Page 101 of Straightened Out

“Yeah, well you do,” he said, bringing his eyes back to me. “Got her blood flowing through your veins, now.” He paused for a beat. “That’s something, ain’t it?”

It sure fucking was.

“Look, Rocco, I know I’ve been hard on you when it comes to her, that I may have swayed you into believing you didn’t deserve her, but I see it. I see the love you got for her and she for you. No man or woman should ever try to interfere with that. It’s too rare. Too fucking special.”

“It could’ve been her,” I rasp.

He shakes his head.

“Not this time,” he said pointedly before revealing everything he knew about the shooting. Apparently, there was no trace of a car or sign of shooter. No one saw anything, leading him to believe it was a sniper. Someone wanted me dead and only me. They weren’t looking to make an example of Violet or trying to prove a point. They wanted to execute me. Period. End of story.

Of course, Joaquin thinks Yankovich is responsible. With me out of the picture that leaves the Knights as his only roadblock. I suppose it makes sense, but what’s the end game. Where do we go from here? He shot me in public. I was surrounded by people and according to him, the shooting made the front page of the papers. Hell, some newspapers are reporting I’m dead. Forget being the second coming of Victor Pastore, I’m the next Jimmy Hoffa. Not to mention, they’ve identified Violet too. Once they find us, they’ll probably take her in for questioning. They’ll press her information and even though I was the one who got shot, they’ll look to take me down. And if they don’t, if the cops lay off and Yankovich finds out I survived, well, then the thing we feared most, may become a reality and he’ll go after Violet.

It was a lot to think about and I was still feeling the effects of the morphine. Joaquin told me to give it some thought, and I did until I fell asleep again. Now, it’s the next morning and I still don’t have a solution, but I have Violet lying next to me and anything else doesn’t seem to matter.

“How are you feeling?” she questions I intertwine our fingers.

The pain has lessened some and I’m able to move a little more freely. I still haven’t kissed her, though, but that’s only because Violet has this unrealistic fear that if her lips touch my chest will split open and I’ll die.

“Like I can run a marathon,” I reply, winking at her. She doesn’t find the humor in my response, so I say, “Like I’ve been shot and have the most beautiful girl’s blood running through my veins.”

That earns me a small smile.

“That’s better,” I add. “I love it when you smile.” I pause and may face grows somber as I continue. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry I ever took that smile away.

That I ever made her shed a single tear.

“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” I add. “But I’m not sorry for loving you.”

“Does that mean you still do?”

I hate that she even feels the need to ask me that question.

“I never stopped,” I say, struggling to sit up. She starts to argue, but I shake my head and push through the pain, bringing our eyes level with one another. “It was never a question of whether I loved you or not and that’s why I was completely honest with you when I ended things.”

“I know that, but part of me wondered if that love faded while we were apart.”

“Bug, I don’t know if you realize it yet, but I’m willing to spend the rest of my life helping you understand that this love I feel for you doesn’t fade. If anything, it just intensifies. It’s the most powerful thing in my life and that says a lot.”

“I’m going to need that in writing for the next time you try and break up with me. Like a sworn affidavit or something.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yes, if we ever get out of here, the first thing we’re doing is finding a notary.”

“What about a judge?”

“Lawyers can get expensive and I’m pretty sure I’m unemployed.”

“Don’t need a lawyer to get a marriage certificate.”

The playful smile falls from her face and she releases my hand.

“You’re not serious,” she accuses. “It’s the morphine.”

“I’m dead serious,” I volley, and she flinches at my choice of words. “No pun intended,” I add, taking back her hand. “And it’s not the drugs talking.” I point to my chest, to where the gauze covers my wound. “I’m talking from my heart. I want to marry you, Violet Cabrera. I want to make a life with you. I want you to be the mother of my children and I want to hold your hand as we grow old. I know I’m not the best man for you, that I’ve made bad choices that will ultimately shape our life together, but if you give me a shot, I’ll make it my life’s mission to make you happy. To keep you safe. But most of all to make you feel my love. No more excuses. No more—”

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