This time I don’t try to correct him, and I think that’s partly because somewhere in the back of my mind I know he’s right. The only way Rocco will ever stop calling me, Bug, is if he’s no longer alive to say it. As true as that may be, so is the fact he’s a walking target. The idea of someone killing him or even hurting him makes me sick to my stomach and I instantly regret my choice of words.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, quickly peeling my eyes away from his handsome face.
“It’s fine, Bug.”
No, it’s not, but I don’t say that. Instead, I draw out a heavy breath. Deciding to change the subject, my gaze rakes over the rest of him and reach out to brush my fingers over the lapel of his suit.
“How does that saying go? Is it the suit makes the man or is it the man that makes the suit? I always get them confused,” I babble.
He covers my hand with his and I lift my gaze back to his. Angling his head, he lifts his free hand to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes.
“Fuck if I know,” he rasps huskily.
I equally hate and love the way he looks at me. It’s almost as if he’s not sure I’m real. Like he wants to keep me. I hate it because I know he never will. I mean, we didn’t even make it a week.
As if he can read my thoughts, he turns his head slightly and continues, “Uncle Vic always said a man can have anything he wants in life so long as he dresses for it.”
At the mention of Victor, I raise an eyebrow. This would be the opportunity to ask him if everything I read is true.
“So what are you dressing for?” I ask.
He brings his eyes back to mine.
“That’s a loaded question,” he replies, dropping his hand.
He looks away and I shake my head.
“Actually, it’s pretty simple,” I challenge.
I’m starting to think he has no idea what he wants anymore.
That maybe he never did.
Sadly, money and power won’t help him figure that out, though.
His soulful eyes slice back to me and flash with something I can’t quite place.
“Nothing in life is simple, Bug,” he says.
Done with the whole beating around the bush nonsense, I prop a hand on my hip and narrow my eyes at him. He might not answer my questions, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t ask them.
“Is it true?”
Of course he doesn’t respond and all the frustration I’ve been bottling up for the last week rears its ugly head.
“Life can be simple,” I argue. “You just make it harder than it has to be by making the wrong choices. Thanks for taking me out on Saturday, I had a fantastic time.”
“Violet…”
“No, it’s fine. I get it, you were tied up, but a phone call would’ve been nice, Rocco. I wasn’t sure if you were dead or rotting in a jail cell somewhere. I suppose I should be grateful, though. You’re alive, you were just too busy getting fitted for suits and buying fancy cars and Rolex watches to fucking call me.”
I take it back.
Maybe things aren’t so simple, especially when what you want most comes with consequences and conditions.
“You know what the difference between me and you is? I know what I want and you don’t,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat with anger.
He quirks an eyebrow.
“Is that so?” He asks, widening his stance. He crosses his arms against his chest and narrows his eyes. “Since you seem to have it all figured out, why don’t you tell me what is that you want?” His gaze shoots to the building behind me and he tips his chin. “And don’t give me the whole ballerina thing either because that’s a given.” He drops his hands to his side and brings his eyes back to mine. Taking a step closer to me, he lowers his voice, “C’mon, Violet, what is that you want and if it’s so simple, why don’t you have it already?”
I thought I did.
I thought I had him.
Swallowing, I look away from him and shrug a shoulder.
“An empanada and a bath,” I say pointedly. “Preferably in that exact order.” When I’m sure my features hide my disappointment, I bring my eyes back to him. “The suit looks good, Rocco,” I continue, my tone a whisper. “But you looked good in a pair of gray sweatpants and a wifebeater tank too, so maybe it’s the man who makes the clothes and not the other way around.”
He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us and lifts his hands to cradle my face.
“Fuck the empanada. How’s a three-course dinner at Spark’s steak house and a bath with me sound?”
It sounds too good to be true.
Chapter 19
Rocco Spinelli
I can list a dozen other places I should be and a dozen reasons why I should leave, but as I watch Violet hitch the strap of her bag over her shoulder, all those reasons seem to disappear. It’s funny how I can stand in a crowded room of powerful bosses and their crews, know they all want me dead and not blink an eye. There’s no fear, no sense of panic. If they kill me, they kill me. But right here, right now, standing in front of Violet, knowing she’s two seconds from walking away from me, I feel it. Panic and desperation wage a war inside my chest, and it feels like I’m drowning. Like I can’t fucking breathe.
This last week has been fucking hell for me.
I got made on Monday and by Friday, I was sitting down with the five families, introducing myself as the new don. In between all that, Uncle Vic turned himself in to the authorities and we had to break the news to Anthony Bianci that he was not next in line for throne. Then I stood beside Joaquin as he watched Pilar’s body be laid to rest. A tailor came to my apartment in Miami and fitted me for fifty grand in designer suits and to my dismay, I am also the proud owner of a collection of silk ties. Millions were wired into off-shore accounts and I had a mansion in Staten Island. To complete the package, Bruno was now behind the wheel of a shiny new Maserati.
I barely had time to take a piss.
And there is no fucking reprieve in sight. In fact, right now I should be meeting with Bianci so he can introduce me to whoever this Parrish guy is. Apparently, playing with union delegates and buying out gun contracts from bikers is on the agenda this week. Along with convincing anyone who will buy the lies coming out of my mouth that my uncle has been grooming me for this role for years. Oh, and I somehow have to work in two visits to the jail too—you know for my weekly classes on how the fuck to be a gangster.
“Well, I’ve got a train to catch,” Violet says, pulling my attention back to her. She tips her chin toward the station down the block and my chest tightens again. “I’ll see you around.” She takes a step away from me but pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Oh, and if you speak to my brother, tell him to return my phone calls before I get on a fucking plane myself.”
My jaw tightens at the fact she’s so quick to dismiss me. I warned her this was going to be rough. Could I have called? Yes, but I didn’t know what to even say to her. I was being watched like a hawk and I knew she’d have a million fucking questions—she always does.
I turn toward my car and open the back door of the flashy ride before dragging my eyes back to her. Her eyebrows pinch together as she looks from the open car door back to me.