“She was pregnant.”
And you people wonder why I always got a drink in my hand.
“What do you mean, was?”
“She had an abortion.”
Secrets.
We’ve all got them.
“Jesus, man, and you said not to drink this early,” I grunt.
Before I make matters worse and ask him if he’s sure the baby was even his, I push myself off the couch and cross the room. I fix myself another refill and take a hefty gulp. I’m going to need a liver transplant soon.
Turning back to him, I choose my words carefully, sensing he’s at the end of his rope. I don’t have much experience with this side of Joaquin, and I can’t afford for him to suddenly grow a conscience.
“I’m guessing you wanted her to keep it?” I ask. The sooner we address whatever this is, the quicker we can lay it to rest.
Tearing his eyes away from me, he shakes his head and glances down at his hands.
“I’m the one who gave her the money and told her to take care of it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it. That part of me isn’t fucking dying inside.”
His confession knocks me off-kilter. As long as I have known him, he’s never shared a desire to be a father. I mean, until this very moment, I wasn’t sure he even cared about Pilar. I thought she was just a warm body, someone who ignored the blood on his hands because she carried her own demons. A woman who welcomed his darkness because it overshadowed hers. I didn’t realize there was a part of him that may have wanted a future with her.
“A baby doesn’t fit in this life,” he rasps.
No, it fucking doesn’t.
Hell, I’m living proof that there are grave consequences to a child born into this lifestyle. However, I don’t think telling him that will do any good, so I try a different approach.
“Would a child have fit into Pilar’s life? She needs to get straight, man,” I remind him. No man should harbor guilt over something he can’t fully control.
“Maybe she would’ve,” he argues. “She was clean from the minute she found out.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter. We’re done.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to find the words he so desperately needs to hear, but I fall short. Nothing I say will help him. That’s not the dynamic between us. I’m not the guy people go to for sound advice. I’m the one people turn to when they need a reminder that their life could be worse.
“We need to put a plan in place should any of Pablo’s men feel the need to retaliate,” he says, changing the subject.
“According to Vic, that won’t be a problem,” I assure him.
He arches an eyebrow.
“And why is that?”
I probably should’ve asked that question. Before I can admit that I have no fucking idea, there is a knock on the door. My eyes slice in that direction as the pounding grows louder.
“You expecting any visitors?” I question as Joaquin cuts across the room. He peers into the peephole then looks over his shoulder and points to the painting of the New York skyline that hangs on the wall, covering a safe.
Knowing he keeps his gun locked in there, I waste no time and reach behind me to retrieve mine. Pulling back the safety, I cock my gun and jerk my head, giving him the signal that I’m ready to fire.
He pulls open the door just as I take another step closer, wrapping my finger around the trigger.
However, it’s not one of Pablo’s men looking to blow our brains to bits. It’s Violet.
“Don’t shoot!” she shouts, holding up her hands to block her stunning face.
Fuck me.
Chapter 6
Violet Cabrera
I should’ve realized something was up when my brother ignored all my calls and Rocco—who doesn’t text ever—shot me a text saying he couldn’t talk. Instead, I boarded a plane and when no one showed to pick me up from the airport, I logged into my brother’s Uber account and ordered myself a ride. The whole ride here, I planned on how I was going to rip them both new assholes, but apparently, I should’ve been practicing how to dodge a bullet.
“Violet.”
The sound of Rocco’s shocked voice causes me to peel my hands away from my face. Our eyes connect as he lowers the gun he’s got aimed at my head.
How fucking considerate of him.
I look at my brother, then back to Rocco, my gaze lingers on the gun he’s still holding.
“Put that shit away,” Joaquin orders as he pulls me into the apartment. He moves to kick the door closed but I don’t turn around to acknowledge him, I’m too enthralled by the disheveled man still holding the gun.
In the last two months I can’t tell you how many times I’ve replayed that night over in my head or how many times I wanted to pick up my phone to call him. Those were the times I reminded myself we didn’t have a relationship like that, though. Rocco and I didn’t call each other to check in or shoot the shit.
So what if he sort of rescued me that night.
So what if he called me beautiful.
It didn’t mean anything—not to him.
He proved that much when he dropped me on my mother’s doorstep like I was a bag of laundry that needed washing.
“Vi, what are you doing here?” my brother questions. “Why didn’t you call me?”
That last question snaps me out of my trance and my gaze cuts to him.
He’s got to be kidding me.
“Why didn’t I call you? I’ve been calling you both for two days!” I hiss.
Okay, so I’ve been calling my brother for two days, I only started calling Rocco last night after I began to wonder if Joaquin was going to leave me stranded at the airport—he did by the way. I look from Rocco to my brother, narrowing my eyes. “I guess you’ve been too busy shooting shit to answer me, though.” I meet Rocco’s gaze, cocking my head to the side as I stare at him. “I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before. You really know how to welcome people.”
“Glad you enjoyed it, Bug,” he quips, flashing me an easy smile.
It’s such a rare sight that it temporarily becomes my undoing and I lose all train of thought. His gaze slowly rakes over me just as it did that night, only this time it feels like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, feeling a blush creep across my cheeks.
“You never used to mind,” he argues, causing my eyes to narrow.
When I was a kid, I didn’t mind at all. I was desperate for his attention and would’ve answered to just about anything. Back then, I even found it endearing—not so much now that I’m adult. I thought I made that clear.
“I’m not twelve anymore, Rocco.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” he volleys, licking his lips.
My cheeks flame even more. I’m certain he’s fucking with me, I’m just not sure why, but it’s time to turn the tables. Rocco Spinelli needs to be taken down a notch or two. But before I can get my jabs in, my brother appears between us.
“What’s going on here?” he questions.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants, Rocco shrugs and tears his gaze away from me.