Wake up, Violet.
I pinch the insides of my arms—something I’ve been doing since I crawled under the table to seek shelter from the gunfire. The pain of my sharp nails cuts into my skin, but I don’t wake up from the nightmare.
This is real.
Everything I witnessed isn’t a figment of my imagination.
Those men stormed into the restaurant and opened fire on my brother and Rocco.
They killed that woman, that beautiful woman my brother cradled in his arms.
Pilar.
The vision of my brother crying over her body, her blood on his hands…on his clothes, seeping through his shirt, assaults me. Anxiety rolls over me in waves and I lift my head from Rocco’s shoulder. His eyes immediately find mine in the dark and he tightens his hold on me, raising one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s all over.”
Nothing about either sentence is true and we both know that. At this very moment, my brother might be getting arrested and if he isn’t, he’s hurting—grieving a woman who died in cold blood. I should be with him. Rocco should be with him too.
The car comes to a stop and before I can say a word, the driver opens the door. Rocco expertly maneuvers us out of the car and carries me into the apartment complex. There’s a small part of me that wants to protest—a part that wants answers—but more than anything, I just want to feel safe. I want to close my eyes and pretend none of this happened.
The elevator opens to Rocco’s floor and he carries me down the hallway.
“Hermano, que diablos paso?”
At the sound of the Spanish tongue, I lift my head from Rocco’s shoulder and stare at the two men surrounding his door. My body goes completely still as every fiber of my being goes on high alert. Sensing my unease, Rocco squeezes me.
“It’s okay,” he assures. “They work for me.”
Those words might’ve comforted me once, but after what I’ve seen tonight I stare at the two men dressed head to toe in black and the menacing scowls on their faces, wondering how many people they’ve killed and at whose order.
They don’t pay me any mind, though. One of the men opens the door for Rocco, the other steps out of his way. Once we’re inside the condo, Rocco carries me straight to his bedroom and sets me down on the foot of the bed. Somewhat bewildered, I stare up at him and wonder how he can be so calm. He hasn’t missed a beat since the mayhem imploded in that restaurant and he’s still going. It’s terrifying but it’s also fascinating.
He lowers himself to his knees and removes my shoes. Dragging in a sharp breath, he places the shoes neatly on the floor and lifts his eyes to mine. Silence stretches between us for a beat as I try to find the courage to ask him at least one of the several questions running through my head. But what’s the point—anything I ask will be met with a lie.
“I have to go talk to those men and get a handle on tonight’s situation.” He pauses to roughly comb his fingers through his hair. “I have to send someone for your brother too. The bathroom is right through that door, why don’t you get out of that dress, maybe draw yourself a bath. I’ll come and check on you.”
“That’s how we’re going to play this?” I ask hoarsely. “I should just go in the shower and pretend nothing happened tonight?”
Biting the inside of his jaw, he rises to his full height. When he doesn’t answer me, I press.
“What if those people who killed that girl aren’t finished with you? What if they come here—"
“Violet, no one is coming here. I promise you that.”
I shake my head.
Lies.
“You don’t know that,” I screech.
He could’ve been killed tonight—no, scratch that—all of us could’ve been killed and for what? His uncle? How is that fair?
Cupping the back of his neck, he clenches his jaw as a war rages in those dark eyes of his.
“I know for a fact no one is coming here,” he grinds out. “I don’t have time to fight with you, Violet, and I sure as fuck don’t have time to coddle you.”
Anger washes over me in angry violent waves.
“Coddle me?” I shriek as I stand. Giving into the anger, I push at his chest. “I don’t need you to coddle me, Rocco! I need you to explain what the fuck happened. I need you to tell me why we almost died tonight, because in case you didn’t realize it yet, any one of us could’ve wound up like that poor woman. So, yes, I’m freaked out. I have every right to be. At the rate you’re going you’ll be dead before you turn thirty and so will my brother.”
As the words leave my lips, I realize he expects me to ignore the fact that he and my brother are so deeply involved in the mob that they have people shooting at them. I’m supposed to turn my cheek. There is no reeling him anymore. He has dug his grave and now there is no turning back, not for him and not for my brother.
Suddenly, tears stream my cheeks, and my fists pummel his chest over and over. After a moment, he grips my wrists and stills my hands against his chest. His gaze lowers and his features harden as he mutters a curse. Then, before I can react, he drags me toward the bathroom. Kicking the door closed behind him, he releases my hands and heads straight for the glass shower.
I’m about to argue with him some more when I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor to ceiling mirror.
Mascara streaks my cheeks, but that’s not what makes me gasp in horror. It’s the blood spattered across the span of skin right above neckline of my dress that does that. My gaze lowers and I touch my fingers to the black lace. Drawing my hand away, I stare at the crimson coloring on my fingertips and the guttural cry that escapes my lips echoes off the tile walls of Rocco’s bathroom.
Panic surges through me and I start to tug at the neckline of the dress desperate to rid it from my body, tearing the lace as I pull it down my shoulders. Rocco’s arms wrap around me from behind and he quickly turns me to face him, lifting me over his shoulder as he marches for the shower.
My fists slam against his back.
I fight to catch my breath.
Desperation claws at me.
Wake up, Violet.
Wake up from the nightmare!
Rid yourself from the blood.
From the carnage.
The shower doors open and in one swift move, Rocco sets me on my feet under the spray of hot water. I open my mouth to yell at him, but the words die on my tongue as he steps in fully clothed. The water falls over him as he reaches behind me, finding the zipper of my dress. Blinking away the pellets of water that cling to his eyelashes, he pulls down the zipper with ease. Then his hands are on my shoulders, gently pushing the lace down my body until it pools around my feet, leaving me in just a pair of panties.
There is nothing sexual about the act, though. In fact, his eyes never leave mine as I step out of the dress. I cross my arms over my bare breasts and peer into his brown eyes, hoping to find something I’m not sure exists anymore.
Compassion.
Regret.
Anything that tells me he isn’t so disconnected from who he used to be.
That he stills possesses a conscience.
He reaches for me, cupping my face in his palms and leans closer.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, touching his forehead to mine. “I’m so fucking sorry you had to see any of what you saw tonight. That my life bled into yours.”
My hands cover his on my face as tears roll down my cheeks. I cry for him. For me.
For the girl who lost her life and my brother who is alone, mourning her.
I cry because even though I had an idea of what Rocco and Joaquin were becoming under Victor Pastore’s thumb, I never imagined any of this. Where I come from, you hear the word mob and you automatically think lavish lifestyle. You picture Victor Pastore and his flamboyant ways, beating court cases and hosting a firework display on the Fourth of July that makes the Macy’s show look weak. You think about his wife, the classy woman who sits behind him in the
courtroom and hands out gourmet candy apples to Trick or Treaters. You don’t think of the men under him that keep him in his throne and all the bodies they’ve collected. You don’t ever think that one day you’ll be standing in a shower washing someone’s blood from your skin.
A heavy knock sounds on the bathroom door, jarring both of us and Rocco drops his hands away from my face.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” he says hoarsely. Then he pauses to swallow. “You may think I’m a monster now, and maybe I am, but as long as I’m alive, I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
He turns to open the shower door and I lean my back against the cold tile, watching as he steps out. His designer suit clings to his body like a second skin. He stops at the vanity and opens the medicine cabinet. Grabbing an orange prescription bottle from the shelf, he sets it on top of the counter and turns back to me.
“Follow the directions on the bottle. It will help you relax,” he says.
Then with another fleeting glance in my direction, he exits the bathroom. I close my eyes and I sink to floor of the shower. Bringing my knees to my chest, I tip my chin toward the spray of water and let the water rain down on me.
The water may wash away the blood, but it doesn’t wash away the sins that were committed tonight.
Nothing washes that away.
Chapter 11
Rocco Spinelli
The second I step out of the bathroom, my gut churns with something I can’t quite place. It’s foreign and something a man like me has no place for in his life. I force myself to ignore it, to bury it deep where it doesn’t have a chance of ever resurfacing.
There’s work to do.
Sins to repent.
Vengeance to be had.
A fucking empire that needs ruling.
I lift my head and find Omar standing in the middle of my bedroom, his arms crossed against his chest. He takes in my soaking wet appearance and narrows his eyes.
Don’t try to figure me out, pal.
It’s a waste of time.
“Should I call Joaquin?” he questions, his gaze darting behind me at the closed door. “That’s his sister, no?” I scoff, shrugging my jacket off. It drops to the floor with a thud as I mull over his words. One would automatically assume he wants to call Joaquin because of Violet, but there is doubt in his eyes. He doesn’t know what went down, he’s just certain I’m not fit to handle it.
Perceptive.
And probably not wrong either.
But I’m the one who called him.
I’m the one who ordered him and Manny to meet me at my apartment.
I pull my shirt out from the waistband of my pants and wring the ends. Water drips to the floor and I shake my head. I don’t know what the fuck came over me but the second Violet started losing it, I stared at the blood splattered across her chest and I snapped. I didn’t know how Pilar’s blood wound up on her, but I couldn’t handle the sight of it staining her flawless skin. Even though I knew it wasn’t her blood, a little voice in the back of my head reminded me that it could’ve been and that fucking gutted me.
Making quick work of the buttons on my shirt, I reach for my belt. My hands pause and I look back at Omar who still stands in front of me with a perplexed expression on his face.
Arching an eyebrow, I ask, “Think you can give me a minute?”
It’s not really an odd request seeing as how I’m fucking soaked, yet he looks at me like I just asked him for a kidney or something. A good thirty seconds go by before he even blinks.
Clearly, I should’ve paid more attention when we hired this one.
“Yeah, I’m going to call Joaquin,” he says finally and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell.
“Put your phone away,” I bark.
“But—”
“Motherfucker, you answer to me not Joaquin, and I just gave you an order.”
“Rocco—”
I cut him off, closing the distance between us and grabbing him by the neck.
“Rodriguez’ crew got their revenge for Pablo tonight and opened fire at the restaurant, during a private meeting with my uncle. That’s why you’re here, that’s why the fucking club is closed tonight. You want to call Joaquin? Go ahead, but he ain’t going to fucking answer because he’s either locked up or at the morgue visiting Pilar.”
I release my hold on him and take a step back. Keeping his expression neutral, he touches a tattooed hand to his neck and rolls it from side to side.
“What happened to Pilar?”
“She dropped a toaster in the bathtub and electrocuted herself,” I sneer. “What the fuck do you think happened to her? She was shot. They killed her right in front of him,” I growl, shaking my head as the memory flashes before my eyes.
I’m still trying to understand why she was there in the first place.
“Joaquin must be devastated,” Omar says, running a hand over his face. “What do you need me to do?”
“Well, for starters, you can get the fuck out of my bedroom so I can change out of these wet clothes. If you really want to make yourself useful, you’ll fix me a drink while you’re waiting.”
He lowers his hand from his face and mutters something in Spanish. I’m not fluent by any means, but I’d bet the house he isn’t singing my praises. His eyes dart to the bathroom door for a fleeting second.
“What about the sister?”
“She isn’t any of your concern,” I clip.
Omar gets the hint—finally— and makes his way out of my bedroom. As soon as the door closes behind him I start for my closet. Grabbing the first suit I see, I peel the wet clothes from my body and quickly change. I’m just about to shrug the jacket on when I realize the shower has turned off.
The bathroom door opens and a sense of déjà vu washes over me as she emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body. Her eyes find mine and she closes the distance between us, shoving the prescription bottle of Ambien against my chest.
“I don’t take other people’s medication,” she says, but there is no bite to her tone. Still, I cringe as my hand closes around the bottle. It sounds cheap and like I’m intentionally trying to drug her, when in reality, I had no malicious intent at all.
I stare at her for a beat, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of my stomach resurfaces. I gave her the pill because she was on the verge of hysteria and I genuinely thought it might help her rest. I’m at a loss here. She’s been traumatized and I can’t give her the attention she deserves, not when I’m being pulled in a million different directions.
Tearing her gaze from mine, she turns to my bed. Holding the towel to her body, she one-handedly pulls down the comforter. I wait for her to turn back to me, to give me that hot temper of hers, but she gives me nothing.
Silence.
It’s fucking deafening.
Then she drops the towel.
She climbs into my bed, pulling the covers over her body and her dull blue eyes find mine.
“Don’t you have a murder you need to sweep under the rug?”
The world can think whatever they want of me, but I have a real big problem with Violet thinking less of me and I don’t know why.
“Let’s get something straight, sweetheart, I didn’t kill Pilar. Her blood ain’t on my hands and that’s not my mess.”
“Whose mess is it then?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. Her long, wet locks hang over her shoulder and are darker than usual. It’s a different look from the blonde waves I’m accustomed to and just as alluring.
Dismissing the thought, I shake my head.
“Come on, don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to. You don’t want to go to bed, no problem. Have a fucking party in here, but I’ve got things I need to handle—things that involve reeling your brother in from the deep end.”
“Then why are you still standing here?”
> I have no fucking idea.
All I know is whenever I walk away from her it feels like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind.
~*~
After briefing Omar and Manny on what happened, I went to my safe and retrieved my burner phone.
Note to self: remove your fucking phone and any cash you might be carrying before stepping into the shower fully clothed.
My iPhone is currently sitting in a bowl of white rice courtesy of Manny. It’s fine, though. When things tend to go from fucked to motherfucked, I use the burner anyway—less of a chance of the feds tapping into the line. Not that I got the feds breathing down my back, but anything is possible where Uncle Vic is concerned.
Anyway, as soon as the thing sparked to life, the text messages started coming through—every one of them from my uncle, ordering me to meet him. That was an hour ago and I immediately sent Omar and Manny on the hunt for Joaquin, hoping they’d get him and bring him back before it was time for me to leave.
I pour myself another scotch and step onto my balcony. The salty air from the ocean fills my nostrils and my mind wanders back to the beauty in my bed. The only thing that will make this night more of a disaster is if I can’t bring her brother home. Dropping into one of the wicker chairs, I playback every move I made after the shooting, making sure I didn’t miss a step.
I shouldn’t have let him go back inside the restaurant after I got him out, but someone needed to get Violet out of there. The fucking Cabrera’s were gonna be the death of me.
Downing the rest of the scotch, I pull myself to my feet and make my way back inside the apartment. I barely have a chance to close the sliding door when the front door opens. Omar and Manny enter with Joaquin in tow and I set my glass down as he lifts his chin and locks eyes with me.
“Thank Christ,” I hiss.
He doesn’t reply, though. His gaze darts to the bar and he steps away from Omar and Manny to fix himself a drink. I look at Omar, but he just shakes his head and mouths the words, no good.
Straightened Out (The Pastore Crime Family Book 1) Page 8