Straightened Out
Janine Infante Bosco
Straightened Out
Janine Infante Bosco
©Copyright 2020 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
Cover Design: FuriousFotog
Edited By: Virgina Tesi Carey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Also by Janine Infante Bosco
About the Author
Chapter 1
Rocco Spinelli
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the one and only Rocco Spinelli.”
Leaning back against the leather booth, I tug at the tie around my neck and lift my eyes to the scantily dressed barmaid. Actually, scantily dressed would be generous considering all she wears is a thong—the universal dress code for all the girls who work at Delilah’s Den.
Forcing my gaze away from her rack, I meet her welcoming smile, but I don’t return the gesture. The truth is I don’t feel much like smiling. I came here tonight with one purpose and one purpose only and that’s to forget. Clearly, it’s working, because this broad obviously knows who I am and I can’t place her for the life of me.
Shifting her weight from one high-heel to the other, she tucks her serving tray under her arm and licks her lips. Her big green eyes find mine, and she croons, “What brings you back to New York, business or pleasure?”
I wait for my body to react, for my dick to swell against the zipper of my slacks, but nothing happens. A shame, really, because it would take little to no effort at all to ensure her place in my hotel room by the end of the night.
“Neither,” I respond curtly before diverting my attention away from her face. I reach for the drink menu and peruse the options.
Is it a blackout vodka kind of night? Why yes, I believe it is.
Not getting the hint that I’m not interested, the barmaid continues to make small talk, rambling on about how good it is to see me and how she recently broke up with her boyfriend.
“You remember him, don’t you?”
I don’t remember her, let alone her boyfriend.
Who is this girl?
I set the drink menu back on top of the table and look at her. She flashes me another sultry smile.
“Why don’t we cut through the bullshit, yeah? I’ll take a Tito’s on the rocks with a splash of lime and it’d be wise if you keep them coming.”
The smile vanishes from her face as she clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“The clothes may be different but you’re still an asshole,” she sneers, turning on her heel.
Ahah! So she knows me pre-suit and tie. Still can’t place her and she’s not wrong, I’m an asshole.
She’s also probably going to spit in my drink.
Brushing that thought aside, I lean back against the booth and stretch my arms across the back of the seat. The music is too loud, the smoke is obnoxious, and the woman are fake as shit—not my type at all.
But going back to my empty hotel room seemed like a worse idea and besides, I have business with the owner of this dive that needs to be handled. Normally, I wouldn’t dare disrespect my mother’s memory by partaking in such activities on her birthday, but when Uncle Vic asks me to jump, I generally tend to ask how high.
He doesn’t give a shit that today is the one day a year I try to be good and just. That I make my way back to the streets that raised me, broke me, but never made me and I spend the day visiting my mother’s grave. I bring her a bouquet of her favorite flowers and atone for my sins, then I go back to my hotel. I drink myself silly and wait for the sun to rise so I can board a plane back to Miami and dig my hole a little deeper. On the rare occasion, I call one of the girls from my old neighborhood to meet me or I hit the lobby bar to find a willing body to sink my cock into and fuck away the heartbreak losing my mother left behind.
But I don’t rob, cheat, steal, or kill.
Today’s a little different, though. Not only did my dear uncle saddle me with an order, but I also ran into my sister at the cemetery. Me and Gina have been estranged ever since our mother was lowered into the earth. It doesn’t matter that I tried to be a stand-up guy and do right by my sister after our mother passed. That I made sure she got the fancy education she desired, she still looks at me and sees our degenerate father.
Rocco Spinelli Sr. was the scum of the earth, a low-life thug who took cheap shots and always found the easy way out of everything—even death. I mean, I imagine it’s a hell of a lot less painful to die by a spray of bullets than it is to have an uncontrollable disease spread throughout your body and gradually kill you. If you’re real lucky, the shooter is skilled and ends your existence with the first shot. A blow to the head, maybe one to a major artery—every shot that comes after is simply for decoration. It’s a message to your family when they’re at your funeral, staring at a closed casket because no undertaker could fix the holes in your face, that you were nothing but a piece of shit.
In case you’re still wondering, our old man’s casket was closed, he didn’t spare his family in any regard. He uprooted our lives when he got deported back to Italy and tarnished our family name when he was murdered by the Sicilian mafia and my sister thinks I’m going to end up just like him.
Perhaps she’s right. That might even be the reason our uncle refuses to make me a made man in his organization. Apparently, I’m only good to make people disappear, otherwise I’m a fucking disgrace. A soldier with a tarnished name that he pities. A man with no future whatsoever.
The barmaid returns with my vodka, setting the glass on the table with a thud.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she grinds out. I let my eyes rake over her one more time, before lifting the glass and quickly downing the contents. If she’s spit in it or what, I don’t really give a damn. It still manages to go down.
“Another,” I demand, slamming the empty glass on the table. My eyes cut to hers. “Oh, and while you’re at it, tell your boss I’m here.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Mitch is pretty busy,” she replies.
I don’t know how much this broad thinks she knows about me but clearly, she doesn’t know enough. Leaning forward, my eyes narrow into tiny slits.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I sneer.
Not a single fuck.
&nbs
p; “Right,” she mutters, standing a little straighter. “I’ll relay the message.”
With that she disappears. I lift my glass and suck the ice cubes into my mouth as I divert my attention to the stage. Sultry music blares from the speakers and the smoke from the fog machine starts to clear as the next stripper steps out, wearing a fitted blazer that barely touches the tops of her thighs. I’m not sure if it’s the six-inch heels or if her legs are really that long but I imagine them wrapped around me. I lift my chin to see if her face matches the rest of the stellar package, but between the blonde waves framing her face and the rim of the fedora that shields her eyes, it’s impossible.
I inch forward, completely enthralled, and watch as she wraps one hand around the silver pole. With her free hand she unbuttons the blazer, revealing the swell of her breasts and a toned stomach.
She hooks one leg around the pole and arches her back as her body swings around it gracefully. The hat falls from her head and those blonde waves cascade down her back. Once she’s done making that pole the envy of every man in the place, she stands with her back facing the audience. Completely fascinated, I lean my elbows on my knees and anxiously await her next move. Her body is in sync with the beat of the music as she sways her hips and slides the blazer down one shoulder. Then it slips from the other shoulder. The blazer finds its way to the stage and I take in the package. The beautifully toned back, the narrow waist and the flare to her hips. As she bends forward, my eyes fall to her ass. Unlike every other broad in this dive, there is nothing fake about this girl and I decide I wouldn’t mind wrapping all that long blonde hair around my fist as I fill her from behind.
It would be the highlight of my fucking week.
My cock twitches at the sight and I press the heel of my hand to my zipper as the barmaid places my second drink in front of me. Without tearing my eyes away from the stripper on the stage, I bring the glass to my lips and down the vodka in one gulp. My molars grind the ice cubes as the dancer takes another spin around the pole. She’s nothing like the women who took the stage before her, she makes an art of dancing around a pole. Every part of her body moves fluidly with the music, like the song was created specifically for her body. It’s fucking captivating and I want more.
More of her body.
More dancing.
More everything.
She twirls around, facing the audience and my eyes slowly travel up her body. As I reach her face, she lifts her head and a familiar pair of blue eyes lock with mine.
The sexy smile vanishes from her lips and all the blood drains from her face. Sure, my eyes are playing tricks on me, I blink. The beautiful dancer is no stranger at all and yet as her mouth hangs open in shock, I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.
Gone are the wholesome good looks of a young girl who spent the better part of her childhood following me and her brother around the streets of Brooklyn. In place stands a grown woman who is the epitome of seduction and sin. A woman with a body that make men want to drop to their knees and worship. And in an instant, I wish I can unsee her.
That I can bleach my best friend and right hand’s sister’s body from my mind.
However, before I can do anything, she plucks the jacket from the floor and runs off the stage, enticing an uproar amongst the men who are likely having the same illicit thoughts running their minds as I am.
In a flash I’m on my feet, throwing the table that separates me from the stage out of my way. The barmaid calls my name, but I ignore her as I stalk after the blonde bombshell also known as, Violet Cabrera.
Navigating the hallway, I open door after door until I find her in one of the dressing rooms with her back to me, struggling to push her arms through the sleeves of her blazer.
“Violet,” I call, my voice unrecognizable even to my own ears. I clench my fists and close my eyes, fighting for some sense of self-control.
For answers to the questions running through my fucking head.
She doesn’t respond, but I hear her sniffle and my eyes spring open. Violet doesn’t fucking cry. At least she hasn’t in all the years I’ve known her. Hell, the girl got her fingers caught in a car door once and instead of crying, she sucked them into her mouth and ordered me and her brother to get her a bag of frozen peas. Her fingers were mangled, and her nails turned black almost immediately, but she didn’t shed a fucking tear.
Keeping my eyes pinned to the back of her head, I close the distance between us and gently lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Bug, look at me.”
“I can’t,” she cries.
My patience snaps like a rubber band and I spin her around to face me.
So much for being gentle.
I stare at her mascara streaked face for a moment, familiarizing myself with her stunning features, knowing beneath all that make-up and the false eyelashes is the girl I once caught stuffing her training bra.
My how far we’ve come.
“What are you even doing here?” she asks, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Aside from pleasing them in the bedroom, I don’t have a stellar reputation with women and I sure as fuck don’t know what to do with them when they’re upset. But this is Violet, smart-mouthed, holds no bars Violet, who should be studying ballet in that fancy as fuck school her brother pays for her to attend, not shaking her naked ass on a pole.
She freezes suddenly and her crystal blue eyes go wide as saucers.
“Please don’t tell me my brother is here with you.”
Right, because that would make things ten times worse. I shake my head and watch as she instantly breathes a sigh of relief. Then her eyes narrow and she lifts a finger, poking it roughly against my chest.
“If you tell Joaquin that you saw me here, I swear to God, Rocco—”
I cut her off, my dick hardening even more because the fire in her eyes is so palpable…so fucking enticing.
“What are you going to do?” I taunt.
Swallowing, she roughly pulls her hand away from my chest as if she’s been scorched by the simple touch and pulls the ends of her jacket together, shielding herself from my view.
“Too little too late, Bug. I already saw them,” I grind out. “Every man in the joint did and I’m guessing if their hands aren’t already wrapped around their cocks, they’re counting down the minutes until they can be.”
My words are gasoline to an already uncontainable fire, and I watch Violet’s eyes light with rage.
“You’re a pig,” she snaps.
There she is.
“Maybe, but you know I’m right.” What she isn’t aware of is the fact that I’m no better than those guys. That I’m worse because instead of worrying why she’s stripping in the first place, I’m thinking about all the ways I can please her. All the fucking ways I want to take her. I don’t care that she’s nine years younger than me or that her brother would fucking kill me for touching her. I don’t even care that she’s looking at me like I repulse her. When she’s coming all over my cock, she’ll look at me like I’m a fucking god.
Christ.
Focus, man.
Sighing, I roughly drag my fingers through my hair. That blazer does shit to cover her, she needs to put clothes on…stat. Pulling myself together, I force myself to find out what the fuck is going on.
“Bug, what the fuck are you doing here?”
I hiss the question and her eyebrows reach new heights.
“Funny, I could ask you the same question,” she retorts.
I don’t make it a habit to ask questions about Joaquin’s sister, but I listen when he talks about her and while me and her brother have been digging our graves in Miami, she was accepted to the New York Academy of Ballet on a partial scholarship. Now, I might be a self-absorbed prick, but I think I’d remember Joaquin mentioning his sister ditching the ballet to bare her tits and dance on a pole, which means Flashdance over here is hiding something.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” I growl.
My fists curl at the
suggestion.
It’s the only logical answer and I think back to the reason I’m here… Mitch Ryan. The sleezy motherfucker who owes Uncle Vic fifty large. If that son of a bitch has anything to do with Violet working that pole, I’ll bury him alive—fuck breaking his kneecaps.
“What I am is none of your business, Rocco,” she snaps, turning away from me. She grabs a duffel bag and starts throwing her shit into it. What she needs to be doing is putting some fucking clothes on.
“You might want to grab a pair of pants or something,” I tell her as I reach into my suit jacket and pull my phone from the inside pocket. “A bra would be helpful too.”
She glances over her shoulder and shoots me a glare.
“Are you done?”
I scoff.
Far from done.
“No,” I retort. “But we have all night.”
Deciding she can tell me her reasons for stripping when she’s in my car, I call my driver and tell him to bring the town car around to the back of Delilah’s Den.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
I forgot how difficult she can be.
“Wrong.”
“Rocco,” she starts, spinning around to meet my gaze. “Look, can we just forget tonight—”
Her words get cut off as the door to the dressing room swings open.
“What the fuck was that?” Mitch barks, but as soon as I turn around, his face pales. “Rocco.” He swallows and looks from me to Violet. I follow his gaze and one look at Violet’s face tells me something isn’t right. Like she doesn’t cry, Violet also doesn’t do fear and right now she’s fucking petrified.
Straightened Out (The Pastore Crime Family Book 1) Page 1
