“Joaquin,” he calls.
“Nothing touches Anthony,” I reply. “I got it.”
Seemingly satisfied with my response, he breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to Rocco.
“I told you a man fights for what is important until he draws his last breath, well, I got a couple of months and my fight begins with me turning myself in to the authorities.”
“This is crazy,” Rocco hisses.
“This is what you do when your daughter shoots a man and kills him,” Victor fires back. “Now, pull yourself together, boy, and pay attention. Once I’m taken in, you’re going to need to relocate to New York permanently. My crew will keep things moving on the streets and I’ll be running things from the inside for as long as I can, that gives us time to prepare you. You will shadow Artie Donofrio and visit me twice a week in jail, that’s where you’ll get your education.”
“What about Temptations and the properties here?” Rocco asks.
Victor diverts his attention to me.
“You will oversee Miami for the time being,” he says, pausing to reach for the forgotten envelope. He stares at it for a beat before handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“When I die, you’ll need to come back to New York. A man named Primo will take over for you here, giving you, Rocco, and my Gracie a monthly cut of everything.”
I nod, lifting the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“That’s a birth certificate and a bloodwork report that states your mother is Sicilian. Her maiden name is Riccardi and your grandfather was born in Sardinia. They changed their surname when they came over here to flee the ties they had to the Beluzzi family.”
My brows knit together with confusion as I stare at him.
“None of that is true.”
“Wrong. From this day forward, that’s the only fucking truth you know,” he looks to Rocco. “That envelope holds your ammunition to change the rules, but keep in mind, the mob don’t like change. It runs on the Sicilian values of our ancestors. That being said, society and politics aren’t the same. Guiliani did a number on us and the Albanians are moving in, they’re taking over and without change, the Italian mafia is going to die. Drugs are going to flood the streets and every common criminal who knocks off a bank is going think they’re connected. Pizzerias from Brooklyn to Staten Island will be fronts for those cocksuckers and they’ll get the unions too. The longshoremen will be theirs and trade will be gone. For fuck’s sake, they got reality shows on this shit now. Be the change, Rocco.”
I struggle to pay attention to everything he’s saying, but I’m stuck on the fact he’s given Rocco authority to essentially change the dynamic of the mob. I gotta wonder if he wasn’t dying, if he’d still be inclined to do this shit.
“They’re not going to like it and you’re gonna catch a lot of heat. Might even catch a bullet or two, but you do what you gotta do because having this guy at your side will keep you alive,” he says, pointing to me. “Joaquin is the only way you survive this. Now, there’s one more thing . . . one more gift I’m going to give you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rocco mutters. “What’s that?”
“Jack Parrish.”
“Who?”
“You’ll meet him,” Victor assures. He pauses for a second and his lips quirk. “God, he’s going to fucking hate you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rocco mumbles.
“Rocco, look at me,” Victor orders.
“He’s going to hate you, but he’s going to have your back and that’s fucking golden. It’s a bridge you don’t ever fucking burn and don’t you forget that.”
“Parrish is the messiah, I get it.”
“Oh, son, you have no fucking idea,” Victor retorts shaking his head. A sigh escapes him, and he leans back in his chair. “Now, are we clear because I’d like to get back to the cut of beef on my plate?”
Only an experienced man like Victor can drop a bomb like that and still have an appetite. The rest of us remain with our stomachs in knots and our heads racing with questions. I suppose time will only tell our fate, but I can’t ignore the now.
“Victor, about last night . . . ”
