Lincoln-fucking-center.
I made it.
Despite the constant ridicule and body shaming. They said I wasn’t graceful. That I didn’t have the body of a ballerina. My hips were too wide and my ass way too round. They implied I was made to dance on tables and entice hard-ons from men with deep pockets.
But I showed them.
I showed them the girl with a broken heart and a desperate need to be loved by a man she can never have is stronger than she knows.
In the weeks since Rocco broke up with me, I’ve wanted to give up more times than I care to admit. I wanted to cry in bed until the pain faded and I wanted to beg Rocco to change his mind.
To choose love over fear.
Love over violence.
Me over the mob.
Of course none of that happened. His mind was made up and I knew in my heart there was nothing I could ever say or do to make him see things differently. There was no choice but to move on. To follow the path I had set out on before Rocco made me his.
I dried my eyes, laced my Bloch slippers and got to work.
Turns out the joke was on me all along, though. You see, when tragedy is a lead in your story the narrative doesn’t change. There may be a brief pause where you foolishly believe you’ve beat the odds, but it quickly fades, and you’re reminded that happily ever after only exists in fairytales.
My ears went from buzzing with thunderous applause to ringing from the sound of gunshots. I no longer am bowing for a room full of uptight fucks. Instead, I’m on my knees, on the steps of one of New York’s most historic landmarks, shielding the body of the man I love. I stare at my hands and watch as his blood drips from my fingers, acknowledging it’s the same shade of red as the hundreds of roses that filled my dressing room. I look back at the man who sent those flowers, the one struggling to breathe, and I press my bloody hands to the gaping wound in his chest. Our eyes lock as I lean over him.
“Stay with me, Rocco,” I rasp. His lips part but no words come, only the short breaths of a dying man. I press my hands deeper against the wound. Hysteria rips through me as I frantically shake my head, my eyes pleading with him as I cry, “You can’t die on me. I’m not done loving you.”
Every love story has an ending, but this can’t be ours.
The tale of the mobster and the ballerina doesn’t end like this.
Does it?
Chapter 34
Violet Cabrera
“Here,” my brother says, offering me a glass of some amber colored drink. “Drink it, it will calm your nerves.”
“What is it?” I ask, taking the crystal tumbler from his hand.
“Brandy,” he replies and takes a seat next to me on the sofa. I lift the glass to my lips and close my eyes as I take a sip. The alcohol slides smoothly down my throat and warms my belly almost immediately, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. I lift my head and stare across the room at the shut door, knowing behind it there’s a man who I’m not even sure is a real doctor, operating on Rocco. To be clear, we’re not in a hospital, we’re in the Hamptons, at a house Victor bought when his daughters were young and recently left to Anthony Bianci.
After the shooting, Bruno arrived in a Escalade and pulled it in front of Lincoln center. Joaquin carried Rocco to the truck while Richie helped me to my feet. On wobbly legs, I hurried down the steps and climbed into the backseat. As soon as I got myself situated, I continued to apply pressure to Rocco’s wound, but he was no longer conscious. I immediately assumed the worse and started to scream. That’s when Richie intervened and was able to find a pulse.
“He’s going to be fine,” Joaquin says, pulling me away from my thoughts. I want to believe him, but I glance down at my arm—at the spot that is still sore from the blood transfusion and shake my head.
As soon as we arrived here the doctor told us there would be no way he’d be able to remove the bullet without a transfusion, that Rocco had lost way too much blood and wouldn’t be able to survive surgery. There was so much about those words that bothered me. For one, we were not in a hospital and I found it incredibly alarming that this man was even willing to perform a procedure of any kind without the proper equipment. But really what other option was there? Joaquin made it clear that they couldn’t go to a hospital and while I didn’t understand why, I knew this man claiming to be a surgeon was our only option.
We didn’t have access to a blood bank, but when Joaquin revealed Rocco’s blood type, I instantly rolled up my sleeve. I knew in my heart we were soulmates, but it was confirmed when I discovered we had the same blood type.
The doctor immediately drew my blood and got to work on removing the bullet. It’s been hours and he hasn’t emerged once with an update. Richie is in there, though, acting as a nurse and that’s terrifying.
I like him a lot, but I hardly think he knows the difference between a scalpel and a pair of scissors.
“Hey,” Joaquin calls. “Look at me.”
I lift my head and our eyes lock.
“He’s going to make it,” he assures, conviction evident in his tone. Then he swipes a hand over his face and shakes his head. “I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Neither did I,” I whisper. “He had sent me flowers to congratulate me.” Tons and tons of flowers. Just thinking back to the moment when I walked into my dressing room brings a small smile to my face. It was a thoughtful gesture and a reminder that he still cared, but I never expected him to be in the audience. I bring my eyes back to my brother. “Mrs. Beechers spotted him and after the curtain went down, she pulled me to the side and told me he was there.” It wasn’t courtesy, though. She didn’t want the Academy to get any bad press on opening night and asked me to see to it that he left without incident.
I guess that backfired for her. Not only did the press likely catch the whole shooting, but they definitely saw me—a member of the Academy—covered in Rocco’s blood. Not to mention there were people still filing out of the theater when the shooting occurred.
“I know everything is probably a blur, but I need to know if you saw who shot him,” Joaquin says.
I shake my head.
“It happened too fast,” I reply.
Once I got outside, I spotted him walking down the stairs and I called out to him. He turned around and I rushed down the rest of the steps to meet him. I barely got the chance to thank him for the flowers before I heard the first shot ring out. I was instantly transcended back to the night in Miami but instead of letting fear overcome me, I acted on instinct and dropped to my knees. Rocco turned around and that’s when the bullet hit him. He fell back almost instantly, and even though he was down the shots continued. That’s when I crawled over his body and tried to shield him from anymore bullets.
I closed my eyes and tried not to panic. I blocked out the screams of the innocent bystanders and prayed we’d survive. I don’t remember when the gunfire stopped or what made me finally feel brave enough to lift myself off him and access the damage. But when I did, all I saw was blood.
“You’re going to have to lay low for a while,” Joaquin says, pulling my attention back to him. “That means resigning from the production,” he clarifies. I stare at him for a moment. Does he really think after what happened I have a place in the Academy? I’ve probably already been replaced. Not that it matters—all that matters is the man in the next room. If he doesn’t make it through this, I don’t know what I’ll do.