Feeling as if someone is watching me, I stop in my tracks. My eyes sweep up and down the block, pausing at every storefront and each car. I watch a mother push a carriage down the street. An old man feeds the meter. A man and woman chat as they wait for the bus. Nothing out of the norm. I take another step forward, but I can’t shake the nagging in the pit of my gut. I lift my head and reposition my sunglasses on my face. That’s when I see the man in the coffee shop across the street, with his camera focused on me.
My jaw clenches as I start for the street.
“Yo, boss, we’re over here,” Johnny calls.
Ignoring him, I continue to stalk toward the coffee shop, stopping traffic along the way. I reach the sidewalk and stand in front of the window. Pulling my sunglasses off, I watch the man lower his camera. Our eyes lock and for a split second I see the fear in his eyes and my adrenaline spikes. I crook my finger, silently commanding him to join me outside the coffee shop. He hesitates for a moment, but the second I reach into my suit pocket he jumps from his chair. Biting back a smirk, I pull out a pack of smokes and wave them in his face. I flip open the pack of Parliaments, pulling out a single cigarette with my teeth. As I shove it between my lips, I mutter a curse. Uncle Vic liked the attention, he basked in every headline and I bet somewhere in his house there’s a fucking shrine with all the clippings through the years. I’m not that guy. I don’t like people watching me and I sure as fuck don’t like having a camera on me.
The guy emerges from the coffee shop and comes to stand in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Richie and Johnny make their way to us, but I don’t peel my gaze away from the creep with the camera.
I pat my tailored slacks in search of a lighter and pause a few feet away from the gate to light the cigarette dangling between my lips. Taking a long pull, I pop the two top two buttons of my dress shirt and roll my neck.
“You make it a habit of invading people’s privacy?” I ask, taking another drag of my cigarette. This time I imagine it’s a fat joint I’m smoking, it’s been too long since I indulged in mindless recreation of any kind and with the day I’m having even a dose of Violet won’t release the tension coiling through my body.
“I’m just doing my job,” the guy sputters and I sigh. Everyone’s gotta make that paper.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
“The Daily News.”
I nod.
I suppose that’s better than the F.B.I. Tossing the cigarette into the street, I reach for my cash and pull out a couple of bills. I fold them and take a step closer to him.
“Next time your camera is in my face, I’m breaking it,” I say, pressing the cash to his chest. “Now, get the fuck out of here and see to it my mug isn’t on the front page of your newspaper tomorrow.” He stares at me for a moment before taking the bills and shoving them into his pocket, but he doesn’t leave.
“You hard of hearing or something? I said get the fuck out of here.”
“Right,” he mutters. “I’m sorry Mr. Spinelli.” With that he turns and jets down the block, leaving me standing on the sidewalk shaking my head.
“What was that?” Johnny asks as he comes to stand beside me.
“A dose of reality,” I answer, turning my attention to him. “Let’s get out of here. I need a break from this shit.”
He shakes his head.
“No can do, Rienzi called a meeting,” he reveals.
Since it was too early to call in Joaquin, I needed someone to pose as my underboss and at Uncle Vic’s suggestion, the former foreman became my guy. However, he should be down at the docks, waiting to highjack a container for the guns we’re sending to Sicily as per Uncle Vic’s orders, not requesting a meeting.
Swiping a hand over my face, I peer back at Johnny. I may be the new kid on the block, but I know enough to know when your underboss calls in the middle of a job, he ain’t calling to share good news. A true leader would be in the car already. But I’m not mentally fit for another fucking blow.
“Call him back and tell him it’s gonna have to wait,” I say, shoving my hand into my pocket. I turn for the car, but Johnny steps in front of me.
“I don’t know that it can wait,” Johnny replies.
I fix him with a look.
“Whether it can or it can’t it’s going to. Now, pick up the phone and call him back.” My gaze cuts to Richie. “And you, you call Bruno and tell him to meet me back at the house. I’m picking up Violet from the Academy and taking her to dinner. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
“Rocco, man, I don’t need to be the one to tell you it doesn’t work like that,” Johnny calls from behind me. “
I don’t bother turning around when I reply.
“My game, my rules.”
~*~
Violet should’ve been done with school long ago. I called her a few times, and every call went unanswered. Tired of waiting around, I decide to check on her myself. I don’t know what the protocol is, if I.D. is required to enter the building, but I’m quickly learning the mighty dollar goes a long way and there isn’t a person in this city who can’t be bought.
A hundred dollars not only buys me admission into the Academy but also directions to where I can find Violet. Navigating the hallway, I peek inside one room after another until a woman steps out of one of them and stops me in my tracks.
“May I help you?”
I turn around to face her, taking in the tightly pulled bun on the top of her and the standard garb of a ballerina. For a second, I try to picture Violet in the same getup, but I fall short. She’s unbelievably talented, no one can dispute that, but staring at this woman, I can’t imagine Violet sporting the same look. Violet isn’t stiff, she’s not prim and proper. She’s wild and dances to the beat of her own drum. I guess that’s sort of how she perceives me when she sees me in a suit.
Pushing that thought to the back of my head, I offer the older woman a friendly smile.
“I’m looking for Violet Cabrera,” I reply.
“And you are?”
“A friend.”
It’s the safest answer with all the buzz my name is getting these days.
She stares at me for a moment and I raise an eyebrow.
“Violet is very busy perfecting her routine for the auditions we have coming up and I find it very concerning how you are even here in this building. Do you have a visitor’s pass?”
“No, but the guy working the door has a crisp hundred in his wallet. Look, ma’am—”
“Ms. Beechers,” she interrupts, her lips twisting in disgust.
As soon as she reveals her name, I connect the dots and realize this is the woman giving Violet hell. I bite the inside of my cheek, giving myself a moment to decide how I want to handle her. Today has been a fucking day from hell and I’m tempted to unleash my fury on this stuck-up broad.
“Rocco?”
Both me and Ms. Beechers turn at the sound of Violet calling my name. Our eyes connect for a brief moment before the color drains from her face and her gaze cuts to the headmaster of this joint. She quickly schools her features and steps to my side. Her fingers curl around my arm as she stares at this Becchers woman.