As the car pulled off again, Miles and Letty darted from the alleyway and raced down Broad Street with Knox still on their tail. The black Cadillac had turned onto the opposite side of Broad Street and was now traveling south. The driver had rolled down his window now. Letty’s mouth dropped when she saw the man’s face. The tears didn’t begin to flow from her eyes until she saw the passenger.
“I don’t believe this!” Letty screamed. She ran as fast as she could beside Miles, barely able to keep up. “It’s Vendetta Vic and the Butcher. Why the fuck are they after us, Miles?”
“Don’t worry about that, just run, Letty!” Miles screamed. The fear was apparent in his voice, though he was trying not to let it show for her own benefit.
Letty was only seventeen, and scared out of her mind. Miles was holding his composure a little better, though at eighteen years of age, Miles was nothing more than a kid, himself. Miles could see the lights of Broad and Snyder fast approaching. Letty’s knuckles blanched as she clasped onto him, running for dear life. The Cadillac screeched up Broad Street, fast approaching on them. Another shot was fired. It hit the ground just inches from where Letty stood.
“Miles! Listen to me!” Knox screamed. It was a terrible blood-curdling cry.
But as Miles turned around to face his brother, the one man that Miles had grown to love and trust, he realized that his trust was misplaced. Three officers on foot raced up the sidewalk behind Knox, shouted at Miles to drop his weapon.
“I don’t have a weapon!” Miles shouted with a perplexed look on his face.
“He didn’t do anything!” Letty shouted.
Out of the corner of his eye, Miles watched as the black Cadillac rolled off with not even a second glance from the officers.
“I’m sorry, Miles,” Knox said with a look of guilt on his face.
“Yeah, you are sorry,” Miles said in a voice of total disgust.
As the officers rushed past Knox, they cuffed Miles, Mirandizing him, leaving Letty in a state of shock.
“What am I being arrested for?” Miles asked with a dark edge to his voice.
“The murder of Giancarlo Rigatti,” one of the officers said as they led Miles to the patrol car that sat idle in the shoulder of Broad Street.
“What?” Miles spat. “I had nothing to do with that!”
“Fifteen witnesses, Capadonno. Let’s go.”
“Miles!” Letty screamed.
Giving his girl a glance back, Miles gave Letty a cool wink.
“It’ll be all right, Letty. You’ll see. Everything will be all right. Wait for my letter.”
Quickly, Miles flicked the keys to his car to Letty, as she ran off, fear ripping through her body.
“Miles!” Knox called out.
Turning his glare in Knox’s direction, Miles spat, “Don’t ever speak my name again. You’re dead to me!”
As Miles was loaded in the back of the squad car, he grit his teeth, hell bound and determined to gain revenge on the men that had framed him. As the patrol car sped off, Miles watched as the black car slinked off Broad Street, rolling east down Passyunk Avenue.
CHAPTER ONE
October 5, 2015
Franklin Correctional Facility
Philadelphia, PA
Seventeen Years Later
“BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CAN tell you everything you need to know about New Jersey in a song. For that matter, the dude from Asbury Park, New Jersey, can tell you everything you need to know about me in a song, too. I walk a Thunder Road. I was Born in the U.S.A. I’m On Fire and baby, I was Born to Run. I got a Hungry Heart and I’ve been Dancing in the Dark. These feet have pounded the Streets of Philadelphia and I’ve stirred up trouble in Atlantic City. I’m Working on a Dream from the confines of a six by eight cell.”
Miles Capadonno spoke with certainty. There was no trace of insecurity in his deep voice or his big as life stance. Standing at six feet, six inches tall, with a long black beard, and intricate tattoos covering every inch of his arms and back, Miles was certainly a force to be reckoned with. Every word he spoke was gospel. He was commanding and knew how to hold an audience. When a man like Miles Capadonno talked, you sure as shit listened.
“He’s called the boss for a reason. What other singer has the balls to write a song about a South Philly mobster? I haven’t heard one of the Boss’s songs in years, but I remember the sermon he preached loud and clear. Being in prison doesn’t afford me some of the things that you probably take for granted.”
Miles leaned in closer to the bars of his cell.
“Yeah, you heard me. Prison. The clink. A six by eight cell. For the last seventeen years, I’ve called the Franklin Correctional Facility in Center City Philadelphia my home. What? You have something you wanna say? I see what’s happening here… Your face, it just changed. Was that a change of opinion? Was it judgement? Before you slam your gavel on me, you might want to know the facts first.”