Page 47 of Straightened Out

“Why?” I whisper.

“Just do it.”

Then without another word, he disconnects the call.

He calls me in the middle of the night and without hesitation, I answer.

When he tells me to come outside, I sneak out of my window and hurry down the fire escape.

And when he takes my face in his hands and slams his mouth to mine, I kiss him back.

It’s desperate.

It’s passionate.

It’s consuming.

It’s everything a kiss should be.

Maybe I am naive after all.

Chapter 15

Rocco Spinelli

Iwas officially straightened out. It happened in the backroom of a little trattoria in downtown Brooklyn. Artie Donofrio and Tony Bongiovanni acted as my sponsors. Normally, for a man to be made his sponsors would have had to know him for at least ten years. But the normal rules didn’t apply in Uncle Vic’s world and I met Donofrio and Bongiovanni three hours before my induction ceremony.

My uncle looked on as I pledged my life to his organization, taking the oath of the Omerta. Then he stood before me, took my hand and pricked my trigger finger with a needle. He reached inside his pocket and produced a prayer card of Saint Francis of Assisi, positioning it beneath my hand. We remained silent, both of us watching as my blood dripped onto the card. When the bleeding stopped, Uncle Vic took a lighter from Artie and lit the end of the card.

He lifted his chin and his eyes locked with mine as he handed me the prayer card. In that instant as I held the burning card between my fingers, a reel of all the women in my life, past and present, flashed before my eyes.

My mother.

My sister, Gina.

And the girl I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried, Violet.

I saw the disdain in their eyes.

I saw the fear.

I saw the grief.

I saw it all and I pushed it to the back of my head as I stared at my uncle and said, “As burns this saint, may my soul burn in Hell if I betray the oath of the Overt. I enter alive, but I will have to get out dead.”

The card continued to burn to ash in my hand and never once did I blink. I stared at my uncle and for the first time in my life, I saw pride reflected in those gray eyes. When the ceremony was over, he took my face in his palms and kissed each cheek. Then he patted me on the back and whispered two words I’d remember for the rest of my life.

Thank you.

An hour later we were sitting at a long table in the trattoria, surrounded by Uncle Vic’s crew, passing overflowing plates of food and drinking top-shelf liquor, celebrating my induction into the mafia. I wasn’t sure if every man at the table knew Uncle Vic’s plan for me or that he would be turning himself over to the authorities soon, but as I looked around the table, I realized they soon would answer to me.

They’d steal for me.

They’d kill for me.

They’d lay down and fucking die for me.

It was a lot to process.

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