Dominic ‘Blackie’ Petra and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He patched into the Satan’s Knights before me, had done more dealings with Cain and he saw a lot of fucked up shit under his regime. He was loyal to his brothers but didn’t agree with the direction we were heading with Cain as our leader. Cain was big on making money, and we were rolling in the dough for a while. We sacrificed our consciences to pay our bills, dealing dope and selling crack to any sucker begging for a fix. Dominic’s wife was a junkie, married three years and he had no fucking idea she was dipping into his product, feeding her habit at his hand.
When Cain passed, the club not only had to decide on a new president, but whether we should re-evaluate the path our club was on. Drugs had made us a lot of money through the years but it cost a lot too. We lost Cain, some of us lost our families and we all lost our dignity.
Cain’s body was barely cold when I propositioned Blackie, promising to clean up the club. I told him we could make it something we could be proud of, to hold our heads up high to be a part of this club. He didn’t hesitate jumping on board and I knew he’d always have my back. He’d be my right-hand and we’d make things right again.
I was diagnosed a manic depressive but I’d be damned if I would let a diagnosis dictate who I was. Sure, some people thought it was a glorified word for crazy and even argued I had no place getting in deep with the Knights, let alone be their leader. I proved all those motherfuckers wrong.
And I’d keep proving motherfuckers wrong.
I was crazy.
But I was in control now. I had a handle on my illness and a good handle on my club.
“Yo,” he said, as he closed the door behind him. “You wanted a word?”
I nodded toward the chair to the right of me and watched as he took his seat.
“Been something on my mind,” I started, flicking my cigarette. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”
“You ready to share?” He asked, reaching for my cigarettes and taking one for himself.
“You know about my visit with Victor Pastore,” I continued.
“I know that Riggs is a permanent fixture at Xonerated because he asked you to protect Bianci,” he replied. “Now, I know we used to be in bed with Victor, played nice and all that shit but the man is locked up. He’ll probably die in jail and we’ve got a guy sitting on his son-in-law making sure not a hair on his pretty little head is harmed. Not really sure where we’re going with this one. This some good Samaritan bullshit or you cut a deal with the don before he traded his designer suits for prison blues?”
“Vic came to me a couple of months ago with a dilemma. The Fed’s were investigating him. They discovered a body and were putting together a case on him, probably gathering enough shit to put half the organization away. He sent me Bianci…” I continued, only for him to cut me off.
“I remember,” he clipped, leaning forward, eyes set on mine. “You going to tell me where this is going?”
“Danny was the one working the case,” I paused, running my fingers through my hair. It didn’t matter that my brother was dead for months now—the nagging pain never vanished from my gut. I learned a long time ago there was no time limit on grief. I never got over the loss of my son and I wouldn’t get over my brother being murdered. We may not have been close—I may have resented him for not being there for me when Jack Jr. died but he was still my brother. He was still the kid I looked after and shared half my life with. I made peace with my son’s death because it was out of my control. It took a long time and a lot of therapy for me heal.
Danny’s death was different. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an unfortunate occurrence. It was murder. There was no excuse valid enough for him to be in the ground. I could avenge his death. I could make the bastard who took his life pay because he knew what he was doing. Jimmy Gold was in control when he killed my brother.
“I had Bianci in my pocket. He would let me handle Danny my way. All I had to do was give him my word that the case would die. I could’ve made that happen. I would’ve done it but I was robbed of the chance.”
“Because of the fire,” Blackie said pointedly. “Man, if this is about his house going up in smoke and you putting that blame on yourself…”
“This is about Victor Pastore handing me his underboss on a silver platter,” I interrupted.
Blackie’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. I turned around and pulled the manila envelope from the shelf and slid it across the table. He reached for the envelope, keeping his eyes on mine as he opened it and pulled out the contents. He dropped his gaze to the photographs of my brother’s corpse and I looked away. Those images were embedded in my brain, when I closed my eyes, night after night, they haunted me. His body charred, his finger gone.
“Christ,” he hissed, turning the photos over so they were face down.
“Riggs sits outside Xonerated because Victor gave me the proof I needed to kill Jimmy Gold.”
“Whoa, hold it,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m all about an eye for an eye, you know that, but what you’re talking about is a whole different ball game.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Blackie. No one is going to change it either,” I declared.
“Then why you telling me this?”