He doesn’t wear a tie, keeping the top two buttons of his silk shirt open to reveal a glimpse of his olive skin and the slight dusting of dark hair that decorates it. I may prefer him in gray sweatpants, but it doesn’t change the fact that Rocco Spinelli was born to wear a suit. The designer shades and diamond encrusted Rolex are a new addition and a nice touch too. Flashy, but still nice.
His predecessor would be proud.
That fucking sentence should make my skin crawl…should being the operative word there. All I feel when I look at him is relief. I don’t care that he’s been missing in action for a week or that he never showed for our date. He’s alive and he’s here, staring back at me like I’m the only thing in his world that exists.
Ignoring the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach, I draw in a deep breath and make my way toward him. He pushes off the car and pulls the shades from his face. Tucking the arm of the glasses into his shirt, his eyes slowly rake over me and shamelessly, I drink him in too. Of all the crimes he has committed and the ones he is bound to commit, the biggest one might just be his sex appeal. It’s effortless and oh, so dangerous because it’s fucking irresistible.
It makes a girl forget all his shortcomings and how likely it is for him to break her heart.
“Bug,” he greets, grinning at me in that devilish way of his.
Crossing my arms under my chest, I cock my head to the side and give him an exasperated look.
He can’t actually be serious right now.
We haven’t spoken to one another in a week and he opens with that ridiculous nickname?
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I hiss.
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he shoves a hand into his pocket and steps closer to me. His eyes penetrate mine for a moment and I temporarily forget the newspaper headlines and all the neighborhood gossip. I’m transcended back to the night we shared and the promises we made.
“I’m going to call you Bug until someone puts me out of my misery.”
“Yeah, well word on the street is the chances of someone putting you out of your misery are pretty high these days.”
“Bug," he sighs.
This time I don’t try to correct him, and I think that’s partly because somewhere in the back of my mind I know he’s right. The only way Rocco will ever stop calling me, Bug, is if he’s no longer alive to say it. As true as that may be, so is the fact he’s a walking target. The idea of someone killing him or even hurting him makes me sick to my stomach and I instantly regret my choice of words.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, quickly peeling my eyes away from his handsome face.
“It’s fine, Bug.”
No, it’s not, but I don’t say that. Instead, I draw out a heavy breath. Deciding to change the subject, my gaze rakes over the rest of him and reach out to brush my fingers over the lapel of his suit.
“How does that saying go? Is it the suit makes the man or is it the man that makes the suit? I always get them confused,” I babble.
He covers my hand with his and I lift my gaze back to his. Angling his head, he lifts his free hand to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes.
“Fuck if I know,” he rasps huskily.
I equally hate and love the way he looks at me. It’s almost as if he’s not sure I’m real. Like he wants to keep me. I hate it because I know he never will. I mean, we didn’t even make it a week.
As if he can read my thoughts, he turns his head slightly and continues, “Uncle Vic always said a man can have anything he wants in life so long as he dresses for it.”
At the mention of Victor, I raise an eyebrow. This would be the opportunity to ask him if everything I read is true.
“So what are you dressing for?” I ask.
He brings his eyes back to mine.
“That’s a loaded question,” he replies, dropping his hand.
He looks away and I shake my head.
“Actually, it’s pretty simple,” I challenge.
I’m starting to think he has no idea what he wants anymore.
That maybe he never did.
Sadly, money and power won’t help him figure that out, though.
His soulful eyes slice back to me and flash with something I can’t quite place.
“Nothing in life is simple, Bug,” he says.
Done with the whole beating around the bush nonsense, I prop a hand on my hip and narrow my eyes at him. He might not answer my questions, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t ask them.
“Is it true?”
Of course he doesn’t respond and all the frustration I’ve been bottling up for the last week rears its ugly head.
“Life can be simple,” I argue. “You just make it harder than it has to be by making the wrong choices. Thanks for taking me out on Saturday, I had a fantastic time.”
“Violet…”
“No, it’s fine. I get it, you were tied up, but a phone call would’ve been nice, Rocco. I wasn’t sure if you were dead or rotting in a jail cell somewhere. I suppose I should be grateful, though. You’re alive, you were just too busy getting fitted for suits and buying fancy cars and Rolex watches to fucking call me.”
I take it back.
Maybe things aren’t so simple, especially when what you want most comes with consequences and conditions.
“You know what the difference between me and you is? I know what I want and you don’t,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat with anger.
He quirks an eyebrow.
“Is that so?” He asks, widening his stance. He crosses his arms against his chest and narrows his eyes. “Since you seem to have it all figured out, why don’t you tell me what is that you want?” His gaze shoots to the building behind me and he tips his chin. “And don’t give me the whole ballerina thing either because that’s a given.” He drops his hands to his side and brings his eyes back to mine. Taking a step closer to me, he lowers his voice, “C’mon, Violet, what is that you want and if it’s so simple, why don’t you have it already?”
I thought I did.
I thought I had him.
Swallowing, I look away from him and shrug a shoulder.
“An empanada and a bath,” I say pointedly. “Preferably in that exact order.” When I’m sure my features hide my disappointment, I bring my eyes back to him. “The suit looks good, Rocco,” I continue, my tone a whisper. “But you looked good in a pair of gray sweatpants and a wifebeater tank too, so maybe it’s the man who makes the clothes and not the other way around.”
He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us and lifts his hands to cradle my face.
“Fuck the empanada. How’s a three-course dinner at Spark’s steak house and a bath with me sound?”
It sounds too good to be true.
Chapter 19
Rocco Spinelli
I can list a dozen other places I should be and a dozen reasons why I should leave, but as I watch Violet hitch the strap of her bag over her shoulder, all those reasons seem to disappear. It’s funny how I can stand in a crowded room of powerful bosses and their crews, know they all want me dead and not blink an eye. There’s no fear, no sense of panic. If they kill me, they kill me. But right here, right now, standing in front of Violet, knowing she’s two seconds from walking away from me, I feel it. Panic and desperation wage a war inside my chest, and it feels like I’m drowning. Like I can’t fucking breathe.
This last week has been fucking hell for me.
I got made on Monday and by Friday, I was sitting down with the five families, introducing myself as the new don. In between all that, Uncle Vic turned himself in to the authorities and we had to break the news to Anthony Bianci that he was not next in line for throne. Then I stood beside Joaquin as he watched Pilar’s body be laid to rest. A tailor came to my apartment in Miami and fitted me for fifty grand in designer suits and to my dismay, I am also the proud owner of a collection of silk ties. Millions were wired into off-shore accounts and I had a mansi
on in Staten Island. To complete the package, Bruno was now behind the wheel of a shiny new Maserati.
I barely had time to take a piss.
And there is no fucking reprieve in sight. In fact, right now I should be meeting with Bianci so he can introduce me to whoever this Parrish guy is. Apparently, playing with union delegates and buying out gun contracts from bikers is on the agenda this week. Along with convincing anyone who will buy the lies coming out of my mouth that my uncle has been grooming me for this role for years. Oh, and I somehow have to work in two visits to the jail too—you know for my weekly classes on how the fuck to be a gangster.
“Well, I’ve got a train to catch,” Violet says, pulling my attention back to her. She tips her chin toward the station down the block and my chest tightens again. “I’ll see you around.” She takes a step away from me but pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Oh, and if you speak to my brother, tell him to return my phone calls before I get on a fucking plane myself.”
My jaw tightens at the fact she’s so quick to dismiss me. I warned her this was going to be rough. Could I have called? Yes, but I didn’t know what to even say to her. I was being watched like a hawk and I knew she’d have a million fucking questions—she always does.
I turn toward my car and open the back door of the flashy ride before dragging my eyes back to her. Her eyebrows pinch together as she looks from the open car door back to me.
“Get in the car, Violet,” I grind out. My voice sounds hoarse and barely recognizable even to my own ears. “Please, just get in the fucking car.”
Swallowing, I lift my free hand and roughly drag my fingers through my hair. Feeling the intensity of her stare, I meet her expectant gaze, but remain silent. I don’t know how to tell her that I need peace, something I only find when I’m with her, especially after I’ve let her down.
“Rocco, look, I think your intentions were in the right place, but—”
Oh, no, we’re not going there. Not today, Satan.
I cut her off.
“You’re the only thing in my life that isn’t connected to the mob. My only sliver of normalcy. You’re not impressed by my tailored suit or this ridiculously overpriced car. I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t have to fucking lie. With you, I can be me. Not the second coming of Victor Pastore and I really need to be me right now. I need you, Violet.”
She looks shocked by the confession—hell, I’m fucking shocked myself. Her features soften as she cocks her head to the side and takes a step toward me. Lifting her hand, she caresses the scruff lining my jaw and I close my eyes. All fucking week I counted down the days, hours, and minutes until I could be reunited with her. When Saturday rolled around and I realized our date wasn’t going to happen, I nearly lost it. I was fucking seconds away from calling Joaquin and telling him I was getting the fuck out of here. I’d go to Costa Rica or maybe Venezuela—someplace where the names Pastore and Spinelli didn’t exist, and I’d make sure Violet was on the next fucking flight too.
“Are you still staying at a hotel?” she asks.
Opening my eyes, I shake my head. Apparently, my new house was fully furnished, and I had a king size bed waiting for me. Another glorious perk of inheriting a kingdom I don’t have the first clue how to run.
“Then I have better idea. Why don’t we skip the three-course dinner at the fancy restaurant and go back to your place? I’ll make us empanadas and then you and I can take that bath.”
Relief washes over me and for the first time in a week, I feel human. I feel fucking reborn. I cover her hand with my own and touch my forehead to hers.
“Whatever you want as long as I’m with you,” I rasp.
Those words are the truest words I’ve spoken. Bianci and the bikers can wait another day. Tonight, the only thing that matters to me is Violet.
~*~
On the way back to my new house, I asked Bruno to stop off at a supermarket. He offered to go in and grab whatever we needed, but Violet insisted she and I do the shopping. I didn’t remember the last time I stepped foot inside of a supermarket. Back in Miami the cleaning lady filled my fridge and most of the shit always went bad because I dined out almost every night. But it was nice, strolling the aisles, filling the cart. It felt normal and at one point, I asked Violet if she was planning on cooking for me all week. I mean, she did put a loin of pork in the cart and I sure as fuck didn’t know what to do with it.
“That depends on whether or not you plan on disappearing on me after tonight,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me. I didn’t have a response for that and she and I needed to have a conversation—I owed her that much. Stringing her along and promising to take her out when I wasn’t sure where or what I was going to be doing didn’t seem fair.
A man doesn’t just become a boss overnight and though we were giving it our best shot, there was so much to do. So many acts to perform. I was being pulled in a million different directions, trying to please everyone and still keep my head above water.
“What flavor ice cream should we get for dessert?” I looked at her and then toward the selection in front of her. It was crazy to me that all she had to do was ask me a simple question like what flavor ice cream I preferred and the anxiety that threatened to suffocate me completely vanished.
Reaching around her, I pulled a carton of rocky road from the freezer and pressed it against her stomach. My breath touched her ear as I whispered, “This and I plan on licking between your legs.”
She was standing in front of a freezer and her cheeks were bright red—I loved it and I couldn’t wait to make her blush more when I had her naked. Fuck the king size bed, we were going to fucking christen every square inch of this place— all six thousand—even if it took us all night.
After dropping three hundred dollars in the supermarket we made our way to Circle Drive and Violet’s eyes nearly fell out of her head when Bruno pulled around the circular driveway of my new house. It was pretentious and over the top, but you know Uncle Vic—go big or go home. The house was equipped with an inground pool, a movie theater, a wine cellar, and seven bedrooms. The place even had an elevator and butler’s quarters, which was ideal for when Johnny and Richie, my new bodyguards, needed a place to crash.
“Holy shit!” she exclaimed as she opened the door of the Maserati and stepped onto the pavers. Leaving Bruno to handle the bags, I climbed out of the car and took Violet’s hand, leading her to the front door. Once I managed to disarm the security system and let us in, she released my hand and entered the foyer. I followed her from room to room, wondering what was running through her head as she took it all in.
When we entered the kitchen, she finally turned to me and said, “Rocco, this place is a palace.”
My eyes swept around the room. It was an open concept floor plan and the kitchen bled into both the sitting room and the formal dining room—neither of which were furnished. I suppose there was some truth to Violet’s comparison, palaces were often cold and impractical, and this place definitely met the mark on both of those things.
“What are you going to do with this place? You have three living rooms and there has to be at least six bedrooms upstairs.”
“Seven,” I corrected, shoving my hands inside my pockets.
I shook my head thinking how ridiculous that sounded. Uncle Vic’s house wasn’t even as big as this one and they had two daughters and grandchildren to fill it with.
“Seven,” she repeats. “You’re one person. Do you plan on swapping bedrooms every night of the week?”
“It’s ridiculous, I know,” I said, bracing my hands on the edge of the granite countertop.
“If it’s so ridiculous then why buy a house like this?”
Before I could answer her, Johnny and Richie entered the kitchen, both looking like they wanted to murder me. Violet nearly jumped out of her skin when she realized they had let themselves in and were standing behind her, but neither of them paid her any mind whatsoever.
“Boss
, can we have a word?” Johnny grinded out.
I looked from them to Violet and shook my head.
“Not now,” I clipped.
I had Bruno ditch them as soon as my plane landed—I thought the poor driver was going to shit his pants, but he maneuvered that hundred thousand dollar piece of machinery like Mario Andretti and lost Johnny and Richie before we ever made it out of Newark Airport.
“Sir,” Richie started, but I quickly shut him down with a glare.
I knew they were just doing their jobs, but I was sick of having my every move watched. All week I was theirs, tonight I was Violet’s—end of story.
“You both are dismissed for the night.”
Johnny’s jaw ticked with annoyance and Richie looked like he was about to object but neither of them said a word as I held their eyes, silently warning them not to argue with me.
“Very well,” Johnny grunted. “But if you leave the house—”
“Goodnight, Johnny,” I snapped.
I shook my head as they saw themselves out and when I turned my attention back to Violet, she raised an eyebrow.
“So, it’s like that, huh? You just give orders and people do as you say? No questions asked?”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I contemplated her question. After a beat, I stepped around the counter and stood behind her, placing one hand on her hip, I brushed her hair away from her neck and pressed my lips to her ear.
“It’s like that,” I confirmed, drawing her earlobe between my teeth. “You want to try it?”
“Take orders from you? No, thanks,” she said, pressing her ass against groin. “I much rather be the one in control.”
“Funny, didn’t seem that way when my cock was between your legs. You didn’t mind relinquishing control then.”
“If you keep talking like that we’re never going to eat and I’m starving,” she chastised, pulling out of my arms. Spinning around, she leaned into me and pressed her lips to mine. It was quick and if I’m being frank, disappointing. After all, I was fucking starved too, however I had a hankering for something other than empanadas.
Straightened Out (The Pastore Crime Family Book 1) Page 14
