Page 764 of The Tempted

Chapter Thirty

“This is Ben Lithmore, and I am live in front of Bennettsville prison where a riot has broken out resulting in the prison being placed on lockdown. We have just received word that two of New York’s most notorious criminals were recently transferred to Bennettsville. Convicted mob boss, Victor Pastore, and gang leader, Thomas ‘the G-Man’ Gregorio, both serving life sentences are inside the prison. We learned earlier that Pastore has been suffering from cancer and was transferred here to Bennettsville for medical purposes. There is no information on why the G-Man was transferred or his condition at this time. There are reports that several inmates and correctional officers have sustained injuries and at least two fatalities. At this time, we have no confirmation of bodies.”

“Shut it off,” Grace demands, her tear stained face frozen as she stares at the television.

I walk over to the television, bend down and power it off before rising and glancing around Vic and Grace’s living room. My mother-in-law continues to stare at the blank screen in shock. Watching the usual poise my mother-in-law portrays diminish from her was torturous and nerve-racking all at the same time.

She knew about the transfer, she knew what her husband was going to do, we all did, but none of us expected this. I figured it would be quiet, like when he whacked Jimmy inside Otisville, not a fucking media frenzy. I didn’t think we’d be sitting here watching the news waiting for a reporter to declare him dead or alive.

Grace stood, but before she could make a move, Nikki stood in front of her and grabbed her hands.

“Let go,” Grace orders. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Nikki argues as Adrianna walks into the living room with the phone glued to her ear.

“Okay, thank you,” she says before disconnecting the call. “That was daddy’s lawyer,” she announces to the room. “He still hasn’t heard anything, but he promises to call as soon as he does.”

“So what’re we supposed to do until then? Sit here like a bunch of idiots waiting for some stiff in a suit to call us and let us know if we call the funeral home or not?” Gina shouts.

“You really think that’s helping?” Mike fires back.

“Nothing is helping! We’re sitting here while the media plays games with us,” she argues back. “My ninety-five-year-old mother has to watch this shit and wonder if her son is dead.”

“Take her upstairs if it’s too much for you people,” Nikki sneers.

“Princess—”

“No, Mikey. Everyone wants to feel some kind of way but they forget we’re his family too.” She averts her eyes to her aunt. “That’s my mother’s husband, our father,” she adds, pointing between her and her sister. “And while Nana may be upset so are we, we’re the ones who will call a funeral director—not you.”

“No one’s calling anyone,” I interrupt. “You all need to have faith in the man who’s hung onto life this long,” I clip, lifting my head as the doorbell rings. “Think about Vic, do any of you really think for one second he will go down like this? At the mercy of another man?” I shake my head. “Have faith in the man who only does things one way—his.”

I point a finger to Grace.

“You know better than anyone,” I remind her as I start for the door. It rings again as I pull it open and my sister throws her arms around my neck. I wrap my arms around her and turn my gaze to the leather clad man standing behind her.

“Any word on the big guy?” Riggs asks.

“No, and they’re all losing their shit in there,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder.

“Have no fear, Riggsy is here,” he says, stepping around Lauren and raising his hands holding a box from the bakery.

“What’s he doing?” I question my sister.

“We brought cannoli’s.” She winks, taking my hand and pulling me into the house.

“How you doin’ ‘Mrs. Soprano’?” Riggs asks, bending down to take Grace’s hand and kisses her ring, mimicking a scene fromThe Godfather.

“Who’s this?” Gina curiously croons.

“She’s all yours man,” Mike says, getting the hell out of dodge.

Returning Lauren’s embrace, the phone Adrianna is holding rings, forcing them apart.

“It’s the lawyer,” she says glancing at the screen.

Noting the fear working across her features, I close the distance between us and take the phone from her trembling hand and swipe my thumb across the screen.

“It’s Bianci,” I answer.

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