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.