“You both are dismissed for the night.”
Johnny’s jaw ticked with annoyance and Richie looked like he was about to object but neither of them said a word as I held their eyes, silently warning them not to argue with me.
“Very well,” Johnny grunted. “But if you leave the house—”
“Goodnight, Johnny,” I snapped.
I shook my head as they saw themselves out and when I turned my attention back to Violet, she raised an eyebrow.
“So, it’s like that, huh? You just give orders and people do as you say? No questions asked?”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I contemplated her question. After a beat, I stepped around the counter and stood behind her, placing one hand on her hip, I brushed her hair away from her neck and pressed my lips to her ear.
“It’s like that,” I confirmed, drawing her earlobe between my teeth. “You want to try it?”
“Take orders from you? No, thanks,” she said, pressing her ass against groin. “I much rather be the one in control.”
“Funny, didn’t seem that way when my cock was between your legs. You didn’t mind relinquishing control then.”
“If you keep talking like that we’re never going to eat and I’m starving,” she chastised, pulling out of my arms. Spinning around, she leaned into me and pressed her lips to mine. It was quick and if I’m being frank, disappointing. After all, I was fucking starved too, however I had a hankering for something other than empanadas.
Sadly, though, Violet wasn’t on the menu and it would be a while before I ate.
Oh, well, you know what they say—the best things in life are worth the wait.
Chapter 20
Violet Cabrera
“I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed a homecooked meal,” Rocco says as he bites into his third empanada. I smile as my lips touch the rim of my wine glass. While it’s a little sad that he can’t recall the last time he’s eaten something other than takeout, there’s a part of me that fills with satisfaction because I’ve given him a sliver of normalcy.
Something he so badly craves.
I thought maybe he was blowing smoke when he told me he needed me, that I made him feel more like himself and less like Victor, but there was truth to those words, and I discovered that much as soon as we pulled up to his house.
The fancy clothes and new car are small potatoes compared to everything else. This house is a monstrosity. I mean, let’s take the kitchen for instance—he’s got two ovens, a wine fridge, and a pantry that’s bigger than most studio apartments in Brooklyn. Don’t get me wrong, everything is beautiful but living in a house this big—all by yourself—that’s a lonely life.
I set my empty wine glass on the counter and stare at him for a moment. He surprised me tonight by showing me he can be vulnerable too. He must sense I’m staring because he turns his head. His eyes find mine and he reaches for a napkin.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I’d enjoy it more if I wasn’t eating alone,” he says, tipping his chin to my plate. “For someone who was craving empanadas, you’ve barely touched yours.”
I divert my gaze to the half-eaten empanada on my plate before lifting my chin and pushing my empty wine glass toward him.
“According to Ms. Beechers I have to lose ten pounds over the next two weeks to be considered for a spot in the company’s production and I much rather spend my calories drinking wine.”
He stops pouring the wine and narrows his eyes, letting them slowly rake down my body.
“Don’t give me that look,” I warn, taking the wine glass from him. “I know there is nothing wrong with my body.”
“Then what the fuck is this shit about having to lose ten pounds?”
I sigh.
“You haven’t been around many ballerinas have you?” He cocks his head to the side, and I laugh. “Of course you haven’t.” The idea of Rocco taking in the ballet is almost comical. “I don’t have the ideal body type to be a ballerina. My hips are wide and even though my tits are small, they’re twice the size of any girl in my company.”
“I’m not seeing the problem,” he says. “I’ve seen you dance, Violet, curves and all and the whole package is just fucking beautiful.”
I smile at that.
“In fact, I’ve got a newfound appreciation for the arts,” he adds, winking at me. “Now, it sounds to me like this Ms. Beechers needs to have her eyes checked.”
“She’s danced on stages all over the world,” I argue. “She knows what it takes to make it and I respect her opinion.” Well, that’s partially true. I also think she’s a bitter hag who can’t stand me for whatever reason, but I don’t divulge that much. The truth is as talented as I am, I’m not sure ballet was the best choice for me. I probably would be better suited for hip hop or even contemporary dance. Instead of losing ten pounds to fit in with the crowd and audition for a part I might not even get, I’d be working in music videos or some shit like that. Who knows I might even be a backup dancer for Lady Gaga. It’s not Lincoln Center but playing Vegas night after night isn’t a bad gig either.
“What’s with the look?” Rocco asks, drawing my attention back to him.
Exhaling slowly, I shake my head.
“Just having a moment,” I admit, twisting in my stool to face him. “For as far back as I can remember all I have wanted was to become a ballerina. I wanted to see my name in programs and dance on stages all across the world, but sometimes I feel chained to the choices I made. I don’t know if I’m just discouraged or if I’ve outgrown my dreams. Does that make sense?”
He silently reaches for his wine glass and I watch as he brings it to his lips, draining it in a single gulp. Setting it back on top of the counter, he turns to me.
“It makes perfect sense. Sometimes we think the grass is greener on the other side, then we cross over, and we realize we’ve been had.”
“Is that how you feel now?”
He looks at me for a moment, contemplating his response as he sucks in a deep breath and I instantly regret asking the question. Tonight isn’t about the mob or his regrets, it’s about freeing him from the heavy burden.
“Don’t answer that,” I say, laying my hand over his. His eyes meet mine and I lean closer to him, desperate to change the conversation. “So, you really like my empanadas?”
“They’re better than your mothers,” he says, lacing his fingers with mine.
“Oh, don’t let her hear you say that, or she might smack me again.” The words leave my lips so quickly that I don’t even realize what I’ve said until his fingers tighten around mine and his dark eyes drill a hole into the side of my head.
“What does the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he growls.
There’s no backpedaling when it comes to Rocco and to be honest, I’m tired of defending and protecting my mom. I take my wine glass but before I can bring it to my lips, he takes it out of my hand.