Always in the Mafia

Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

"Uhm. Hi," I awkwardly say, unaware that I'm saying it. I'm a lightweight, and I've already had, like, 1 and ½ martinis.

His beautiful mop of dirty blonde hair turned my way and gave me access to his gorgeous, hazel eyed piercing stare.

"Hello," he replied. He had an accent, but I wasn't sure of where it was from. It sounded Italian, but it also had a mix of Irish.

"Your accent is beautiful," I drunkenly state. I was aware that I was making a fool out of myself. But I didn't care.

"Thank you, so is yours. It is very slight. But it's still there," he replied, smiling at me with his strikingly white teeth.

"Yup. It's Italian!"

"So you are from Italy, si?" He asked me.

"Something like that," I replied. That was like pouring ice water down my back. Dropping his gaze, I look back up to the TV and continue pretending to be fully immersed in the sports game.

The conversation was short, but it got me thinking more about his accent. I replayed it in my mind at least 50 times, and come to the conclusion that he's full Italian. So what the hell is he doing in Los Angeles?

"What brings you here?" I ask him after 10 minutes of silence. In that short amount of time, he ordered a whiskey and had drunk half of it.

"I'm here in LA on a... work trip. And I'm at the bar because my line of business really fucking sucks," He replied, with a glint of something unnamed in his eyes.

"What do you do?" I press, taking the last big gulp of the Martini.

"You know, it's really nothing special. I don't like talking about it; it kind of depresses me," he answers back, raising an eyebrow at my now empty glass.

"I can live with not talking about work. Got any family drama?"

"If only you knew..." he mutters, his eyes growing darker.

"Hey, Rosalie. Wanna order some nachos now?" Melissa interrupts before I could interrogate him on the meaning of his words.

"Oh my gosh, yes, please. We should've ordered those before I drank two glasses of alcohol. You're a terrible friend!" I tell her, already anticipating the cheesy goodness of what Nachos bring.

"Oops. Sorry. If only," she giggles, giving the bartender her signature "give me nachos" look.

"So. Rosalie?" Mystery, Italian man asked, taking a swig from his whiskey.

"Yup! That's my name!" I answer, smiling in a somewhat flirty way.

"Beautiful name. Although not Italian. It's French. I'm not that familiar with the meaning. But now I'll just associate it with you, Miss Rosalie," he replied, smirking after his little tirade was finished.

"Well, don't I feel lucky? Nope, you're right. It isn't Italian. It kind of just... stuck, I guess. But I like it. It fits me," I say.

Little did he know, I used to be Cheryl Gambino. I was a different person; I was a snobby, rich girl who's daddy could fix all of her problems. I took advantage of my hair; the black, silky thin hair that I miss so deeply. Cheryl isn't Italian either; it's English. I guess my father always wanted me to stray away from my Italy roots.

"Yes, it does fit you. It fits you very well," he responds.

"Too bad you'll always be associated with Twilight now," Melissa interjects, scarfing down a tortilla chip from a steaming plate of Nachos.

"Oh my gosh, Melissa. I hate you." I laugh, stealing a Nacho and stuffing it into my mouth.

But I don't actually hate her. How can I? Ever since she discovered me sleeping in the same, shitty, Motel 8 three years ago and saved me, she's been a sister.

More like a mother.

If I could pick only one person in this world that I would be in debt to, it would be her. She helped me build up, from the lost 19-year-old shell I was. She turned me into a strong, independent woman.

After I swallow the goodness of the nacho, me and mystery guy talk for a while. I learn nothing about him, but he learns only the finest things about me.

And by that, I mean he learns all about my job at Barney's.

I've got to admit, he has an amazing laugh. A laugh that just comes to life- you could tell that if he laughed in a room full of dying kids, he'd cheer them up right away.

As time moves on, I grow more comfortable. Pretty soon, it's 9 pm and I've been here for almost 5 hours.

"So, how long are you staying in town for?" I ask him, taking a large gulp out of my water.

"I'm betting for a really, really long time," he answers.

"Damn. Work sucks," I laugh, shaking my head.

"You bet it does. Listen, I gotta go soon. I've had a blast, and I want to have more. Give me your phone number?" He asks me, already getting his phone out and opening up a New Contact profile.

"But I don't even know your name," I giggle. But I knew I was going to give him my phone number even if he never gave me his name. Because I really enjoyed my night; and for the first time in a long time, Melissa doesn't have to drag me out of the bar screaming and crying at some bitch who wore Louboutins.

"My name is Vito Costello. Now, will you grace me so ever elegantly with your digits?" He responds.

"Okay," I chuckle, giving in and telling him my cell phone number while the inside of me cheerfully danced around in celebration.

A few moments after he left, so did I. I felt safe enough to drive home to my one bedroom, small, barely furnished apartment.

When I got there, I passed out immediately and even forgot to take my heels off.