Uncontrollable Temptations (Tempted #3)(4)

“One-man job, Boss,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and glancing down at the pistol in my hands.

“Why’d you call me here?” Cain asked.

“I need the shit,” I said, lifting my eyes to meet his. He knew what I was asking him but still his eyes questioned mine. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You can’t bring yourself to say it then you ain’t meant to have it,” he retorted.

“The H,” I slurred. “You had your fill, right? Sure you can spare some for a brother in need.”

He stared at me for a moment before taking hold of my arms and turned them over. My gun dropped from my hand as he tugged my sleeves up and exposed my forearms.

“Not a track, not a mark,” he declared, dropping my arms before rolling up his sleeves. “You want this?” He asked angrily, referencing the tracks that trailed up his arms, a reminder of all the years he shot heroine through his veins. “You got a daughter I reckon you haven’t seen in close to a year. You going to let the next time she sees her daddy be at his funeral?”

“I didn’t ask for your input,” I said, through clenched teeth.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he replied. “Wake the fuck up, man. Yeah, it sucks you lost your boy. It’s a pain no man should ever have to live with but you got a little girl who needs her daddy.”

“She has her mama,” I muttered. “My son has no one. He’s in that ground all by himself,” I stated, my voice trailing off and my throat closing.

“So, that’s the plan? You going to join your boy in his grave?”

That was the plan. He knew it and so did I. The thing was I had no problem pulling the trigger on someone else but I was too much of a coward to take my own life. I tried several times but every time I closed my eyes and lifted the gun to my mouth I saw my daughter’s face.

“Look at me, Bulldog,” he whispered. “You’ll never see your boy grow into a man but do you want to miss out on that beautiful girl of yours too? She’s a looker, Jack, going to have bastards like us banging down her door to get a piece of her. With you gone, no one will be there to filter through the shit and find her the one that deserves her heart.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and diverted my eyes to the ceiling. My tears blurred my vision as his words sliced through me, inflicting doubt where I was sure there was none left.





I tapped my knuckles against the table as I reminisced about the man who saved my life. Cain knew he was living on borrowed time that night, knew it was only a matter of time before the drugs caught up with him. All those years of using, swapping dirty needles and what have you, finally caught up with him and he contracted Hepatitis C. Two years later, Cain was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. The doctors gave him six to eight weeks. He survived two.

I was voted in as president of the Satan’s Knights the same day Cain passed.

I leaned back in my chair, reached into my jeans and pulled out a pack of Marlboros as a knock sounded on the door. I lifted my head as I lit my cigarette and tipped my chin to my vice president, Blackie.

Dominic ‘Blackie’ Petra and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He patched into the Satan’s Knights before me, had done more dealings with Cain and he saw a lot of fucked up shit under his regime. He was loyal to his brothers but didn’t agree with the direction we were heading with Cain as our leader. Cain was big on making money, and we were rolling in the dough for a while. We sacrificed our consciences to pay our bills, dealing dope and selling crack to any sucker begging for a fix. Dominic’s wife was a junkie, married three years and he had no fucking idea she was dipping into his product, feeding her habit at his hand.

When Cain passed, the club not only had to decide on a new president, but whether we should re-evaluate the path our club was on. Drugs had made us a lot of money through the years but it cost a lot too. We lost Cain, some of us lost our families and we all lost our dignity.

Cain’s body was barely cold when I propositioned Blackie, promising to clean up the club. I told him we could make it something we could be proud of, to hold our heads up high to be a part of this club. He didn’t hesitate jumping on board and I knew he’d always have my back. He’d be my right-hand and we’d make things right again.

I was diagnosed a manic depressive but I’d be damned if I would let a diagnosis dictate who I was. Sure, some people thought it was a glorified word for crazy and even argued I had no place getting in deep with the Knights, let alone be their leader. I proved all those motherfuckers wrong.

And I’d keep proving motherfuckers wrong.

I was crazy.

But I was in control now. I had a handle on my illness and a good handle on my club.

“Yo,” he said, as he closed the door behind him. “You wanted a word?”

I nodded toward the chair to the right of me and watched as he took his seat.

“Been something on my mind,” I started, flicking my cigarette. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”

“You ready to share?” He asked, reaching for my cigarettes and taking one for himself.

“You know about my visit with Victor Pastore,” I continued.

“I know that Riggs is a permanent fixture at Xonerated because he asked you to protect Bianci,” he replied. “Now, I know we used to be in bed with Victor, played nice and all that shit but the man is locked up. He’ll probably die in jail and we’ve got a guy sitting on his son-in-law making sure not a hair on his pretty little head is harmed. Not really sure where we’re going with this one. This some good Samaritan bullshit or you cut a deal with the don before he traded his designer suits for prison blues?”