingresos sangrando en la cuneta.”
“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!” Jack demands.
In the time I’ve known him, he has always been so eerily controlled in his manic state. I’ve never seen the fear of God shine from his dark eyes. Javier pulls two guns from their holsters and points one at Jack and one at Blackie.
There is no time for Deuce to translate.
No time for Blackie to reach for his piece.
Gunfire breaks out around us and before we die, we fight to live.
Javier pulls the trigger on both guns.
One shot for the president.
Another for his successor.
Before you die, live.
Chapter Thirty-one
When the cartel came for Junior, Ryder and I weren’t at the clubhouse. We were having dinner at Nana’s house. We never heard the gunfire. Nor did we hear the screams or the cry of agony that comes when a bullet pierces flesh.
If we had maybe we would’ve been better prepared for when they came for us. Instead, we sat huddled together in a closet with a gun I wasn’t equipped to fire. The best I could do for my little boy was shield his body with mine and cover his ears.
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