Chapter 1
Rocco Spinelli
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the one and only Rocco Spinelli.”
Leaning back against the leather booth, I tug at the tie around my neck and lift my eyes to the scantily dressed barmaid. Actually, scantily dressed would be generous considering all she wears is a thong—the universal dress code for all the girls who work at Delilah’s Den.
Forcing my gaze away from her rack, I meet her welcoming smile, but I don’t return the gesture. The truth is I don’t feel much like smiling. I came here tonight with one purpose and one purpose only and that’s to forget. Clearly, it’s working, because this broad obviously knows who I am and I can’t place her for the life of me.
Shifting her weight from one high-heel to the other, she tucks her serving tray under her arm and licks her lips. Her big green eyes find mine, and she croons, “What brings you back to New York, business or pleasure?”
I wait for my body to react, for my dick to swell against the zipper of my slacks, but nothing happens. A shame, really, because it would take little to no effort at all to ensure her place in my hotel room by the end of the night.
“Neither,” I respond curtly before diverting my attention away from her face. I reach for the drink menu and peruse the options.
Is it a blackout vodka kind of night? Why yes, I believe it is.
Not getting the hint that I’m not interested, the barmaid continues to make small talk, rambling on about how good it is to see me and how she recently broke up with her boyfriend.
“You remember him, don’t you?”
I don’t remember her, let alone her boyfriend.
Who is this girl?
I set the drink menu back on top of the table and look at her. She flashes me another sultry smile.
“Why don’t we cut through the bullshit, yeah? I’ll take a Tito’s on the rocks with a splash of lime and it’d be wise if you keep them coming.”
The smile vanishes from her face as she clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“The clothes may be different but you’re still an asshole,” she sneers, turning on her heel.
Ahah! So she knows me pre-suit and tie. Still can’t place her and she’s not wrong, I’m an asshole.
She’s also probably going to spit in my drink.
Brushing that thought aside, I lean back against the booth and stretch my arms across the back of the seat. The music is too loud, the smoke is obnoxious, and the woman are fake as shit—not my type at all.
But going back to my empty hotel room seemed like a worse idea and besides, I have business with the owner of this dive that needs to be handled. Normally, I wouldn’t dare disrespect my mother’s memory by partaking in such activities on her birthday, but when Uncle Vic asks me to jump, I generally tend to ask how high.
He doesn’t give a shit that today is the one day a year I try to be good and just. That I make my way back to the streets that raised me, broke me, but never made me and I spend the day visiting my mother’s grave. I bring her a bouquet of her favorite flowers and atone for my sins, then I go back to my hotel. I drink myself silly and wait for the sun to rise so I can board a plane back to Miami and dig my hole a little deeper. On the rare occasion, I call one of the girls from my old neighborhood to meet me or I hit the lobby bar to find a willing body to sink my cock into and fuck away the heartbreak losing my mother left behind.
But I don’t rob, cheat, steal, or kill.
Today’s a little different, though. Not only did my dear uncle saddle me with an order, but I also ran into my sister at the cemetery. Me and Gina have been estranged ever since our mother was lowered into the earth. It doesn’t matter that I tried to be a stand-up guy and do right by my sister after our mother passed. That I made sure she got the fancy education she desired, she still looks at me and sees our degenerate father.
Rocco Spinelli Sr. was the scum of the earth, a low-life thug who took cheap shots and always found the easy way out of everything—even death. I mean, I imagine it’s a hell of a lot less painful to die by a spray of bullets than it is to have an uncontrollable disease spread throughout your body and gradually kill you. If you’re real lucky, the shooter is skilled and ends your existence with the first shot. A blow to the head, maybe one to a major artery—every shot that comes after is simply for decoration. It’s a message to your family when they’re at your funeral, staring at a closed casket because no undertaker could fix the holes in your face, that you were nothing but a piece of shit.
In case you’re still wondering, our old man’s casket was closed, he didn’t spare his family in any regard. He uprooted our lives when he got deported back to Italy and tarnished our family name when he was murdered by the Sicilian mafia and my sister thinks I’m going to end up just like him.
Perhaps she’s right. That might even be the reason our uncle refuses to make me a made man in his organization. Apparently, I’m only good to make people disappear, otherwise I’m a fucking disgrace. A soldier with a tarnished name that he pities. A man with no future whatsoever.
The barmaid returns with my vodka, setting the glass on the table with a thud.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she grinds out. I let my eyes rake over her one more time, before lifting the glass and quickly downing the contents. If she’s spit in it or what, I don’t really give a damn. It still manages to go down.
“Another,” I demand, slamming the empty glass on the table. My eyes cut to hers. “Oh, and while you’re at it, tell your boss I’m here.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Mitch is pretty busy,” she replies.
I don’t know how much this broad thinks she knows about me but clearly, she doesn’t know enough. Leaning forward, my eyes narrow into tiny slits.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I sneer.
Not a single fuck.
“Right,” she mutters, standing a little straighter. “I’ll relay the message.”
With that she disappears. I lift my glass and suck the ice cubes into my mouth as I divert my attention to the stage. Sultry music blares from the speakers and the smoke from the fog machine starts to clear as the next stripper steps out, wearing a fitted blazer that barely touches the tops of her thighs. I’m not sure if it’s the six-inch heels or if her legs are really that long but I imagine them wrapped around me. I lift my chin to see if her face matches the rest of the stellar package, but between the blonde waves framing her face and the rim of the fedora that shields her eyes, it’s impossible.
I inch forward, completely enthralled, and watch as she wraps one hand around the silver pole. With her free hand she unbuttons the blazer, revealing the swell of her breasts and a toned stomach.
She hooks one leg around the pole and arches her back as her body swings around it gracefully. The hat falls from her head and those blonde waves cascade down her back. Once she’s done making that pole the envy of every man in the place, she stands with her back facing the audience. Completely fascinated, I lean my elbows on my knees and anxiously await her next move. Her body is in sync with the beat of the music as she sways her hips and slides the blazer down one shoulder. Then it slips from the other shoulder. The blazer finds its way to the stage and I take in the package. The beautifully toned back, the narrow waist and the flare to her hips. As she bends forward, my eyes fall to her ass. Unlike every other broad in this dive, there is nothing fake about this girl and I decide I wouldn’t mind wrapping all that long blonde hair around my fist as I fill her from behind.