Page 752 of The Tempted

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It takes a special breed to kill. For me, there has always been a ritual I take part in before I commit the act. In the early days, Val and I would get pissed drunk on a bottle of Dewar’s before we took our guns to the streets. When I became the boss my hands rarely ever got dirty, but I had trust issues, never willing to leave room for error, I always took care of the bodies. I’d drive seven hours to the middle of nowhere, blasting Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ with a shovel beside me and a corpse in the trunk of my Cadillac.

The ritual changed as I got older. I took to God before I slit a throat or pulled the trigger; I prayed for the unsuspecting soul that would meet his maker and while I was at it I threw in an Our Father for myself. It was a crap shoot, really, asking our Heavenly Father to relieve me of all the crimes I committed and those I had yet to, but still, if there was a chance he did then why not take it?

It was selfish of me and in some sense, I felt like a coward.

You see, I didn’t think twice before murdering someone. I did it with ease and with confidence. Hell, I did it with grace, each hit becoming more of a work of art than the one before. Even as I dug the holes and covered the bodies with the Earth’s soil I had no regrets. I was cocky and arrogant in murder just as I was in everything else. It wasn’t until I went home with blood on my hands and saw Grace asleep in our bed that I questioned my actions.

I wasn’t afraid of dying; it came with the power, with the suit and the gun. I was afraid of leaving this earth and never seeing my Gracie again. Saint Peter will wait for my beautiful bride, not I, my ass was headed straight to the depths of Hell.

There was no way my sweet, innocent Gracie would ever meet Satan.

Grace and I were over. We ended when my bride of thirty years kissed me one final time and walked out of that visitor’s room in Otisville. It ended when my shackled legs shuffled onto the bus that dragged my ass here.

There is nothing left to my existence, nothing to look forward to, all that’s left is the last hit. I had a vision for my last kill, a premeditated hit that would be just as dramatic as the first one I ever committed. I contemplated reenacting my first hit but my connections were gone and getting my hands on a gun and a bottle of bleach was goddamn impossible.

Along with my connections, my body failed me. I was running out of time and didn’t have time to sit on the G-Man. Once that motherfucker’s eyes find mine he’ll know exactly what’s about to go down and if I don’t strike first, then I’ll be the one in a body bag by the end of the day.

And I’m not going out like that.

Revenge is a beast that’s been living inside of me since I watched the life fade from Val’s eyes, his body riddled with bullets, each one meant for me. It was finally time for me to lay down my life for his memory, time for me to give the brothers of the Satan’s Knights the peace they so badly craved. It was time to avenge the deaths caused by the G-Man running his product through mine and Jack’s streets.

It was time for the last hit.

This body of mine may be weak but it does not know defeat.

I will paint the world one last picture; give them one last piece of Victor Pastore. Everyone will learn what happens to a man when he has nothing left to live for. The Victor Pastore you know, the man the newspapers love to write about is about to resurrect the hitman within him, the soldier before the mob boss. I hope the media is ready because this prison is going to become uncontrollable as I get reckless and this vendetta turns lethal.

There is no sharpened bolt under my cot, no guard to hand me a bible and turn his back as I kill yet another. I’m running on nothing but adrenaline and instinct.

Upon my arrival the correctional officers removed the shackles wrapped around my ankles and brought me into the main building to process my paperwork and complete my transfer. I was then escorted to the medical building where they would take my vitals, learn I was a lost cause and send me to my new cell.

My lungs were closing in on me and I gasped for breath.

“The doctor should be here any minute,” the young officer said.

I lift my eyes to him, taking in the helpless expression he adorned and the way he fidgeted, glancing over his shoulder to see if the doctor was on his way.

“What’s the matter, son,” I struggle. “This your first time watching a man die?”

He chose not to answer and instead wiped the sweat from his brow, making me wonder if he was a rookie.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No, sir, should I?”

My lips quirk at his response.

“No, I don’t suppose you should,” I replied, struggling to breathe and bowing my head to focus on the linoleum floor.

The less you know, the better. The simpler this is for me.

Something shiny caught my eye causing me to narrow my eyes and focus on the silver circle that glistened against the black and white checkered flooring.

“Mr. Pastore?” I hear a soft voice say.

My eyes travel the sound of my name and find the face of a woman. She has innocent brown eyes that speak to me telling me she couldn’t be any more than thirty years old. Her brown hair is pulled back from her face, tied into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She smiles softly, cocking her head to the side as she averts her eyes back to my chart and her top teeth dig into her lower lip. I couldn’t peel my eyes from her, studying her features that were so like both my daughters but when her eyes find mine again, I decide she reminds me more of Adrianna than she did Nicole. It was the dullness reflected in her eyes that decided for me. I spent three years staring into similar eyes after Anthony went to prison. This doctor, like my daughter, had someone rip the sparkle right out of her eyes.

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