Page 44 of Straightened Out

On top of that, I was still reeling from my conversation with Victor. It was almost as if the man was encouraging me to pursue Rocco and while I have been training my whole life to do just that, I was tired of being pushed aside and more than that I hated being called amistake.

Rocco and my brother live in a cruel world. A world that sometimes appears glamorous but in all actuality is a living nightmare, one that seemed to be getting worse by the day. Choosing to be part of that world was amistake, living for the moment and giving into your feelings, falling in love--those things arenotmistakes.

People are not mistakes.

And I think Victor Pastore would agree with me.

Even gangsters need love.

Something I realized the moment I stared across the plane and listened to Victor speak of his wife. Here was this ruthless man who had a laundry list of crimes under his belt, a man who ordered hits and tore families apart, but he had a soft spot for the woman who stood in his shadows. The woman he claimed grounded him and reminded him that he was human. He loved and he lost. He rejoiced and he grieved. He held the power of New York City in one hand, and the heart of his wife in the other.

It was endearing and I started to see Victor in a new light.

Grace Pastore may have spent countless nights awake and worrying about her husband, but she was loved.

She was respected.

Cherished.

She was everything I wanted to be and not because she gave out the best candy on Halloween.

But try as he might, Rocco was no Victor Pastore. Not in that regard anyway.

Pushing him out of my head, I meander my way to table six and take the couple’s order. I need to get back to the Academy. Four days off and I’m turning into a lovesick fool, forgetting about my dreams of becoming center stage. Rocco would be nothing more than a distraction. A roadblock on the path to my dreams.

I clip the order to the line and send it through to the kitchen.

“You’re distracted,” my mother points out. “If you’re not going to be of any help, you might as well go home.”

It’s times like this when I wish I could be like Joaquin and just shrug her insults off, but I’m weak when it comes to our mother, always seeking her approval and never getting it. If anyone else in this world demeaned or ridiculed me the way she does, I’d cut them with my sharp tongue and make them feel smaller than she makes me feel.

“I’m sorry, ma,” I mutter. “I figured since I had the day off from school, I could help out around here. Save you the payroll.”

Silly me.

“Won’t be saving much of anything if the customers walk out because they’re not being served. Take this to table three and while you’re at it, table four can use a refill.”

“Right,” I murmur, lifting the hot plates from the counter.

“And Violet?”

“Yes?”

“Get rid of that hoodlum before he steps foot inside my restaurant,” she warns, glaring behind me.

Carefully balancing the plates, I turn to see who she’s referring to. My gaze moves to the glass windows and I watch as Rocco walks across the parking lot with two men I’ve never seen before trailing behind him. Ignoring his posse, I focus on him, taking in the suit and…is that a tie?I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear one of those before—at least not correctly.

He pulls open the door and the overhead bell chimes—not that we need a bell to announce his presence or anything. Rocco walks into a room and the aura instantly changes, commanding the attention of everyone sharing his space. The second his eyes find mine the plates nearly fall from my hands. I hate how my body betrays my common sense and reacts to him on its own accord. Every nerve comes alive, all my senses are heightened and my stomach flutters with anticipation. It doesn’t matter that my mom is staring daggers at him or that she ordered me to throw him out of the restaurant.

I’m drawn to him like magnet.

Keeping up with the delivery of mixed signals, he winks at me from across the restaurant and takes a seat at the other end of the counter.

As curious as I am by his presence, I look away and focus on grabbing the customers’ refills. Once I deliver them to the table, I glance toward the kitchen. My mother raises an eyebrow, silently ordering me to get rid of him and I shake my head defiantly.

She forgets she used to feed him and all the times he used to crash on her couch.

She forgets all the Mother’s Day cards he gave her even after his own mom passed and the wounds were still raw.

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