Page 15 of Under the Influence

“I never figured somebody who grew up in the life would be so jumpy,” Rocco’s gravelly voice says as he sits beside me.

“I don’t normally see guys get whacked on a day-to-day basis,” I say slowly. “What the hell was that about?”

“Whacked?” He snorts. “You watch too many Mafia movies. My cousin Benito had an altercation with Gennaro regarding territories which didn’t go well, and his brother Fabio was looking to get even.”

“You didn’t let him? Why?”

“Because he was out of line. There are rules to solving these kinds of disputes, laws of insulation and he bypassed all of them,” he says frowning.

“Not much of a birthday,” I say slowly.

“I’m not much of a birthday guy.” He muses.

“So, you killed your own cousin?” I say slowly after a few moments.

“It was either I killed him, or he killed you. If any other man in there apart from me killed him, it would have caused a war.”

“Why?” I say slowly.

“Because that is the way it goes, Gennaro killed Benito and Fabio wanted to return the favor. I couldn’t let him do that, it’s bad for business.”

“Sentimental,” I say smiling.

“Sentimentality will get you clipped.”

“Even on your birthday.”

“Even on your birthday,” he repeats.

He offers me a cigarette and I take it, even though I don’t smoke it I just keep it to occupy my hands.

“You cause a ruckus everywhere you go,” he says knitting his eyebrows together.

“Meaning?” I say feeling myself blush.

“How many of us have you got hanging on a string?”

“Us?” I say in repulsion.

“Pietro, Henri, and the one you got tattooed on your wrist. I guess that one must have meant something to be permanent.”

“Maybe he still does, what is it to you?” The realization that he sees me as a whore floods through me like arctic water.

“I guess I don’t like the thought of anyone having access to you, maybe I’m just a greedy motherfucker,” he says, leaning into me.

I look down to avoid his gaze, but he tilts my chin up, and my eyes meet his. Like a magnet I’m being pulled closer to the irresistible force of Rocco De Luca. I can almost taste his scent, whiskey tinged with Nicotine mixed with a heady aftershave, the same musk from his jacket that still hangs in my closet.

His lips brush mine gently, and I feel his hands run roughly through my hair. The low guttural groan in his throat sets goose pimples all over my body. Suddenly the door slams and we spring apart. When I glance behind me, I see the woman who brought out Rocco’s cake giving him a quizzical look. “Your guests are waiting for you,” she says pointedly.

“I will be in shortly,” he says in a clipped tone. She nods and walks back in as he stands up and straightens his jacket.

“Is that one of your other girlfriends?” I say, feeling an insatiable surge of jealousy rocket through me.

“My what?” he says in disgust.

“Oh, come on, every man has a side piece. Whatever you want to call it.”

“She’s my sister,” he says, looking at me bemused.

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