Connected (The Pastore Crime Family)

by Janine Infante Bosco

His phone rings and he scrambles to find it, patting down his pant pockets for the offensive device.

  “Why is Vi calling me?” he questions, lifting his gaze from the screen.

  Losing my patience with everything and everyone, I take the phone from his hand and send my sister’s call to voicemail. It must be nice to have your only worry be celebrating your birthday.

  “She’s only calling you because I declined her call,” I explain, handing him back his phone. Maybe she’ll get the hint we’ve got more pressing issues to deal with than planning her birthday weekend.

  “Why?” Rocco questions.

  Narrowing my eyes, I clench my fists.

  “What do you mean why? Did you not hear anything I fucking said since I entered this room? I don’t have time to entertain Violet right now and she’s only calling to give me her flight information.”

  “Her flight information,” he repeats.

  “God, you are such a fucking mess,” I hiss, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I told you, my mother is sending her and a few of her friends here for the weekend to celebrate her birthday.”

  “Fuck you, Joaquin, you never mentioned Vi was coming,” he growls, roughly pushing his fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time. “You need to call your mother and tell her to cancel the flights.”

  It’s not lost on me that he’s more concerned over the knowledge Violet is coming for a visit than he is knowing Victor is here checking on him. My eyes narrow and I open my mouth to question why he gives a fuck, but I don’t get to the chance because a knock sounds on the door and two seconds later Victor appears.

  “Uncle Vic,” Rocco greets, staring over my head. I watch as a grin breaks out across his face and he smooths a hand over his suit jacket. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this surprise?”

  Stepping around me, he properly tends to the don by spreading his arms and enveloping the man in a strong embrace, kissing both cheeks before pulling away. I turn to do the same, but Victor doesn’t even realize I’m in the room, he’s too focused on glaring at his nephew.

  “You stink,” he observes. “And where the hell is your fucking tie?”

  “It’s around here somewhere,” Rocco says, all too calm, cool, and collected. “Let me fix you a drink,” he offers as he makes his way to the rolling bar in the corner of the office. Victor watches him tinker with the crystal decanter for a moment before shaking his head and bringing his gaze to me.

  “Joaquin,” he acknowledges. “Always good to see you, son.”

  His eyes rake over me, taking me in from head to toe, and I silently curse myself for not taking the time to put on a tie.

  “The pleasure is all mine, sir,” I say as I lean forward, kissing both cheeks. He pulls back and cups my shoulder.

  “At least you look presentable,” he praises. “This one smells like he spent half the night in a brothel.”

  “I wish you would’ve told me you were coming, Uncle Vic. I would’ve picked you up from the airport,” Rocco says as he hands him a glass of scotch. “Or at the very least sent Joaquin for you.”

  I hate everything about that sentence and not just because it implies I am at his beck and call, but also because it rolls so easily off his tongue. It makes me wonder if he’s even grateful for a damn thing I’ve done . . . all the sacrifices I’ve made and all the times I’ve put myself on the line to protect him.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, okay, Rocco? I’ve been around a long fucking time and if you think for one second I don’t see right through you, you’re sadly mistaking.” His eyes dart to me. “Joaquin, please see yourself out, I need to speak with my nephew in private.”

  I hate that even more.

  It’s another dismissal.

  Another kick in the fucking face.

  A reminder I’m disposable.

  “Of course,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. Lifting my gaze to Rocco, I give him a curt nod. “I’m off. There’s something personal I need to tend to.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” Rocco replies and just like that, I’m dismissed.

  Ignoring the sting, I tell myself I’m acting foolish, that I have no right to be offended. I accepted my fate a long time ago. Made my bed and now I’ve got to lie in it. Besides, Pilar needs me and like everything else in my life, she has taken a backseat to the mob for too long.

  I see myself out of the office and head straight down to the main level. I don’t bother to check on Pablo’s status, nor do I tell any of the staff I’m leaving for the night. I’m disposable after all, therefore, they can all manage just fine without the Puerto Rican.

  Instead of the front door, I leave through the back and spot the sleek town car waiting for me at the curb. Aside from the money and the supped-up penthouse apartment with a view of the water, a personal driver is another perk to having sold my soul to the mafia.

  It’s a short drive seeing as my apartment is conveniently located a couple blocks from the club. When we first started this gig, I didn’t feel comfortable having a driver and often walked to and from work. That shit died though, and I got used to having my ass driven the few blocks. It especially came in handy when Pilar was around. I’d sneak her out the back door with me and spend the short ride kissing her neck and stroking the inside of her thighs, teasing her mercilessly.

  Tonight, seeing her sprawled across one of the leather booths completely unconscious opened my eyes to a lot of things. Mainly, how hopelessly in love with her I am. But I also realized how much I regret having pushed her to do what she did. It’s a guilt I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, one that I’m sure will eat at me like a fucking cancer.

  The car comes to a stop in front of my building and I get out. Desperate to get to Pilar, I bypass the doorman and make my way toward the bank of elevators. My phone rings again . . . and again, I ignore it. In fact, I shut the fucking thing off completely. I don’t recall a time in which I’ve ever done that before. I’m always waiting for a call, ready to make a move. I’m a fucking puppet to anyone who holds the strings.

  The doors open to the top floor and I unlock the door to the penthouse. Miguel immediately pushes off the leather sectional.

  “Where is she?” I ask, tossing my jacket on the back of the couch.

  “In your bed.”

  My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens.

  “Lose the death glare, Joaquin,” he says, rounding the coffee table. “I didn’t touch her.”

  Maybe I was wrong to assume my relationship with Pilar was a secret, or perhaps he’s come to the conclusion by witnessing me with her tonight. Either way, relief swarms my being knowing he had enough sense to know not to touch what is mine.

  “I figured she needed a shower, so I took Mariana off table service. She went back to the club after we got Pilar situated.”

  Giving him a curt nod, I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt.

  “How is she?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything left in her system to throw up,” he answers, crossing his arms. “She probably should’ve been taken to a hospital, but you know that already, don’t you? In fact, you knew that when you ordered me to shoot her with a dose of Narcan.”

  “You got something you want to say to me, then say it. Don’t be a pussy.”

  He shakes his head.

  “What happened tonight wasn’t some fluke thing, Joaquin. You know it and so do I. The only people who don’t is the woman lying in your bed and Rocco. I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate and you need to take care of her,” he says, motioning toward the bedroom. “But when the dust settles, you might want to take a look around because Pablo should’ve never gotten through those doors much less been able to sell his product.”

  Everything he says is true, I just haven’t had a chance to process anything that went down tonight. Still, I don’t like having the truth brought to my attention by someone under me.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s all. I�
��ll see myself out.”

  “You do that,” I tell him as I start for my bedroom.

  I hear Miguel close the front door and I take a step inside my bedroom immediately spotting Pilar in my bed, her brown waves still damp from the shower are splayed across my gray pillows. An ache stirs in my chest as I stare at her and soon my throat begins to tighten. I should’ve felt like this two weeks ago when she stood in this very room with tears streaming down her face, begging me to choose her. To have faith in her love. Instead, I gave her a thousand dollars and sent her on her way.

  Swallowing past the emotion clogged in my throat, I kick off my shoes and start for the bed. I peel back the comforter and gently climb in next to her. For a second I remain completely still, simply taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

  “Lo siento, hermosa. Lo siento por todo,” I rasp.

  I’m sorry for hurting you.

  I’m sorry for loving you.

  But most of all, I’m sorry for what we lost.

  My eyes drift lower and with a trembling hand, I lift the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing, exposing her flat stomach.

  For a short while, there was life inside there.

  A life we created.

  A life I asked her to terminate.

  Tears fill my eyes as I rest my hand to her stomach, and I bow my head.

  “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  Chapter 3

  Pilar Lopez

  The sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing me to open my eyes. At first nothing registers. Not the pounding headache or the fact that my entire body feels hollow and certainly not Joaquin’s body pressed tightly against mine. It takes every bit of strength for me to keep my eyes open and every ounce of willpower not to relish in the intimate way the man who broke me is currently holding me. Instead, I remind myself of the facts.

  He’s using you, Pilar.

  You’re nothing but another notch in his belt.

  A body he can use, abuse, and break.

  Something easily discarded.

  Those cold-hard facts are the exact thoughts that ran through my mind as I sat in a sleek leather booth last night and stared across the crowded club at Joaquin. He had no idea I was there, and as crazy as it sounds, that cut me deep. Not deeper than the abortion, but it still hurt. You see, I’ve always had this idea that love is more than an emotion, that it’s a connection. It’s walking into a crowded room and not being able to see the person you love but knowing they’re close. It’s feeling their presence because whenever they’re near, you’re whole.

  The first time I felt it was three years ago. I was working at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach as a maid and had just finished making up one of the guest rooms. I pushed my cart into the hallway and the door across from the room opened. I felt him before my eyes even met his, before my browns met his blues. I knew the man dressed in a sharp suit was the other half of my soul, the piece I was missing. The love that would complete my life.

  However, to him, I was simply someone who’d bring him clean towels and sadly, three years later, I’m not sure much has changed. While I don’t change his linens anymore, I’m still just something of convenience. I’m a willing body and a decent piece of arm candy for the occasional business function. I’m not the missing link to anything. Not his soul and surely not his heart.

  In fact, I’m not even certain Joaquin has a heart, because if he had, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did or said the things he did when I told him I was carrying his child. That undoubtedly was a missing link, a piece of him he so easily wanted ‘taken care of’.

  “You’re awake.”

  The sound of his raspy voice startles me and I instinctively turn my head. Our eyes lock as he reaches out to gently caress my cheek.

  “You scared me,” he murmurs huskily. “I thought I lost you for good.”

  As badly as I want to believe him, I know better. Nothing scares Joaquin unless it jeopardizes his place in the underworld, another point he proved when he handed me the money for the abortion. A child didn’t fit his lifestyle, he claimed. To him, it was an unfortunate mess that needed to be swept under a rug.

  Anger floods my veins as I recall laying on top of the sterile table. I stared at the halogen lights above me with my legs spread open and cried as they drained the life from my body. He wasn’t there holding my hand, assuring me I was doing the right thing. Nor was he there to remind me of his argument, citing a child of his would only suffer because of the choices he made and the lifestyle he lived. No, Joaquin wanted no part of anything.

  Not the child.

  Not the abortion.

  Not the heartache.

  I suppose I’m lucky he provided a car to drive me to and from the clinic. Maybe I should get down on my hands and knees and thank him for the heating pad he bought me when I told him the cramping was unbearable. I bet he’d like that.

  “Pilar, say something,” he pleads.

  Funny, that’s why I went to the club last night. There was so much I wanted to say, so many words I wanted to use as weapons, but when the opportunity presented itself, I just couldn’t do it. Instead, I looked for a way to alleviate the pain. A man slid into the booth next to me and unlike Joaquin, he noticed the hurt in my eyes. I should’ve been wary. I should’ve remembered Joaquin’s boss didn’t like drugs in his club, but when that man slipped the baggie into the palm of my hand, all I knew was I held something that would erase the debilitating pain consuming me.

  Swallowing, I focus on Joaquin’s handsome face. There was a time when I would’ve been perfectly content just staring into his eyes after a long night of making love.

  “I wish I never met you,” I whisper, watching as regret flashes in his blue eyes.

  Expecting him to release his hold on me, he surprises me by keeping his gaze locked with mine. Fearing he will see right through my defenses, I turn my head. Joaquin reaches out, touching a hand to my cheek and with ease, he forces my eyes back to his.

  “You don’t mean that,” he argues softly.

  His thumb gently strokes my cheek and the simple touch is too much. My resolve starts to crumble just as it always does when it comes to this man. That’s how this thing works between us, I finally get the courage to say I’ve had enough and he strips me down with a single look, a gentle touch, maybe even a false promise, but never the three words I yearn to hear.

  Tears sting my eyes as I meet his gaze.

  “You’re right, but— ”

  My words die as he silences me by touching a finger to my lips.

  “Don’t,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if the lone word is a demand or a plea. I want to believe it’s the latter, that he is finally willing to fight for me, for us. That he’s ready to let love lead. The storm of emotions raging in his eyes says so, but I need the words.

  I need action.

  I deserve both.

  But all I get is his skillful mouth.

  Determined lips press against mine as his fingers thread through my hair, holding my head in place as his tongue slips inside my mouth. I close my eyes at the sensation and against my better judgment, I return the kiss, letting my tongue mingle and dance with his. A groan rumbles from his throat as he rolls on top of me, nudging my legs apart.

  Lifting my hands to his cheeks, I spread my legs and welcome his weight. In the back of my head I know I’m a fool, that I’m letting him use me, but I’m too weak to fight. I need this connection. I need to feel him one more time.

  Tearing his mouth from mine, his lips travel down my neck, sucking, licking and nibbling as his hands roam under the t-shirt I’m wearing, searing every inch of skin they touch. Suddenly, his assault on my neck ends and my eyes flutter open at the loss. Crooking his finger, he urges me to sit up and as I do, he brings the t-shirt over my head, tossing it to the side as I lay my head back against the pillow.

  His eyes rake over me like he knows it’s the last time he’ll ever see me naked, committing my body to memory. The
n his hands follow the path of his gaze, starting with my breasts, paying extra attention to my overly sensitive nipples. He flicks and pinches the buds before taking them between his teeth.

  Pain.

  So much pain.

  That’s his specialty. He tears me apart, gives me a dose of agony and then he delivers me the sweet. With controlled patience, he licks my nipples, soothing the sting before his mouth lowers to my belly.

  Flat.

  Barren.

  He peppers kisses over my olive skin and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I imagined what I would look like with a rounded belly and I looked forward to the day he’d lay his hand over it and feel our baby kick for the first time.

  Lifting his eyes to mine, he pauses and for the first time, I see the sorrow in those blue orbs.

  I see the pain too.

  And regret.

  But most of all I see grief.

  “Lo siento,” he rasps before lowering his gaze back to my belly. I almost believe him . . . almost.

  He places another kiss to my belly before he hooks his thumbs around the thin waistband of my panties, dragging them down my legs. Bare and on display, I watch as he leans back on his haunches and stares at my pussy. A feral groan escapes his lips and I commit the sound to my memory.

  There’s a sliver of me that is vindictive, a part that wishes to make him hurt a fraction of the way he’s made me hurt and it’s that piece of me that’s calling to me right now. I want to tell him to take a good look at me, to remember how it feels to be buried inside of me because after today he doesn’t get the privilege anymore.

  Instead, I tell him to grab a condom.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he makes quick work of removing his shirt before roughly freeing his long, thick cock from his slacks. Leaning forward, I wrap my hand around his shaft, letting my thumb graze the head as Joaquin pushes his fingers into my hair.

  “Chupa mi polla,” he rasps.

  Before I do as he requests, my eyes flit to his. I bend my head and lick the come from the tip of his cock.