Page 17 of Connected

“What are we going to do with her?” he asks low enough that only I can hear him.

“Fuck if I know,” I mutter. “Hey, Vi, weren’t you supposed to bring some friends with you?”

“They bailed on me,” she says, staring at her manicured nails. “So, I’m sliding into my twenties with the two of you. Better make it fun, guys.”

* * *

The good thingabout Violet’s visit is— oh, who the fuck am I kidding, there is nothing good about her being here. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister and I hate that we’re not as close as we used to be, that I’ve missed so much of her life, but she couldn’t have shown up at a worse time.

There was no explaining any of that to her, though. She didn’t know about Pilar and while she probably surmised I was not a fucking club promoter, I couldn’t come out and tell her I had to have a sit down with Victor, or that I was regrouping from murdering a man the night before. To be honest, I’m not sure she would’ve cared. Violet had a one-track mind and all she seemed to care about was partying it up. That and busting Rocco’s balls.

“Why are we here again?” she questions, sliding onto the barstool.

Ignoring the question, I look toward the hostess station, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pilar. Of course, Victor would pick the restaurant she worked at for his sit down. Now, not only did I have to worry about running into her, but I had to deal with my sister too. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving her out of my sight, especially when I’m not sure Pablo’s guys aren’t going to try to retaliate— something I plan to further discuss with Victor when he gets here.

“Well, if you’re not going to answer me, the least you can do is buy me a drink.”

“You’re not twenty-one.”

“If you think I came to Miami on my birthday to be sober, you’re a fool. A handsome fool, but still a fool,” she says as she reaches over and squeezes my cheek.

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.

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