Riding The Edge, страница 1
When I first began writing, I never expected to achieve as much as I have. Like most of you know, this was check on my bucket list that turned into a dream come true. Once I realized, this was more than another wonky idea, I sought out a logo to represent my brand. What I should’ve done was shorted the name or take a pen name, but I thought it was cool as fuck to see my name on the cover of a book. Seventeen books later, I’ve got carpals tunnel. Anyway, as I was deciding on a logo, I also learned I needed a tag line. Something catchy that represented my work.
I was still discovering myself as an author, but I knew for certain any book I wrote needed to be realistic and so, weaving reality into romance became my tag line. Over the years, I have prided myself in delivering truth. Sometimes that truth is ugly, sometimes it’s beautiful. There have been plenty of times when I’ve smiled and times when I’ve cried. Times when I had to step away from the keyboard because the truth was too much and times when I gave you my own truths.
This book is not my truth, but it is the truth of millions of women and my only hope is that any survivor or woman battling breast cancer reading this book, finds solace in my words.
You are not alone.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
Maria was an already established character that I felt was the perfect match for the man we all have grown to love, and their story is my absolute favorite.
You will cry.
You will laugh.
You will fall in love.
And, yes you will curse me.
This isn’t just about two people finding love in the middle of their life. This is a story about strength, courage and family.
It’s that #PropertyofParrish thing.
Now, without further ado, it’s time to keep this ride moving and for us to enter the unapologetic world of the Satan’s Knights one more time.
The crass talking bikers with no fucking filter are back!
The motherfucks are going to fly.
The grammar won’t be on point and that’s because you are now riding with the Satan’s Knights and the men wearing the reaper aren’t scholars, they’re street guys who are rough around the edges…
Their words are just as rough as the filthy promises they make.
Ordinarily, this would be the place where I give you the rules of our drinking game. Instead of grabbing the booze, grab the tissues and hold onto your hearts.
Remember, every ending is a new beginning and as long you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
Now, shut the fuck up.
Church is in session.
See you on the other side,
To the strongest woman I know, the woman who keeps us all on our toes.
Keep fighting, Grandma.
©Copyright All Rights Reserved
©Copyright All Rights Reserved
Riding the Edge
(A Satan’s Knights Novel)
Janine Infante Bosco
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by Janine Infante Bosco
Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco
Cover Design by: JB’s Book Cover Obsession Design
Cover Model: Darrin James Dedmon / Michelle Mcloed
Photographer: R plus M Photography
Edited/Proofread by: Back Door Editing
You can’t kill history. You can’t fucking shoot it with a bullet and watch it recede to a memory. Can’t torch it and watch it dissolve to ash either. Especially a fucking history laced with deceit. That shit stands the test of time and outlives the men who write it. If you don’t believe me, all you gotta do is take a long, hard look at the members of Satan’s Knights MC and you’ll find history living amongst every man with a reaper on his back. However, the secrets and lies, those cancerous fucks, have been exclusive to only two brothers—me and Lincoln Brandt.
To the club, Linc has been known as one of the four lost nomads I stumbled upon on my crusade to save our dying charter. No one knew his father was the former president of our charter or that, moments before his death, Cain asked me to watch over the kid.
Thinking back, I probably shouldn’t have been so eager to grant his dying wish. Maybe if I had asked questions I might’ve pieced together the puzzle earlier. I would’ve realized he wasn’t asking me to make sure the kid didn’t long for anything but rather I protect him from the repercussions of his father’s sins. Instead, I agreed to Cain’s request and held his hand as he took his final breath. I guess part of me never thought the kid would actually need me.
I was wrong.
By the time the call came from Linc’s mother, I had forgotten the kid existed. But being a man of my word, I made my way down south and when he opened the door to the trailer I was caught off guard by the striking resemblance, he beared to his father. The little boy I saw for a split second in a grainy photograph had become a young man with a tortured soul. Having just witnessed the murder of his young girlfriend and running from a gambling debt, he was lost and at the end of his rope. I think what really drew me to him was the tragedy reflected in his eyes. I feared he’d wind up like his old man…alone, with a needle in his arm and poison in his veins. Having three sons of my own, I couldn’t let that happen. It didn’t matter his father was a cunt who left our club in shambles; he was still an innocent kid in need.
Though, I didn’t think it was safe for Linc to come to Brooklyn with me. Cain had made a lot of enemies and most of them were still itching to retaliate. On top of that, Cain’s successor, Jack Parrish, was mentally ill and a loose fucking cannon. I feared the revelation of Linc’s identity would send our new president over the edge—a liability our club couldn’t afford.
Therefore, I set him up in a North Carolina charter where my sister was shacking up with the president. Joanne was a sel
Of course, the son of a bitch fell for my niece.
He also fell right into his old man’s shoes and became a member of the club.
Haunted by the blood of one girl, he couldn’t stand the thought of something possibly happening to Kelly too and so, during one of my visits he decided he was no longer going to park his bike in North Carolina and headed home to the concrete jungle.
The secret of his identity hasn’t been the only lie burning inside of me and earlier today I decided it was time for me to unleash the truth.
Slamming the meat mallet against the wood, my attention was diverted to the head of the table—to where Jack sat, looking ragged. On top of battling his failing mind, he was also struggling to keep us all alive. We were at war with Vladimir Yankovich, a Russian gangster who not only was in the business of trafficking drugs but also abducting young girls. He’s been ruthless in his vendetta against the club and until recently, he was a fucking phantom.
The closer we got to executing an attack, the more concerned I became. We didn’t have a solid plan and I couldn’t shake the thought we were setting ourselves up for disaster. Digging up old skeletons soon had me piecing together a nightmare and revealing a truth that would not only bring our club to its knees but also commit Jack Parrish to a fucking mental institution.
“It’s been a long night for everyone,” he started, turning his attention to Blackie and Pipe. “Got our VP and our Sargent-at-Arms back at our table so, I’d call it a success.”
He was referencing the detective who had a hard-on for Blackie’s late wife. Apparently, the son of a bitch didn’t think we had enough on our plates and decided he wanted to fuck with us too. Not only did the bastard threaten to dig up Blackie’s wife, which sent our vice president off the grid, but, he also pulled a gun on Pipe’s new woman.
With that mess playing front and center and the club on lockdown, there was no time to share what I had discovered.
“We need God,” Jack said.
“I told you going to that place was a bad idea,” Riggs hissed.
The man was losing his mind, there was no reason to rob him of his faith too especially when it was the only thing keeping him somewhat sane.
“Shut it, Riggs,” I warned, turning my attention back to Jack.
“What place?” Blackie questioned.
“We went to church. Real church and not this thing,” Riggs supplied, waving a hand in the air. “There was a priest and chalice, not Parrish and a mallet.”
“Enough,” Jack demanded in a controlled voice. “I know what I mean.”
“Maybe you can explain it to the rest of us then,” Pipe suggested.
“Before any of you assholes ask me if I’ve taken my medication, the answer is yes,” Jack began, pulling the orange prescription bottle out of his cut as evidence. “But, the Lithium isn’t giving me the answers anymore.”
Swallowing, I looked away and bit my tongue. All of us knew the Lithium hadn’t been working for some time and Jack was living on borrowed time but no one wanted to admit that truth either.
Suddenly a phone rang, drawing our attention to the other end of the table. We all watched as Stryker ignored the call and apologized to Jack for the interruption.
“We shouldn’t have to do that,” Jack said. “What if it’s your fiancé? What if she needs something from you? None of you should have to turn your phones off to hear me preach, especially when the sermon hasn’t changed.”
“It’s fine,” Stryker replied carefully. His eyes moved to me and I gave a curt nod. I’m not sure when everyone began to question Jack and started looking to me for validation. “Continue with what you were saying. The Lithium isn’t working.”
“Maybe it’s time for a different dosage,” Blackie offered.
“Answer the phone, Stryker. Tell that girl you love her because you never know when the time might come that you can’t,” Jack ordered methodically.
Stryker’s eyes came back to me, but I didn’t give him the assurance he needed. Blackie had caught the exchange between us and took the liberty away from me.
“Do as your president says,” Blackie ordered.
Lifting the phone, Stryker took a deep breath and accepted the call.
In an instant, the weary expression left his face as he turned to Jack with a grim look on his face. “Whoa, calm down,” he told his girl. Moving the phone from his ear, he pointed to the television in the far corner of the garage. The room went still, and dread churned in the pit of my gut. “Turn the television on.”
Staring at Jack, I watched him bow his head and close his eyes. As Cobra stood to turn the television on, I stared at Jack and watched him slowly bow his head in defeat. He didn’t have to watch the news to know we were fucked.
Neither did I.
The television reported the new boss of the Pastore crime family and our fucking ticket to Yankovich, Rocco Spinelli, was shot last night. A plan that was fucked to begin with, became dead and we took a step further from ending the nightmare.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, turning to Blackie. “How is that we’re just hearing about this?”
“Has anyone tried to call Bianci?” he replied.
“I haven’t heard from Anthony in two days. Nor have I heard from Rocco,” Jack said, opening his eyes and lifting his head. “Riggs?”
“I’ve got nothing,” he replied. “But, if something was wrong with Anthony, Adrianna wouldn’t hesitate to contact me.”
“Adrianna doesn’t know her husband has found his way into the mob again,” Jack reminded him. “She thinks her husband is teaching troubled kids how to box and the trips he’s been taking back and forth to Chicago are business trips,” he added, rubbing his temples.
Listening to them go back and forth about Anthony Bianci, the former enforcer who refused to give up the life and made it his duty to lend a helping hand to the club any chance he got, I realized this was no coincidence. Anthony was helping us get to Yankovich by calling in a favor with one of Victor Pastore’s former associates. Yankovich must’ve caught wind of our plan and decided to eliminate Rocco. The house cards were about to come tumbling down around us and it was time for me to speak the truth.
“Jack,” I called.
“Not now, Wolf,” Jack interjected. “We need to locate Bianci,” he said turning to Riggs. “And as his brother-in-law, I’m expecting you to fucking find him.”
“Yeah,” Riggs muttered, pushing out his chair. “I’m on it.”
“No one knows where Rocco is,” Stryker added solemnly. “Gina and Celeste have called every hospital in the city and he hasn't been admitted to any of them.”
“He was shot in front of Lincoln Center, how does no one know where he is?” Pipe shouted.
“Are we assuming this is Yankovich or do we think this is mob thing?” Bas questioned.
“We can’t assume anything because we don’t know where the fuck Yankovich is!” Jack roared, slamming his fist against the table.
“Actually,” Needles began. “We finally got a hit on those addresses. One of them is an abandoned warehouse, and another was an apartment complex in Danbury Connecticut.”
“I thought the addresses were linked to a zip code in New York,” I said.
“Only one,” Bas revealed, meeting my gaze. “A mansion that we believe belongs to Yankovich himself.”
“Why are we just hearing about this?” Blackie sneered.
“You didn’t hear anything because you were missing, and the fucking lunatic cop took Pipe before we got the chance to tell anyone.”
“We need God,” Jack repeated, bringing my eyes back to him.
God wouldn’t save him or any of us for that matter. The club needed the truth and Jack, well, he needed all the anti-depressants in all the land to be able to handle that truth.
Turning my gaze to Linc, I drew in a deep breath.
“Jack, there’s something I need to say,” I demanded, hanging my head.
The room went quiet as I slowly lifted my head and met Jack’s weary gaze. Since we were kids, we’ve weathered every fucking storm together. I’ve spared him from cruelty and did my best to always be the brother who made sense of his darkest days. That being said, I never wanted to be the man who delivered him to his maker and yet, in the end, that’s exactly what I would do.
“We’ve got company,” Stryker announced, pulling his gun from the waistband of his pants. Aiming the barrel toward the lot, he glanced over his shoulder. “You all might want to do the same,” he ground out.
Turning around, I noticed the three sleek town cars and watched as they came to a screeching halt in front of the garage. Thinking quick, we all pushed back our chairs and drew our weapons, preparing for yet another ambush.
“We need God,” Jack rasped.
Before anyone else could say a word, a body was thrown from the back of one of the cars and the Chicago mobster Bianci linked us up with came into view. Artie D’Onofrio’s Italian loafers clicked against the pavement as he lifted Anthony’s battered body from the ground. Struggling against the gangster, Anthony did his best to stand tall. Lifting his chin, blood seeped from the gashes on his face and his blue eyes met Jack’s.
“What the fuck is this?” Jack roared, pointing his gun at Artie.
Surrounded by ten men, Artie lifted the barrel of his own gun to Bianci’s temple.
“You motherfuckers played the wrong man,” Artie sneered.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack fired back.
“You got ten seconds to tell me why you were using my organization as a pawn in this game you’re playing with Yankovich or I’m going to splatter this motherfucker’s brains across your garage.”
Immediately, I knew Artie knew the same truth as I did and instead of letting it fester he demanded it be told.
“We told you what Yankovich did, how he’s been fucking with us and you agreed to be the mule,” Blackie hollered.
“You left out your involvement in his organization and I want to know why!”