Peeling her fingers away from my face, I signal for the bartender.
“What are you drinking?”
“Hmm . . . a dirty martini . . . extra dirty.”
“Just the way I like things.”
I turn at the sound of Rocco’s voice and watch as he steps behind Violet’s stool, his eyes leisurely trailing over her bare back. Caught, he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, I’m only looking. Right, and as soon as I leave here, I’m going to go to Saint Bernadette’s to confess my sins.
“Where did you come from?” Violet questions as she takes Rocco in from head to toe. I wonder if it’s too late to fit her for a chastity belt— those things still exist, right?
He smiles at her briefly before sliding into the space next to where she sits and orders her a dirty martini and a shot of bourbon for him and me.
“How about you worry about your dress instead?”
“What’s wrong with my dress?”
“Half of it is missing,” I growl.
“Don’t be lame,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “It’s bad enough I have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you two have some fancy dinner. I don’t understand why I couldn’t just go to the club.”
“One, the club isn’t open yet, and two, I don’t fucking trust you,” I tell her, taking my own glass from the bar. “I suppose we should toast you.”
“Yes,” she says, plucking an olive from the little sword dangling out of her martini glass. “Go on, boys, tell me how much you love me and how wonderful it is to have me in your lives.”
Rocco smirks.
“They’re inflating your ego at that dancing school, Bug,” Rocco comments.
“It’s the New York Academy of Ballet,” she corrects, curling her lip. “Not a dancing school.”
Rocco’s eyes meet mine and he raises an eyebrow.
“Isn’t that the same shit?”
One would think.
But I know better than to say that out loud.
Violet smacks his bicep.
“It is so not the same thing and to be clear, they don’t inflate my ego. It’s quite the opposite.” Setting her glass on top of the bar, she spins around to face him. “I’m constantly told I’m not good enough, that I don’t have what it takes to make it onto the stage. I’m five pounds heavier than every girl in my class, and my hips lock entirely too much. My frame needs work and . . . ” her voice trails as she glances over her shoulder to look at me. My jaw tightens as I set my glass down.
“And what?”
“Nothing,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Bug,” Rocco calls softly.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. If you hate the school so much, why are you still there?”
“I never said I hate the school. They’re only hard on me because they’ve taught the best and if I want to be in their company, I need to do better . . . be better. I will be on that stage,” she says, determination flaring in her blue eyes as she takes her glass off the bar and raises it. “And you two assholes better be in the front row with flowers, cheering me on.”
A smile ticks the corners of my lips.
That’s the girl I remember.
The one full of dreams and will.
This sex-crazed, half-dressed alter ego is nothing compared to that girl.
Swallowing, I raise my glass.
“To the determined ballerina I have the privilege of calling my sister, may all your dreams come true.”
A smile spreads across her face as she clinks her glass against mine. Before she can take a sip, I press a kiss to her cheek.
“Proud of you, Vi,” I murmur.
“Happy Birthday, Bug,” Rocco adds.
And just like that, I’m forgotten.
She turns to look at him and he winks at her before finishing off his drink.
“We’ll celebrate at the club,” he promises, setting his empty glass on top of the bar. I bite my tongue, letting the sharp threat that sits on the tip of it die and I signal for the bartender. Handing her my credit card, I tell her to keep a tab open for Violet.
Rocco clears his throat.
“He’s here,” he says, looking down at his phone.
“Who?” Violet asks.
“No one,” I reply. “We won’t be long. Stay out of trouble and don’t move from this fucking chair.”
“You know, I was just starting to like you again.”
“I mean it, Vi. Stay put.”
“Fine, but don’t be long. I want to dance.”
Shaking my head, I follow Rocco away from the bar, down a narrow hallway that leads to the back of the restaurant and a room reserved for private parties.
“How much trouble do you think she can get into in the time it takes for Victor to eat a porterhouse?” I question.
Rocco’s lips quirk as we reach the room. He pauses, turning to me.
“You don’t want to hear this, but I’m gonna say it anyway so maybe you get used to the idea . . . I’m gonna marry her.”
“The hell you are.”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter 7
Joaquin
Victor Pastore made an art of everything he did and eating dinner was no exception. He cut into his steak with precision and savored each bite as though it was his last. I sat there watching him, barely touching my food, wondering how long he had left.
“Quit looking at me like I’m going to drop dead and plant my face in the mashed potatoes,” he grunts, startling me. I lift my head and go to apologize, but his focus isn’t on me.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Vic,” Rocco says, drawing his attention back to his piece of filet mignon. “I just can’t believe you’re sick and not doing anything about it,” he continues. “If you taught me anything, it’s to fight until the end and here you are— ”
“If you’re going to playback my words, make sure you have them right, Rocco. I don’t like to be misquoted. Yes, a man should fight until the end, but it depends on what he’s fighting for. I might not be fighting cancer, but I’m fighting for my family, for my wife and my girls, and that’s why I’m here with you.”
He sets his fork and knife down and pushes his plate away from him. His eyes move from Rocco to me and back.
“By now, the both of you have heard what happened at my opening in New York,” he begins and I look toward Rocco, hoping he wasn’t too drunk to remember the conversation we had last week when I informed him of the latest situation to hit the Pastore organization.
Victor was expanding and decided to open a nightclub in Manhattan. His late underboss’s son had recently found himself in some trouble after his mom passed, and in true Victor fashion, he took Michael Valente in, brought him back to New York, and hooked him up as the manager of the club.
For weeks, Victor and Anthony Bianci fitted Mike for his new role and on opening night, just as he was settling into life with the mob, gunfire broke out. I never got the logistics of everything because, again, just an associate, but word on the street was a mob war was brewing. Victor had his daughters go into hiding while he took care of the situation and seeing as he’s here and not in New York fucking people up, I’m gonna say he handled it.