Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy) Read online

  Did he do it?

  I have no fucking idea.

  He had an airtight plan in place to make the man who hurt my son pay, though. A solid alibi for all involved, a variety of silencers and two other prospects, Bash and Nico, parked on the corner ready to dispose of the body. And we weren’t digging holes or tying cinderblocks to Pete’s feet. No, Parrish had a connection with a crematorium in Brooklyn and after Pete got what was coming to him, the plan was for Bash and Nico to sweep in and chop up the body, pack it away in a couple of duffel bags and take it to be burned. I’d go home to my apartment at Grace’s—in case my parole officer decided to check in and Parrish would go home to his wife and son. Morning would come and I’d go to the zoo with Connor and Charlotte, and Parrish would go visit his granddaughter, Jacqueline.

  Pete would be nothing but a pile of dust.

  He’d never be able to hurt my son again or any other child for that matter.

  A little part of me hopes Parrish followed through with everything, but the rest of me don’t give a fuck. You see, something clicked for me when I held that gun in my hands. I realized I didn’t need revenge. It would never make me whole or bring peace to Connor. But back when I was in prison and helpless, it’s all I craved. All I knew. I wasn’t a father who had bonded with his son yet and Charlotte was just a fantasy.

  All that changed after I was released. Me and Connor are making memories, we’re making plans and Charlotte…she’s finally mine.

  Or she would’ve been if she hadn’t found the fucking gun.

  My gaze wanders back to the house and my throat goes tight.

  When life goes good for a person, it’s easy to forget all the shit they had to trudge through to get there. I forgot all the restless nights I spent tossing and turning on a cot, wondering if my son was okay, wishing and praying for a second chance. Those were some of the darkest days of my life and the only reason I made it through was because Blackie took pity on me. He paved the path for my second chance, and I swore his generosity wouldn’t go in vain, that I’d do my part to make it back home to my boy. I stayed out of trouble and for the most part, I listened to Schwartz because there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel.

  I accumulated more photographs of Connor, but I always went back to that torn one and every night before I closed my eyes, I vowed to spend every goddamn day taking away his pain and making sure no one hurt him.

  Not his fucking uncle.

  Not me.

  No one.

  I also promised myself I’d bring back that smile of his and we did that—me and Charlotte, we got him to smile again.

  A wave of defeat washes over me as I continue to stare at the closed door.

  Inside that house, we made him feel safe.

  We made him feel loved…so fucking loved.

  Now, Charlotte wants me to go home, but my home is here with her and my son. I suppose I could sit on this porch all day, every day and wait for her to come to her senses, but I’m not a patient man and I’d likely just make more of a mess of things. That hopeless feeling I get when the world knocks me down would take over and I fear I’d become that desperate man I used to be. The same man who had no regard for anyone but himself.

  So, maybe it’s best I go for now.

  Turning my attention back to Schwartz, I swallow and watch as he pockets the gun.

  “Parrish is going to want that back,” I mutter, before stepping around him.

  Without another glance in his direction, I make my way down the stairs and pat back pockets, searching for my keys. The Harley Parrish gave me the day I got released sits on the curb, all shiny like it just came out of the showroom.

  “Hold up,” Schwartz calls from behind me. “Are you saying this isn’t yours?”

  I pause and silently weigh my options. I could walk away and let him wonder if I did it, or I can be honest with the son of a bitch. Technically, he’s still my lawyer and anything I say to him is safe under the attorney/client privilege, but maybe Charlotte’s listening. Maybe if she hears me tell him it’s not mine, she’ll open the door.

  It’s a crapshoot, but it’s all I got.

  Without turning around, I continue down the walkway and answer him.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Tell Charlotte, I’ll be by in the morning.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says from behind me.

  Reaching the curb, I throw one leg over my bike and peer back at him before turning the key.

  “I don’t really give a fuck what you think. I promised my son I’d take him to the zoo, and I don’t break promises.”

  “So, you only break the promises you make to her, is that it?”

  He’s a good lawyer, but did I mention he’s also a fucking prick?

  -Nine-

  Bishop

  Past

  “Two visits in a forty-eight-hour span has to be some kind of record for you, Bishop,” the guard transferring me to the visitor’s room comments. It’s not the same douchebag from the other day or the guy who threatened to toss me in the hole last night. His name is Foley, and he’s one of the few officers around here not looking for an inmate to grease his palm.

  “Word is you got yourself a fancy lawyer, and he requested an emergency visit,” he continues as he glances at me from the corner of his eye.

  “Yeah, it appears that way,” I reply thoughtfully as I crack my knuckles. I suppose that’s the reason for the influx of visits too. Greenberg only came to report bad news, never really to discuss a plan of action, but you get what you pay for and the city isn’t in the business of hiring the best to defend the lowest of low.

  We reach the visitor’s room and I watch as Foley raps his fist against the door. The buzzer sounds, automatically unlocking the door but before Foley can hand me over to the next guard, he turns to look at me. Always on the defense, ready to go to war with anyone, I raise an eyebrow expectantly and flex my fingers at my sides.

  “I hope it works out,” he says sincerely.

  My fingers go still, and I lose the chip on my shoulders.

  Like I said, Foley’s alright.

  With a nod, I quietly thank him before stepping inside the crowded visitor’s room. My eyes scan the tables, instantly searching for a mass of wild hair and thick-framed glasses, something I’m sure I’ll spend the better part of the night berating myself for later. However, instead of finding the brunette that’s got me twisted, I spot Schwartz sitting next to an older man who has graced the front page of the newspaper’s countless times. Keeping my eyes on the notorious criminal, Jack Parrish, I start for the table. As I draw closer, I note how different he looks in person. The media paints him as some invincible madman who is a threat to not only society but himself as well.

  They don’t tell you he’s human, that he hurts and bleeds just like the rest of us or that somewhere inside that worn body of his, there’s a heart.

  Maybe it’s because he’s not donning the infamous leather vest with the Satan’s Knights insignia or perhaps it’s the compassion I recognize in his eyes as they meet mine, but standing this close to him, Jack Parrish doesn’t look all that much like the villain.

  In fact, he’s looking a whole lot like a hero.

  A hero who I suppose is here to meet his charity case.

  I turn my attention to Schwartz, calling his name before I bring my eyes back to Parrish. Something I can’t quite place flashes in those dark irises and the compassion that was there just a second ago flees. I start to think maybe I imagined it, that it was pity I saw in the depths of those cold dark eyes of his. He drags his gaze over me, sizing me up and I square my shoulders under his scrutiny.

  It’s my only defense.

  As a man who’s done his share of time on the streets, I like to think I can handle myself, that there aren’t too many people who can intimidate me, but as he morphs into the animal everyone says he is, I can say for certain Jack Parrish is one scary motherfucker. It’s true, he can go from zero to si
xty in the blink of an eye and there is this darkness to him that speaks from the deepest part of his soul. It tells the story of a man who has seen death, destruction, and mayhem.

  A man who has raged against the dying light.

  The world counted him out, and he stood tall amongst the ashes of a broken mind.

  He’s a fucking enigma and a goddamn warrior.

  “Mr. Parrish, isn’t it?” I say, extending my hand.

  Glancing at my hand like it’s a foreign object, he contemplates his next move. When a couple of seconds tick by and he still doesn’t take it, I move to drop it to my side, but he surprises me, by pushing his chair back and rising. He leans over the table and slides his hand in mine, giving it a firm shake.

  “Lose the mister bullshit, it’s Jack or Parrish.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Unsure what to make of the man shaking my hand, I glance at Schwartz for guidance, but all he does is roll his eyes.

  “He answers to pain in the ass too,” he mutters sarcastically. “Sit the fuck down, Parrish,” he adds through gritted teeth. “You’re drawing unnecessary attention to us.”

  Ignoring him, his eyes scan the room.

  “Fuck these mutts,” he grunts before finally removing his hand from mine. I watch as he folds his tall frame into the seat and juts his chin to the vacant seat at the table, silently ordering me to follow his lead.

  “Before this meeting becomes another bust, let’s cut straight to the chase,” Schwartz says, popping open his overpriced briefcase.

  “Wait,” I say, shutting the briefcase. The brazen motion causes Jack to raise an eyebrow. “Before we go any further, there’s something I’d like to say.”

  Schwartz rolls his eyes again, snatching his briefcase out of my reach. He flicks an imaginary speck of dirt from the top of the leather and smooths a hand over it.

  Prick.

  “Why does every fucking client have to be high-maintenance? Half of you don’t even look like you know what a comb is.”

  Paying him no mind, I turn to Jack. If I don’t thank him for his generosity now, I never will.

  “I don’t know why you’re here or why you’re doing what you’re doing,” I say hoarsely, pausing to drag in a breath. It’s never easy to admit you’re wrong, and it’s just as difficult to accept a stranger’s help. It’s called pride, and it’s a fuck of a thing.

  Jutting my thumb to Schwartz, I lift my gaze back to Parrish.

  “I know this guy doesn’t come cheap and dealing with him is probably torture, but I thank you and my boy, he thanks you too.”

  It feels strange talking on behalf of Connor and I suppose that’s because I’ve hardly taken responsibility for him.

  “Don’t thank me, kid, I’m just following through on my son-in-law’s request. Blackie is who you need to thank and hopefully, the two of you will be out sooner rather than later and reunited with your kids. You can thank him on your first playdate…isn’t that what they call them these days?”

  Pausing, his lip curls with disgust and he shakes his head.

  “When I was a kid you went outside and rang the neighbors bell if you wanted to play. There was no name for it. You just went and fucking played until the streetlights came on. Now, every fucking kid has a social calendar. Little Suzy can’t come out to ride her bike because she’s got music class. Like beating a tambourine is somehow going to teach her how to make it in this world. It’s no wonder why this generation is fucked.”

  Arching an eyebrow, I look to Schwartz, wondering if Parrish is always this…entertaining. My lawyer stares at the man beside him like he’s a mirage, making it clear he has no clue what to make of the infamous biker either.

  “What?” Parrish questions, meeting his gaze. “It’s fucking true.” He pauses for a beat before pointing an accusing finger at Schwartz. “Ah, fuck, you’re one of them, aren’t you? Took piano lessons as a kid, did ya Davey? I bet your daddy thought he was raising the next Mozart.”

  “Actually, it was the guitar,” Schwartz rebuts.

  Scoffing, Parrish waves a hand at him dismissively.

  “I might have liked you if you knew how to play the drums.”

  Realizing these two could probably go back and forth for days, I clear my throat and try to bring the conversation back to the issue at hand. Fixing Schwartz with a stare, I cock my head.

  “He said when I’m reunited with my son, is that a possibility?”

  An exasperated sigh works past Schwartz’s lips as he folds his hands on the table and leans in. Hard gray eyes stare back at me with determination and for the first time, I acknowledge him as a powerful man.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Bishop. I’m not here to sell you a dream, I’m here to get you out of jail. Can I do that? Abso-fucking-lutely. Don’t bust my balls and listen to everything I say, and you’ll be out on parole in no time. The kid is a totally different story, though. That is not my field of expertise and quite frankly, even if I bite my pride and go to my old man and ask him to call in a few favors, I don’t know if it will work. There’s a shit ton of red tape and I don’t know where to start cutting.”

  “Legally,” Parrish mutters. “You don’t know where to start legally, but if you want to take the illegal route, I’ll tell you where the fuck to begin.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Schwartz hisses before continuing. “Greenberg told you your son was with CPS, well, we found out they have temporarily placed him in a foster home.”

  The world stops at those fucking words. I don’t know whether to embrace the anger rolling through me or concede to defeat. I clench my fists under the table and struggle to swallow as I think about Connor in some strange fucking house. I knew it was a possibility, but I thought…no, I wished it would never come to that.

  I hoped for a miracle.

  I prayed for it.

  That’s what happens when you turn to God after damning him.

  The almighty savior gets the last laugh.

  “I know that’s not the news you want to hear, but that’s a good thing, Bishop. It means he’s out of that fucks hands,” Schwartz adds.

  “For the time being,” I growl, looking between the two men on the other side of the table. “He already made bail. What happens after the next court hearing?”

  Schwartz sighs and leans back in his chair, silently weighing the truth before handing it to me.

  “Look, Bishop, the guy isn’t listed as a sex offender, he’s got no priors and a judge awarded him custody once already. Now, I don’t know his lawyer, but you don’t have to be a genius to know how to spin this case to a judge. The defense is going to argue that Connor is a troubled boy who lost his mother and technically, his father too. All he has to say is that the boy lied to get attention because at the end of the day, negative attention is still attention and when you only see your father once a week for a supervised visit, you make waves, thinking…hoping dad will do something to get you back. To show you, love.”

  He’s not Pete’s defense attorney and with a mere couple of sentences, he’s convinced me it's a possibility even though I know for certain it isn’t. There’s no way in hell, Connor would lie about that. I saw the pain in his eyes, I heard the fear in his voice.

  “So, what you’re saying is he’s going to get off,” I sneer.

  “It’s a strong possibility especially if Connor doesn’t testify,” he answers truthfully.

  The thought of Connor testifying breaks my heart. Ever since Greenberg told me the court was going to subpoena him, I’ve been picturing my son sitting on the witness stand of some cold sterile courtroom. He could barely find the courage to ask me, his father, for help, how is he supposed to tell a room full of strangers his uncle abused him in the most despicable way. How will he find his voice if there’s no one there assuring him he’s okay, that he’s safe to speak his truth?

  Unclenching my fists, I raise my hands and rub my face.

  “I’m sorry but this isn’t a cust
ody hearing and until we get you the fuck out of here, we can’t appeal the court’s decision,” Schwartz continues, apologetically. I drag my hands away from my face. A muscle in my jaw ticks and I struggle to hold myself together.

  “And then what happens?” I question, peering back at him. “What happens when I get out? How do I get him back?

  There are no guarantees and so far, all I’m getting from Schwartz is that reuniting with Connor is going to be an endless battle, one I’m not sure we’ll even win.

  “Listen to me,” Parrish says, demanding my attention. I meet his dark eyes and spot the conviction radiating from them. “I’ve been where you’re at, I know what it’s like to be the helpless parent. I’ve felt the fucking guilt when I held my son’s lifeless body in my arms, and I feel it every day when I look into my mentally ill daughter’s eyes. I couldn’t save my boy and I can’t make the illness Lacey inherited from me disappear. But there comes a time when every parent realizes they have to stop dwelling on their shortcomings and recognize their strengths.”

  That’s easy for him to say.

  He’s not locked in a fucking cage.

  “What strengths? Look at me,” I grind out, spreading my arms wide. “I’m here and he’s God knows where. Even if that wasn’t the case, I’ve spent the better part of his life convincing myself and the world he’d be better off without me. I’ve got no strengths. I’m a fucking disaster.”

  “Me, I’m your fucking strength,” he fires back, all too confidently as he slams his fist against the table.

  I blink in response.

  Surely, this must be the crazy talking.

  He settles down and takes a deep breath.

  “I’ve reached out to the New York Charter of Bikers Against Child Abuse,” he explains. “I told them about Connor’s situation and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make things right for your boy until you get out of the can.”

  I vaguely remember Blackie mentioning the organization when I poured my heart out to him in our cell. He even told me to reach out to them if I got out of here. The guy didn’t give me a chance, though. He fucking brought them to me, making him the fucking hero of this story too. By the time all is said and done, I’m sure there will be several more to add to the list of saviors.