Not really buying any of her bullshit, I play along.
“Set him up how?”
“A meeting, he wanted me to arrange for Joaquin to be at the restaurant,” she explains. “He told me that if I didn’t comply, my son was either going to wind up dead or in prison and after looking at those photos, I didn’t think either option seemed so farfetched.”
I uncross my arms and drop them to my sides. That last part resonates with me. I’ve been doing a good job at blocking it out, but every now and then, my mind wanders to the night Pilar was murdered and I struggle. Accepting the man you’re falling in love with—as well as your brother—both, have a price tag on their heads, is a hard feat. As much as I want to discredit everything my mother is saying, I can’t.
I force a swallow.
“Back up,” I say, meeting her gaze. “This Yankovich guy—was he a cop?”
She shakes her head.
“According to Mitch he’s a rival of Victor’s or someone trying to move in on his territory.”
Victor doesn’t have any territory—not anymore—everything is Rocco’s. I stare at my mother as I let that sink in.
Sensing that she has my attention now, she continues, “After Yankovich left the restaurant, your brother showed up and I threw him out. I told him he wasn’t my son anymore and that I didn’t want anything to do with him. I panicked but I thought I was doing him a favor. He went back to Miami the next morning and I was relieved because I figured if he wasn’t here, Yankovich couldn’t demand anything from me or even him. When Yankovich came back I told him Joaquin had left and that I couldn’t set up the meeting. He saw right through my lies and soon enough he got his revenge. The health inspectors started showing up at the restaurant, fining me for things that weren’t even out of code. The freezer blew and the ovens all miraculously needed to be replaced.”
I remember when everything started to go. At the time, I chalked it up to bad luck and watched her fall apart. Then Mitch swooped in with his loan and things started to look up…well, at least until he came looking for his money.
“Wait a minute, you’re saying he was responsible for all that? Why didn’t you say something?”
“You’re missing the point. The only reason I’m telling you this is because you’re about to suffer the same fate.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Violet think about what I just told you. If you think this is over, that there aren’t a dozen men just like Yankovich looking to stick it to Rocco and Joaquin, you’re naïve. They’re going to get wind of you and they’re going to try to use you to get to him.”
I think about that for a second. I’m sure there is some truth to that, but if my mother can handle a man like Yankovich, so can I.
“I never want you to have to choose between your heart and your life.” She pauses for a beat. “Now, do you understand? It’s not that I don’t want to see you happy, I don’t want to see you be destroyed.”
My head spins as I stare at her blankly. There’s so much to dissect—so many questions. Suddenly my phone rings, pulling me out of my trance. I walk across the room to snatch it from my dresser and glance down at the screen, noting it’s Rocco. Silencing it, I shove the phone inside my purse and look back at my mother.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Violet—”
I cut her off.
“I heard what you had to say and there’s a small part of me that appreciates the concern, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Nothing is going to destroy me.
I hitch the strap of my purse over my shoulder, grab the overnight bag I packed and head for the door. But in the back of my head a little voice cries out. I wonder if Pilar thought the same thing. Did she think she was invincible? Did she believe love conquered all? What about Grace Pastore? Is she sitting in her mansion destroyed by her husband’s lifestyle? Does she climb into her bed at night and stare at the empty spot beside her wondering what good is life without her heart?
As soon as I open the door and step outside, I collide with Rocco. Steadying me, he places his hands on my hips.
“Whoa,” he murmurs softly. “Everything okay?”
I lift my chin and stare into his eyes. What a loaded question that is.
“Let’s just get out of here, please.”
His eyes flit toward the door for a moment before he drags them back to me and takes the overnight bag from my hand.
“What happened?” he asks, and I immediately spot the tick in his jaw. I know I have to tell him what my mother revealed, but I don’t want to do it here.
“Nothing,” I lie, silently vowing to tell him everything at dinner. I ignore the pang of dread that washes over me and force a smile. “Now, are you going to wine and dine me, Spinelli, or are you all smoke and mirrors?”
Like me.
Chapter 25
Rocco Spinelli
Something is off and it’s not ravioli. Nor is it the phone in my pocket that keeps fucking ringing—it’s Violet. She’s here with me physically, but her head is miles away and I’m sure I can thank Flora for that. The woman is like a fucking cancer.
Tossing my napkin onto my plate, I lean over the table and take the fork out of Violet’s hand. I set it beside her plate and lace our fingers together as she lifts her eyes to mine.
“I can’t watch you pretend to eat your pasta anymore,” I say. “Something is bothering you and the sooner you tell me what that something is, the sooner we can go enjoy the rest of our night.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” she argues. “Well, except for the fact that my wine glass is empty.” She eyes the empty
“Violet, cut the shit. I know when something isn’t right with you. What did that woman say to you?” The last question comes out harsher than I intend. I wasn’t planning on telling Violet I put a bid on a place for her until it was accepted but now, I’m reconsidering that decision, especially if Flora told Violet I paid her a visit this afternoon.
Sighing, she pulls her hand free and signals for the waiter.
“I need more wine for this,” she mumbles.
Narrowing my eyes, I try to read her. My hands ball into fists and my jaw tightens as I ask, “Did she put her hands on you again?”
The waiter lifts the bottle of merlot from the ice bucket and fills her glass as her gaze darts back to me.
“No, and I really wish you would forget about that.”
“Fat fucking chance,” I growl, watching as she thanks the water and guzzles the wine. She sets the half-empty glass on the table and leans forward as an exasperated sigh leaves her lips.
“Does the name Vladimir Yankovich mean anything to you?” she questions.
The question throws me off for several reasons. I was expecting Flora to be the center of this conversation, but the name Yankovich is familiar and I rake my brain, trying to place why I know the name.
“Why do you ask?” I question.
“Well, because whoever he is apparently approached my mother and she thinks there is a long list of men like him lining up to use me against you—”