Page 59 of Straightened Out

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 thatyouwant?” 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

Ican 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 mansion 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.

---