Page 13 of Straightened Out

No killing.

Happy birthday, mom.

This one is for you.

Chapter 4

Rocco Spinelli

Two months later

Tucking my swollen cock back inside my pants, a red lace thong catches my eye. Things were just starting to get interesting between me and what’s her name. I’m not referring to the broad who only moments ago was spread across my desk with her legs wrapped around my head—she was mediocre—but the girl who was under the desk sucking on my cock? She was fucking fantastic.

I lift the thong with my finger and twirl it around.I wonder if these are hers.

Not that it matters, by now the kissing cousins or maybe they’re sisters, I don’t remember—

whatever they are, they’re likely getting each other off in the elevator or looking for some other guy to finish what I started.

Joaquin really has shit timing. He stormed into my office like a bat out of hell, grabbed a clean suit from the closet and disappeared into the bathroom. If only he had waited five more minutes, I’d have gotten us all off.

A grand time would’ve been had by all.

But I suppose he had good reason, seeing as he announced my uncle was downstairs on the main floor of the club. A surprise visit, just what I need.

Grabbing my shirt off the floor, I shove my arms through the sleeves and make my way to the rolling bar. I fill a crystal tumbler with scotch and lift the glass to my lips, taking a hefty gulp. Who needs mouthwash when you got Dewars. I let the amber liquid slosh around my cheeks before spitting it back into the glass. The bathroom door connected to my office opens just as I reach for my sports jacket—heaven forbid my uncle sees me in anything less than a three-piece ensemble.

“You reek of cheap perfume and pussy,” Joaquin sneers as he enters the office.

I roll my eyes. Always so serious this one.

“Sounds like a good time to me,” I retort.

A foreign concept for my pal.

Joaquin wouldn’t know a good time if it bit him in the ass. My right hand takes this club way too seriously. It’s like it’s all he has and maybe that’s true. Being of Puerto Rican descent, Joaquin can never be a made guy. A shame really, considering he is the best damn solider the Pastore Crime Family has. Better than me that’s for sure. He even has the respect of the other crime families—something I’ll likely never have.

Turning my attention back to Joaquin, I smooth a hand over my shirt. I should probably press him to tell me what the fuck happened that required a clean-up crew and the change of clothes, but to be frank—I really don’t give a fuck.

I guess that’s what happens when you’ve reached the end of your rope.

When you’re coasting through life on borrowed time with no real future.

No dreams.

No family.

No woman.

Nothing.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” I mutter.

As soon as I start for the door, my phone starts to ring causing me to pause. I pat my pockets and pull out the offensive device, my eyes instantly narrow at the sight of the name on the screen. Two fucking months later and the sight of her name gets my blood boiling. I lift my head and notice Joaquin’s eyes are aimed at my screen.

Playing it off, I turn my screen to him.

“Why is Vi calling me?”

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