The thumping bass vibrated through the worn soles of my sneakers, a rhythm I knew by heart. It mixed with clinking glasses and the buzz of a Friday night crowd. The air inside the Pole Stop smelled like stale beer and cheap perfume, a scent that had practically become part of me over the past two years. At 26, balancing life as a normal college student for a guy I like and then my mafia life.

I was driving to the bar to pick up my best friend of four years. Val—Valentino Cortez—he’s sassy, attitude filled, agile, bad boy energy kind of guy. And we are opposites. He doesn’t have much money but I have a shit load. But we clicked anyway. Been friends ever since.