“Bullshit,” I sneer. A mistake like that is impossible.
“I swear,” he spats. “He reserved a table and everything.”
“How did I not know that? I checked the reservations this afternoon.”
“I don’t fucking know, man, but the list is at the door. Look for yourself,” he says as the doors open to the main floor.
Still trying to make sense of how I missed Pablo’s name, I drag my fingers through my hair as Omar steps off the elevator. Before the doors can close, I turn back to him and order him to stall Victor. He jerks his head in response and I roughly press the button for the third floor, making my way toward Rocco’s office. As I reach for the doorknob, my phone dings with a message. I’m not sure how much I can take before I lose my fucking mind. Retrieving my phone, I glance at the screen, seeing it’s from my sister, Violet.
She can wait.
I shove the phone back inside my jacket and open the door to Rocco’s office. There he is, sitting behind his desk like the king of Miami, licking the cunt of one girl while another one goes to town sucking his cock. He’s nothing if he’s not consistent.
“Party’s over,hermano,” I hiss.
Ignoring the squeals that erupt from the two whores and the groan that comes from Rocco, I make my way to the small closet in the corner.
When we first came to Miami and Victor gave us the grand tour, I thought it was ridiculous to have a closet in an office. Then I recalled a scene in the movieCasino, where DeNiro stepped around his desk wearing his briefs and plucked a fresh pair of slacks from the closet. It made sense for the character and it made sense for us. Rocco wasn’t much for suits and he oftendressed here. It also came in handy on nights like tonight, when blood and vomit flowed just as freely as the top-shelf booze.
“What the fuck, Joaquin? I’m in the middle of something?” Rocco growls.
“Clearly, but seeing as your uncle is downstairs, you might want to wipe your mouth and put your dick back in your pants,” I volley, clenching my jaw.
Sometimes, I wonder what the fuck I got myself into. Truth be told, maintaining any kind of relationship with Rocco Spinelli is nearly impossible. He cuts ties and burns bridges as often as people change their underwear. Just ask his sister, Gina. I couldn’t tell you the last time those two spoke to one another.
“What do you mean my uncle is here and what the fuck is that smell?”
Channeling my inner DeNiro, I grab a suit off one of the hangers— a white linen one that I pair with a silk blue shirt. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as he pushes the two girls away, ordering them to get lost. It’s really a shock he gets as much pussy as he does. He’s a prick to every girl he fucks.
Once the girls scurry out the door half-dressed, Rocco turns to me and lights a cigarette. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he blows out a ring of smoke as I start for the bathroom.
“We ran into a bit of a problem,” I tell him. “It’s handled now, but I gotta get the fuck out of here after I say hello to Victor, which means you’re on your own for the rest of the night.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind that ends with a clean-up crew in the basement and me changing my clothes. Now, get your ass downstairs and act like the doting nephew who has everything under control. I’ll be down in a minute.”
He takes another drag of the cigarette before crushing it in an ashtray. His eyes are full of questions, but I ignore them. There’s no time for me to recap everything and once I start talkingabout Pablo and what happened with Pilar, I’m going to have to explain my situation with her too and I don’t have the head for that.
I enter the bathroom and quickly change my clothes, throwing my soiled suit in the wastebasket. Once I’m presentable, I make my way back into the office and find Rocco fully dressed in the same wrinkled clothes as earlier. He looks a mess but that’s nothing new.
“You reek of cheap perfume and pussy,” I grunt.
“Sounds like a good time to me. Let’s get this shit over with.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was high, but Rocco doesn’t favor drugs. If he and Victor are on the same page about anything, it’s that, and I think that’s partly because of what happened to his old man. However, we all got our vices and Rocco’s is alcohol and fast women. Ever since his mother died, he overindulges in both, hoping one will numb the pain.
His phone rings and he scrambles to find it, patting down his pant pockets for the offensive device.
“Why is Vi calling me?” he questions, lifting his gaze from the screen.
Losing my patience with everything and everyone, I take the phone from his hand and send my sister’s call to voicemail. It must be nice to have your only worry be celebrating your birthday.
“She’s only calling you because I declined her call,” I explain, handing him back his phone. Maybe she’ll get the hint we’ve got more pressing issues to deal with than planning her birthday weekend.
“Why?” Rocco questions.
Narrowing my eyes, I clench my fists.
