Page 71 of Straightened Out

“The way I see it, nothing has to change where your club and our organization is concerned. We all want the same thing—to be the only people who run these streets and keep them clean. I’m here to ensure that remains intact and to give you my word I will raise hell and bury any motherfucker who pollutes my city with shit.”

The more I say it, the more convincing my delivery sounds to my own ears.

“Your city,” Parrish repeats, rolling a toothpick between his lips.

“My city,” I confirm.

New York City is mine now and the sooner everyone—including myself—accepts that, the better off we’ll be. I take a step closer to the table and ignore the men who quickly react to my advance by jumping out of their seats.

They can pull their guns on me, shoot me dead, but before they decorate this pigsty they call home, they’re gonna hear what I came to say and they’re going to hear me loud and fucking clear.

“It could be ours, Parrish. We can take this fucking town and turn it into something no one saw coming. We can have people bowing and praying at our feet, but you’ve got to give me the same respect you gave Victor. I’m not looking to step on your toes, man. I’m looking for a partnership.”

A fucking coalition.

An army that has my back.

I don’t say any of that, though.

“I’m starting out small,” I continue. It’s a blatant lie. There’s nothing small about the operation I’m running, but a man never gives his full hand. “It’s going to take time to gain the trust and respect of every organization.” I know that, but I’m determined.

To do things my way.

To change the fucking underworld.

I don’t tell him any of that either.

“I want a partnership, Parrish, but I won’t be at your mercy.”

A bold statement, but one that’s true.

I remove my hand from my pants pocket and reach into my jacket. Blackie reaches too—for his gun. I don’t flinch. I don’t fucking blink. With the barrel of his gun pointed to my head, I produce a business card and lay it flat against the table. My eyes lock with Jack’s as I push the card toward him.

“Your call, Parrish, you can either sit back and watch me rise to the top or the Satan’s Knights can ride beside me. That’s what you people do, right? Ride to your death?” I pull my hand back and shrug my shoulders. “The choice is yours.”

Be the change.

And take no shit.

Chapter 23

Rocco Spinelli

Ileft Anthony Bianci in the clubhouse and walked out of the gated compound like there wasn’t a price tag connected to my head. They say the hardest walk a man can make is the one he makes alone, but it’s that walk that makes him stronger. It’s the walk that makes him finally recognize his capabilities.

Once I made my way onto the street, I called Johnny and Richie to pick me up. They were back in Staten Island and I had ordered Bruno to stay with Violet. With time to kill, I walked the streets of downtown Brooklyn. A block up I spotted a bunch of kids playing stickball in the schoolyard. I leaned against the fence and watched as they destroyed my favorite childhood game.

After five agonizing minutes, I rounded the gate and made my way toward the children. I don’t know what propelled me to take the ball from the kid who was pitching, but the next thing I knew I was playing stickball with a dozen kids, teaching them the fundamentals of the game. By the time Johnny and Richie arrived, I was sweating. The kids loved it, though, and I promised if I was ever in the neighborhood again, I’d swing by and play with them. Before I left the schoolyard, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crisp fifty. I handed it to the pitcher whose position I robbed and instructed him to buy everyone ice cream.

Then I was on my way.

Playing with those kids was all the boost I needed to conquer my next hurdle and I instructed Johnny to drive me to Flora’s restaurant. I thought about stopping off to get her flowers or some shit equivalent to an olive branch but then I remembered my conversation with Violet and decided Flora would be lucky if I let her keep her fucking hands.

Besides, the olive branch business was a total bust.

My cannolis and cookies are rotting in Bianci’s truck and I’m out forty bucks.

I push open the door to the restaurant and bypass the waitress who offers to seat me, making my way into the kitchen. Flora is too busy rolling the dough for her empanadas to notice me, so I clear my throat. Her eyes—so similar to her daughter’s—find me and she scowls.

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