Did you hear?
Oh my God, his poor wife.
I knew he had something to do with that shooting.
His daughters must be devastated.
The men in the neighborhood were no better. I walked into the corner store to grab a coffee and guy behind the counter was talking to the man who owned the butcher shop three doors own.
Watch and you’ll see the neighborhood is going to go to shit now.
There’s going to be a war for his territory.
The longshoremen are fucked.
Who do you think is gonna takeover? My money is on Bianci now that Jimmy Gold is gone.
I took a newspaper, paid for that and my coffee and got the hell out of there as fast as I could. But there was no escaping the news. Victor’s face was plastered on the front page. I didn’t read the article until I was on the train.
It turns out Victor was being extradited back to New York, that he had turned himself into the Miami police. As soon as I read that, I knew Rocco was involved somehow. I skimmed the entire newspaper looking for any mention of his name, but I got nothing.
I went on with my day and by the time I got home there was still no word from Rocco. The whole fucking week passed, and he never called. Saturday came and went and guess what? He never showed to take me to dinner. It’s the start of a new week and all I know is what I read in the papers and see on the news and today it wasn’t Victor who made the front page of the papers, it was Rocco.
The newly minted don of the Pastore Crime Family.
“Violet, may I have a word?”
Ms. Beecher’s voice quickly forces me out of my head, and I turn to face her, hiking my bag on my shoulder. Meeting her gaze, I try to prepare myself for the verbal berating I’m sure she’s about to deliver to me.
“Yes?”
“I don’t need to remind you that the company production try outs are in two weeks. If you want to be on the stage at Lincoln Center, you are going to need to perfect your form and lose at least ten pounds.”
It isn’t the first time she’s commented on my weight. The sad thing is, I’m a hundred and twenty pounds and at five three that’s hardly reason to sound the alarms. But unlike every other ballerina in the academy, I have hips and an ass.
“No, you don’t need to remind me,” I reply, trying my hardest not to sound like a bitch. “I’ve been working overtime to make sure I’m ready for the performance.”
Lies.
I’ve been working overtime catching up on the mob.
“And your diet?”
I scarfed down a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos last night for dinner, but I washed it down with a Mango flavored White Claw, so I saved some calories there.
“I’ll make an appointment to meet with the nutritionist.”
I think she knows I’m full of shit, that I’m going to walk out the door and grab an empanada from the food truck on the corner as soon as I get out of here, but she doesn’t comment. Instead she frowns and dismisses me with a jerk of her head.
Stepping out of the studio, I make my way toward the locker room. It’s mostly empty, which I prefer because changing in front of a bunch of girls who gawk at your curves is never a pleasant experience. It’s also a test of my restraint because I would love nothing more than to slap a little Vaseline on my face and go to war with these shallow bitches.
Especially in the mood I’m in.
Setting my duffel bag on the bench, I begin the transformation from ballerina to Violet Cabrera. The first thing I do is remove all the pins holding my hair in a bun. I shake out my long blond locks and almost instantly, the pressure in my head eases. Next, I take a seat on the bench and untie the ribbons of my Bloch pointe ballet slippers. Grimacing, I slowly remove one slipper. I peel away the tape and examine the bruises, noting they don’t look any worse than yesterday.
My first week at the academy, my toes bled right through the satin, ruining them. That’s when I began to tape my toes. I proceed to remove my other slipper. Wiggling my stiff toes, I shove the slippers in my bag and grab my street clothes.
Aside from the pink Bloch ballet slippers, the academy’s strict dress code consists of a black leotard and salmon Bloch tights which must be worn in place of underwear. Since I’m in Pointe, I’m also allowed to wear a wrap skirt. Shimmying out of the skirt, I kick it to the side before lowering the straps of my leotard. I push it down to my hips and remove it, along with my tights. Grabbing my thong, I step into it and pull it on, letting the thin elastic snap against my hips. Next, I slip my legs into a pair of baggy black sweatpants. I unravel the support wrap that keeps my boobs in place and opt out of wearing a bra. My breasts are perky enough to allow them a chance to breathe.
Lastly, I grab a cropped t-shirt out of the duffel bag and pull it over my head. Fully dressed, I slide my feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers and fasten my hoop earrings into my ears.
Feeling more like me and less like a specimen under a microscope, I exit the locker room and make my way through the building, out the front doors of the academy. I freeze in my tracks, though, because parked at the curb is a sleek black Maserati and leaning against it is the newly minted don of New York.
He doesn’t wear a tie, keeping the top two buttons of his silk shirt open to reveal a glimpse of his olive skin and the slight dusting of dark hair that decorates it. I may prefer him in gray sweatpants, but it doesn’t change the fact that Rocco Spinelli was born to wear a suit. The designer shades and diamond encrusted Rolex are a new addition and a nice touch too. Flashy, but still nice.
His predecessor would be proud.
That fucking sentence should make my skin crawl…should being the operative word there. All I feel when I look at him is relief. I don’t care that he’s been missing in action for a week or that he never showed for our date. He’s alive and he’s here, staring back at me like I’m the only thing in his world that exists.
Ignoring the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach, I draw in a deep breath and make my way toward him. He pushes off the car and pulls the shades from his face. Tucking the arm of the glasses into his shirt, his eyes slowly rake over me and shamelessly, I drink him in too. Of all the crimes he has committed and the ones he is bound to commit, the biggest one might just be his sex appeal. It’s effortless and oh, so dangerous because it’s fucking irresistible.
It makes a girl forget all his shortcomings and how likely it is for him to break her heart.
“Bug,” he greets, grinning at me in that devilish way of his.
Crossing my arms under my chest, I cock my head to the side and give him an exasperated look.
He can’t actually be serious right now.
We haven’t spoken to one another in a week and he opens with that ridiculous nickname?
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I hiss.
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he shoves a hand into his pocket and steps closer to me. His eyes penetrate mine for a moment and I temporarily forget the newspaper headlines and all the neighborhood gossip. I’m transcended back to the night we shared and the promises we made.
“I’m going to call you Bug until someone puts me out of my misery.”
“Yeah, well word on the street is the chances of someone putting you out of your misery are pretty high these days.”
“Bug," he sighs.