I glance back at the house, where I can just about make out Cas waving down at us from her bedroom window.
“Me too.”
22
CASSANDRA
Idon’t think I could ever get bored of kissing Rocco.
When I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. When I am, I do everything I can to prolong it for as long as possible.
I feel starved when he’s not around.
And he’s not around one hell of a lot.
As the weeks of our second month fly by, I feel like I see him less and less. The time I spend waiting around pining or taking my frustrations out at the gym begins to wear on me.
I must have fucked Rocco in every room in this house, yet I’ve also sung in every room of this house, napped in every room in this house, and redecorated every room in this house.
To make it even more suffocating, every request I make to Donatella, or on the rare occasion, Teo, about leaving is always met with an awkward denial.
“Rocco?” I ask one morning as I watch Rocco dress for the day from his bed.
“Cassandra.”
I check my phone again to be sure. Despite everything, my first paycheck from theCandelabrawas deposited into my account. “I was wondering if I might go shopping later?”
His fingers freeze as he buttons up his shirt. “I’m er…a bit tied up the next few days. I’ll take you this weekend.”
“I can take myself,” I insist, sitting up and gathering the duvet to my bare chest.
“What did you want to get?”
“Just some sheet music. There’s this new mic I’ve been looking at for, you know, recording stuff at home, but,” I shrug. “I think Claudio still has my laptop.”
Rocco nods. “I’ll look into it.”
“Does that mean I can head out later?”
He approaches to kiss my forehead softly. “Just wait until I get back, all right?”
“All right,” I resign myself.
“I love what you’ve done to the room.” He diverts my attention to the redecorated bedroom.
I hadn’t done much, only added a few decorative items to make the room feel homier. Donatella and I spent an entire day rearranging the furniture, guided by a book on feng shui I’d found in Rocco’s office library.
Rocco’s office had provided me with the most entertainment so far. At first, the dusty, underused corners of the library hadseemed uninviting, but curiosity had finally gotten the better of me.
There weren’t just books on Chinese geomancy; beneath had been files upon files of Italian mafia history.
I’ve made my way through most of the late 1800s and early 1900s. The Guild was formed by an Italian immigrant, Josef Moretti, who I suppose must be Rocco’s great-great-grandfather—a fugitive from the Sicilian authorities.
It’s fascinating, more so because the degrees of separation are so few.
“When will you be home?” I ask, shaking the memory of Josef Moretti taking on the don of the Irish mob in hand-to-hand combat.
“Late.” He sighs. “The Cartel are wiping the floor with us.”
