Page 19 of Connected

Chapter 7

Joaquin

Victor Pastore made an art of everything he did and eating dinner was no exception. He cut into his steak with precision and savored each bite as though it was his last. I sat there watching him, barely touching my food, wondering how long he had left.

“Quit looking at me like I’m going to drop dead and plant my face in the mashed potatoes,” he grunts, startling me. I lift my head and go to apologize, but his focus isn’t on me.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vic,” Rocco says, drawing his attention back to his piece of filet mignon. “I just can’t believe you’re sick and not doing anything about it,” he continues. “If you taught me anything, it’s to fight until the end and here you are— ”

“If you’re going to playback my words, make sure you have them right, Rocco. I don’t like to be misquoted. Yes, a man should fight until the end, but it depends on what he’s fighting for. I might not be fighting cancer, but I’m fighting for my family, for my wife and my girls, and that’s why I’m here with you.”

He sets his fork and knife down and pushes his plate away from him. His eyes move from Rocco to me and back.

“By now, the both of you have heard what happened at my opening in New York,” he begins and I look toward Rocco, hoping he wasn’t too drunk to remember the conversation we had last week when I informed him of the latest situation to hit the Pastore organization.

Victor was expanding and decided to open a nightclub in Manhattan. His late underboss’s son had recently found himself in some trouble after his mom passed, and in true Victor fashion, he took Michael Valente in, brought him back to New York, and hooked him up as the manager of the club.

For weeks, Victor and Anthony Bianci fitted Mike for his new role and on opening night, just as he was settling into life with the mob, gunfire broke out. I never got the logistics of everything because, again, just an associate, but word on the street was a mob war was brewing. Victor had his daughters go into hiding while he took care of the situation and seeing as he’s here and not in New York fucking people up, I’m gonna say he handled it.

“Last I heard, you had a lot on your plate, now you’re here,” Rocco says. “I’m gonna assume that’s a good sign.”

“Never assume anything, Rocco, that’s what got your father pumped full of lead,” Victor retorts, smoothing a hand over his silk tie before continuing. “As I told you, the situation you found yourself in last night was no coincidence. However, you made me believe it was you that handled our little problem, but that wasn’t the case, was it?”

Victor’s gaze slices to me.

“You’re sharp, Joaquin, it’s a shame your mother didn’t get knocked up by one of our kind. You would’ve been perfect.”

I swallow, brushing off the insult and keep my face expressionless. I don’t know where he’s going with any of this but the tension in the room is multiplied and I can sense Rocco is just as nervous as I am. I want to ask him about Pablo and if we should prepare ourselves for any retaliation, but something tells me whacking the drug dealer is nothing compared to what Victor has in store for the two of us, so I keep my mouth shut.

Victor lifts a hand, signaling for one of the bodyguards positioned in the corner of the room. I watch as the beast makes his way to the boss, reaching into his pocket as if this was all rehearsed. He hands him a thick envelope before retreating to his corner.

“You should’ve known what was going on in the club,” he tells Rocco. “You should’ve anticipated Pablo before you even knew his fucking name, but you didn’t. You let Joaquin handle it and when I questioned you, you played it off like you had everything under control.”

“Uncle Vic— ”

“Shut up, Rocco. You don’t speak unless I ask a question and I haven’t asked you shit.”

Rocco clenches his fists on top of the table.

“Sir, if I may—” my words get cut off as Victor’s gaze slices toward me.

“You may not,” he grinds out. “I know this idiot has been too busy fucking anything with a skirt and that you’re the one cleaning up mess after mess around here, but that ends now, here at this table,” he roars, slamming his fist against the grain of the wood before turning to Rocco. “You’re coming back to New York with me. I want you to understand something, dear nephew . . . you are not a choice, you’re my last fucking resort. You are what happens when a dying man loves his children more than anything in this fucking world. You are what happens when a powerful man sacrifices everything he’s built so long after he’s gone, his daughters can live happily and without fearing the consequences of their father’s lifestyle. You are what the underworld gets when all the greats are gone.”

My gaze shoots to Rocco and I watch as he straightens in his chair, his eyes focused on his uncle. So long as I live, I won’t forget the look of fear in his eyes. For as much as he’s told himself this was the life he wanted, he suddenly doesn’t look so sure.

“By this time on Monday, you will be a made man,” Victor continues. “Do I think you deserve the honor? No,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “And if I don’t think you do, you best believe every man from here to Chicago won’t either, but as long as I’m alive, they’ll deal with it.”

“And when you’re not?” Rocco brazenly replies. “You’ve got stage four cancer. How much time does that give me before I wind up like my old man?”

“That depends on you,” Victor says evenly.

Rocco roughly threads his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends.

“What do you want from me?” he growls.

“I want you to be the man your father never was,” Victor replies, leaning forward. “I want the world to know Rocco Spinelli as they knew Victor Pastore. I want them to fear you first and love you last.” He pauses, cocking his head to the side. “Do you see where this is going, yet?”

I don’t know if Rocco does, but I sure as fuck do. He ain’t here to make Rocco a made man, he’s here to make him the fucking boss.

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