Keeper, Not Lover

I thought Rocco called me back for the usual reason. To be cleaned up, thrown on a bed, and used like an animal to satisfy him.

But he didn't.

He didn't even stay the night.

He sat on that uncomfortable velvet sofa, silently ate a steak I wasn't very good at cooking, and then looked at his watch.

"I have to go."

He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and became the cold-blooded Don again.

"I'll be busy for a while. Don't wait up."

Then, without a backward glance, he was gone.

Ten minutes later, his second-in-command knocked on the door.

"Miss Vance."

He respectfully handed me a velvet case and a black Amex card.

"From the Boss."

Inside the case was an antique violin. A Guarneri del Gesù, 1742. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the one that sold for a fortune at Christie's two years ago.

And the black card had no limit.

"Compensation," the man said simply.

I stared at the violin, an instrument that could buy an entire orchestra, and felt nothing but a vast emptiness.

Rocco Moretti never apologized.

This was his way.

He used money to fix the problem of a cheap, broken violin string. He used a priceless masterpiece to shut my mouth, to buy my silence for the desecration of my mother's memory.

"Where did he go?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

The man hesitated. "Miss Vivienne is organizing an art exhibit and a personal concert in memory of her late husband. The Boss... is helping her."

"Helping."

I let out a small, bitter laugh.

What a nice word for it.

The Don of the Moretti family, a killer with blood on his hands, acting like a devoted husband, helping a woman plan an art show.

Two days later, on the opening day of Vivienne’s exhibition, I went anyway.

I bought a ticket, a sick part of me wanting to see the humiliation up close.

Maybe it would be the last time I ever saw him.

The exhibition was in one of Manhattan's most expensive galleries. A giant poster hung at the entrance: Vivienne, dressed in black lace, her expression beautiful and tragic. The title read: Eternal Love: To My Leonardo.

"What is this pretentious crap?"

A familiar voice snapped beside me. I turned to see Chloe, decked out in a ridiculous sequined jacket, rolling her eyes at the poster.

"Isn't this the gallery you booked for your fashion show?" I asked.

"Don't even get me started!" Chloe fumed. "It was my spot. Then this bitch whispered something in someone's ear and my show got bumped a month. And for what? This garbage? I wouldn't hang this stuff on my wall if you paid me. I bet they won't sell a hundred tickets!"

I looked at the expensive ticket in my hand and gave a sad smile.

"Maybe. But for some people, the audience doesn't matter."

I looked at the poster's romantic title.

"As long as the one person who matters is watching."

Chloe's sharp eyes caught my mood. She stopped complaining and put an arm around my shoulders, changing the subject.

"Hey, don't be too sad. You know what? I went to this super boring MIT alumni thing the other day and met this total nerd."

She gestured dramatically.

"He was hot, in a nerdy way. Gold-rimmed glasses, the whole deal. Turns out he's a cryptography professor! And you know what he said to me? He said my latest design looked like an 'illogical patchwork of colored rags'! The nerve!"

Her story made me laugh, lifting some of the gloom.

"Maybe he was just trying to get your attention."

"Please! A tech bro like that wouldn't know romance if it hit him in the face."

After saying goodbye to Chloe, I walked into the gallery.

It wasn't crowded. Mostly social climbers looking to kiss Moretti ass.

Vivienne was in the spotlight, giving an interview.

"Leonardo was the love of my life," she said to the camera, her eyes welling with tears. "Even after all these years, my heart still belongs only to him. This concert, every one of these paintings… it’s all for him, for my endless love..."

The reporters were eating it up.

But my eyes went to the corner of the room, to Rocco, standing in the shadows.

His face was a mask of fury.

A second later, he slammed his nearly crushed wine glass onto a passing waiter's tray and strode out of the room.

I don't know why I did it, but I followed him.

He was at the end of a long hall, by a dark fire escape, yanking at his tie.

He heard my footsteps and whipped around.

For a second, the raw violence in his eyes terrified me.

"Rocco..." I breathed.

Before I could react, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.

He dragged me into a service elevator.

BANG.

The metal doors slammed shut, plunging us into darkness.

Rocco shoved me against the cold wall, the overwhelming scent of whiskey flooding the small space.

"Rocco..."

I started to speak, but his mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and desperate.

His lips were hot, his tongue bitter with alcohol, stealing my breath. His hand tangled in my hair, holding my head so tight it hurt.

But I didn't fight back.

In this dark, hidden place, we were both the ones left behind.

He kissed me so deeply, so forcefully, as if I was the only thing that could save him.

"I love you," he whispered against my ear, his voice ragged.

My heart stopped.

Tears welled in my eyes.

The words I had waited five years to hear, and he was saying them now…

But in the next second, my blood ran cold.

Because in the darkness, in a voice torn with anguish, he whispered the name that truly owned his soul:

"Vivienne."