I started hitting the bottle again and in my drunken stupor I had a revelation. I was a master of wasting time. Think about it—I wasted years fighting with my sister and twice as many ignoring the girl that was right in front of me. It’s my biggest regret and that’s saying something considering how long that list of regrets has become.
There are times when I contemplate if letting her go was the right move. I tell myself that there is less of a chance that any of my enemies will harm her if they think she doesn’t matter to me, but then I counter that with the fact that no one is going to protect her like me. No one will lay down their life for hers—not really.
Joaquin says it for the best, but he never truly wanted me with Violet. Part of me thinks he’s bitter that I got the girl of my dreams when all he got was a death certificate. Harsh, I know, but that don’t make it any less true.
Take tonight for instance, it’s Violet’s opening night. The first time she’ll take stage and dance under the bright lights of Lincoln Center. The first time she’ll see her name in print on a program. Joaquin found out I bought a ticket and threw a fucking fit. I have no intention of making my presence known, I just want to see her for myself. I want to sit back in the dark theater and watch her dream become a reality. He thinks I’m making a play for her heart. That I’m sending mixed signals or some shit like that, but he doesn’t know how I ended things. He thinks I took the easy way out and made her think she didn’t matter to me, that she was just a warm body I used to pass the time. I was straight with Violet. I made my love for her clear. I let her understand that it’s because of that love, that I was breaking her heart and mine too.
Love is a finicky thing.
It toys with your emotions.
It rules your conscience.
It decides your fate.
Love is a bitch, but so is life.
The lights dim and the curtains rise as the orchestra begins to play. I’ve never been one for instrumental music, but listening to it now, associating it with Violet, well, it’s fucking beautiful. But it doesn’t compare to the beauty on the stage dancing in sync with every chord.
My pretty ballerina.
My saving grace.
My heart.
The one thing that makes living worthwhile.
“You did it, Bug,” I rasp. “You fucking did it.”
Chapter 33
Violet Cabrera
There have been times in my short life where I’ve endured immeasurable bouts of pain. Times when I wanted to give up on myself, on my dreams and even life itself. Times when the world was too ugly to bear. But I quickly realized those times when I wondered how I’d ever prevail, were in fact the times that changed me and made me stronger. The dust settled, the fear of failure faded, and hope was restored as I straightened my crown and pressed forward. I followed my heart and chased my dreams and tonight, one of those dreams came true.
I stood on that stage, under those bright lights and I danced my heart out. Me, the Puerto Rican girl no one expected to make it as a ballerina, danced for hundreds of people in Lincoln Center.
Lincoln-fucking-center.
I made it.
Despite the constant ridicule and body shaming. They said I wasn’t graceful. That I didn’t have the body of a ballerina. My hips were too wide and my ass way too round. They implied I was made to dance on tables and entice hard-ons from men with deep pockets.
But I showed them.
I showed them the girl with a broken heart and a desperate need to be loved by a man she can never have is stronger than she knows.
In the weeks since Rocco broke up with me, I’ve wanted to give up more times than I care to admit. I wanted to cry in bed until the pain faded and I wanted to beg Rocco to change his mind.
To choose love over fear.
Love over violence.
Me over the mob.
Of course none of that happened. His mind was made up and I knew in my heart there was nothing I could ever say or do to make him see things differently. There was no choice but to move on. To follow the path I had set out on before Rocco made me his.
I dried my eyes, laced my Bloch slippers and got to work.
Turns out the joke was on me all along, though. You see, when tragedy is a lead in your story the narrative doesn’t change. There may be a brief pause where you foolishly believe you’ve beat the odds, but it quickly fades, and you’re reminded that happily ever after only exists in fairytales.
My ears went from buzzing with thunderous applause to ringing from the sound of gunshots. I no longer am bowing for a room full of uptight fucks. Instead, I’m on my knees, on the steps of one of New York’s most historic landmarks, shielding the body of the man I love. I stare at my hands and watch as his blood drips from my fingers, acknowledging it’s the same shade of red as the hundreds of roses that filled my dressing room. I look back at the man who sent those flowers, the one struggling to breathe, and I press my bloody hands to the gaping wound in his chest. Our eyes lock as I lean over him.
“Stay with me, Rocco,” I rasp. His lips part but no words come, only the short breaths of a dying man. I press my hands deeper against the wound. Hysteria rips through me as I frantically shake my head, my eyes pleading with him as I cry, “You can’t die on me. I’m not done loving you.”
Every love story has an ending, but this can’t be ours.
The tale of the mobster and the ballerina doesn’t end like this.
Does it?
Chapter 34
Violet Cabrera
“Here,” my brother says, offering me a glass of some amber colored drink. “Drink it, it will calm your nerves.”
“What is it?” I ask, taking the crystal tumbler from his hand.
“Brandy,” he replies and takes a seat next to me on the sofa. I lift the glass to my lips and close my eyes as I take a sip. The alcohol slides smoothly down my throat and warms my belly almost immediately, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. I lift my head and stare across the room at the shut door, knowing behind it there’s a man who I’m not even sure is a real doctor, operating on Rocco. To be clear, we’re not in a hospital, we’re in the Hamptons, at a house Victor bought when his daughters were young and recently left to Anthony Bianci.
After the shooting, Bruno arrived in a Escalade and pulled it in front of Lincoln center. Joaquin carried Rocco to the truck while Richie helped me to my feet. On wobbly legs, I hurried down the steps and climbed into the backseat. As soon as I got myself situated, I continued to apply pressure to Rocco’s wound, but he was no longer conscious. I immediately assumed the worse and started to scream. That’s when Richie intervened and was able to find a pulse.
“He’s going to be fine,” Joaquin says, pulling me away from my thoughts. I want to believe him, but I glance down at my arm—at the spot that is still sore from the blood transfusion and shake my head.
As soon as we arrived here the doctor told us there would be no way he’d be able to remove the bullet without a transfusion, that Rocco had lost way too much blood and wouldn’t be able to survive surgery. There was so much about those words that bothered me. For one, we were not in a hospital and I found it incredibly alarming that this man was even willing to perform a procedure of any kind without the proper equipment. But really what other option was there? Joaquin made it clear that they couldn’t go to a hospital and while I didn’t understand why, I knew this man claiming to be a surgeon was our only option.
We didn’t have access to a blood bank, but when Joaquin revealed Rocco’s blood type, I instantly rolled up my sleeve. I knew in my heart we were soulmates, but it was confirmed when I discovered we had the same blood type.
The doctor immediately drew my blood and got to work on removing the bullet. It’s been hours and he hasn’t emerged once with an update. Richie is in there, though, acting as a nurse and that’s terrifying.
I like him a lot, but I hardly think he knows the difference between a scalpel and a pair of scissors.
“Hey,” Joaquin calls. “Look at me.”
I lift my head and our eyes lock.
“He’s going to make it,” he assures, conviction evident in his tone. Then he swipes a hand over his face and shakes his head. “I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Neither did I,” I whisper. “He had sent me flowers to congratulate me.” Tons and tons of flowers. Just thinking back to the moment when I walked into my dressing room brings a small smile to my face. It was a thoughtful gesture and a reminder that he still cared, but I never expected him to be in the audience. I bring my eyes back to my brother. “Mrs. Beechers spotted him and after the curtain went down, she pulled me to the side and told me he was there.” It wasn’t courtesy, though. She didn’t want the Academy to get any bad press on opening night and asked me to see to it that he left without incident.
I guess that backfired for her. Not only did the press likely catch the whole shooting, but they definitely saw me—a member of the Academy—covered in Rocco’s blood. Not to mention there were people still filing out of the theater when the shooting occurred.
“I know everything is probably a blur, but I need to know if you saw who shot him,” Joaquin says.
I shake my head.
“It happened too fast,” I reply.
Once I got outside, I spotted him walking down the stairs and I called out to him. He turned around and I rushed down the rest of the steps to meet him. I barely got the chance to thank him for the flowers before I heard the first shot ring out. I was instantly transcended back to the night in Miami but instead of letting fear overcome me, I acted on instinct and dropped to my knees. Rocco turned around and that’s when the bullet hit him. He fell back almost instantly, and even though he was down the shots continued. That’s when I crawled over his body and tried to shield him from anymore bullets.
I closed my eyes and tried not to panic. I blocked out the screams of the innocent bystanders and prayed we’d survive. I don’t remember when the gunfire stopped or what made me finally feel brave enough to lift myself off him and access the damage. But when I did, all I saw was blood.
“You’re going to have to lay low for a while,” Joaquin says, pulling my attention back to him. “That means resigning from the production,” he clarifies. I stare at him for a moment. Does he really think after what happened I have a place in the Academy? I’ve probably already been replaced. Not that it matters—all that matters is the man in the next room. If he doesn’t make it through this, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Our break-up broke my heart, but deep down I believed as long as he and I were both alive, there was hope that one day the stars would align, and we could be together. If he dies that hope dies with him.
Swallowing, I push that thought aside and focus on Joaquin.
“Laying low won’t be a problem, the Academy will never allow me to continue there after what happened tonight. My career is finished.”
“Violet—”
“No, Joaquin. I’m fine with it. I can live without the ballet, but I can’t live without Rocco.” I look away and stare at the door. “I know you don’t understand our relationship. I also know you probably had a hand in him breaking up with me, but I love him, Joaquin. Flaws and all, I love that man and if he dies—”
“He’s not going to die,” he interrupts. “And I can promise you whoever did this to him is going to fucking pay and they’re going to pay dearly.”
“I doubt that considering you don’t even know who shot him!”
His jaw clenches.
“I have a good fucking idea.”
Someone clears their throat and we both turn to face Richie. He glances over his shoulder and the doctor emerges from the room, holding a pair of tweezers and what looks like a Corningware dish. He plucks the bullet from the dish and looks back at us.
“You got the bullet?” Joaquin asks.
“Sure did.”
“How is he?”
“Critical but stable,” he answers, dropping the tweezer and the bullet back in the dish. He hands it off to Richie and pulls the latex gloves from his hands. “The man needs a hospital and another transfusion.”
“I can give more blood,” I say, holding out my arm. The doctor looks at me before bringing his eyes to my brother, completely dismissing me.
“I gave him morphine for the pain and antibiotics, but—”
I don’t let him continue. I’m too anxious to see him with my own eyes. Too desperate to bleach the memory of him gasping for breath and bleeding out from my mind.
“Can I see him?”
Annoyed I interrupted him, his gaze cuts back to me.
“He’s not conscious.”
“I don’t care. I just need to see him.”
The doctor looks at Joaquin for direction and I watch my brother give him the slightest hint of a nod. Then I take off for the bedroom, leaving the two of them to go over Rocco’s plan of care. As soon as I step foot inside the bedroom my eyes fill with tears. I rush to his side and take his hand when all I really want to do is lay my head on his chest and hear his heartbeat. I lift his hand and press my lips to his wrist, lingering for a moment until I feel his pulse beat against my lips.
Closing my eyes, I silently thank God.
As long as he’s alive, there is hope.
There is love.
Chapter 35
Rocco Spinelli
At the end of a man’s life he won’t reflect on all the scores he settled. He won’t revel in the power he had or the ranks he climbed to get it. He won’t count his wins, but he will measure his regrets. I know this to be a fact because after that bullet hit me, that’s exactly what happened. I stared into Violet’s eyes and I wished for more time. More moments spent loving her and not missing her. Another chance and not to say goodbye, but to make it right.
I’ve never been a man of faith, but when I opened my eyes and saw Violet sitting beside my bed, still covered in my blood, I became a believer. It wasn’t luck that saved me. It wasn’t skill. It was God. He wanted me to be better. To have another shot at this life. To repent my sins.
“You’re awake,” she said, her voice hoarse. There were tears streaming down her pretty face too, tears I wanted so desperately to brush away, but I couldn’t move. I could barely speak. My throat was dry, and it felt as if there was a cinderblock laying on my chest.
She leaned forward and took my face in her hands. Our eyes locked and a sad smile slowly spread across her face.
“You’re really awake,” she whispered.
I forced my lips apart and struggled to say the only words that mattered.
“I…love…you.”
It came out as a whisper, but I was sure she heard it and that was enough for me. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep. When I woke again, some hours later, she was still at my side. She had changed her clothes and was sleeping in the chair next to the bed.
“She won’t leave the room.”
I tried to turn at the sound of Joaquin’s voice, but as soon as I moved my head, I felt like I was going to throw up. He must’ve noticed my discomfort and moved to my line of sight.
“Bullet got lodged in your chest,” he reveals, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Doc was able to get it out, but you lost a lot of blood.” He pauses and looks at Violet. “Did you know the two of you share the same blood type?”
I forced a swallow, biting through the pain and managed a single word.
“No.”
“Yeah, well you do,” he said, bringing his eyes back to me. “Got her blood flowing through your veins, now.” He paused for a beat. “That’s something, ain’t it?”
It sure fucking was.
“Look, Rocco, I know I’ve been hard on you when it comes to her, that I may have swayed you into believing you didn’t deserve her, but I see it. I see the love you got for her and she for you. No man or woman should ever try to interfere with that. It’s too rare. Too fucking special.”
“It could’ve been her,” I r
asp.
He shakes his head.
“Not this time,” he said pointedly before revealing everything he knew about the shooting. Apparently, there was no trace of a car or sign of shooter. No one saw anything, leading him to believe it was a sniper. Someone wanted me dead and only me. They weren’t looking to make an example of Violet or trying to prove a point. They wanted to execute me. Period. End of story.
Of course, Joaquin thinks Yankovich is responsible. With me out of the picture that leaves the Knights as his only roadblock. I suppose it makes sense, but what’s the end game. Where do we go from here? He shot me in public. I was surrounded by people and according to him, the shooting made the front page of the papers. Hell, some newspapers are reporting I’m dead. Forget being the second coming of Victor Pastore, I’m the next Jimmy Hoffa. Not to mention, they’ve identified Violet too. Once they find us, they’ll probably take her in for questioning. They’ll press her information and even though I was the one who got shot, they’ll look to take me down. And if they don’t, if the cops lay off and Yankovich finds out I survived, well, then the thing we feared most, may become a reality and he’ll go after Violet.
It was a lot to think about and I was still feeling the effects of the morphine. Joaquin told me to give it some thought, and I did until I fell asleep again. Now, it’s the next morning and I still don’t have a solution, but I have Violet lying next to me and anything else doesn’t seem to matter.
“How are you feeling?” she questions I intertwine our fingers.
The pain has lessened some and I’m able to move a little more freely. I still haven’t kissed her, though, but that’s only because Violet has this unrealistic fear that if her lips touch my chest will split open and I’ll die.
“Like I can run a marathon,” I reply, winking at her. She doesn’t find the humor in my response, so I say, “Like I’ve been shot and have the most beautiful girl’s blood running through my veins.”
Straightened Out (The Pastore Crime Family Book 1) Page 24