Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance (11 page)

A
s he muted
the television and made a scathing remark about not letting her into his life, Whitney bowed her head and let the storm pass. Now that the afterglow from orgasm was wearing thin, and the excitement of the lay was over, she remembered who she spoke with. Rocco was a killer, a mobster, and exactly the kind of man she didn't need in her life.

So why was it that she couldn't get over the thought of him?

Tall and athletic. Handsome and well spoken. Intelligent. Capable. Were he to apply himself to any other field, he would have been the perfect guy. But no one was perfect.

During that episode of Oprah, after discussing what to do during a hostile situation, Oprah had talked a little about Stockholm Syndrome. During a hostage situation, the captives would sometimes begin to sympathize with the man keeping them. Some would even be compelled to help the criminals. At the time, Whitney couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind could sympathize with someone threatening to end their life. Now she understood a little more.
Was what she felt for Rocco Stockholm Syndrome, or was it something more?

Oprah hadn't talked about how to tell if your feelings for the man holding you hostage were real or not. As Rocco cooked breakfast, Whitney came up with her own litmus test in order to judge whether her attraction was genuine. If she could list what she liked about Rocco with honesty, then she'd know what she felt was real. If the reasons felt too flimsy to be genuine, she'd accept it was Stockholm Syndrome. 

With any luck, he'd be good on his word and let her go home, and she could go on with her life without looking back. After all of this, she wasn't sure she wanted to go back to
The Avenue
at all. It was time to move on and find a new spot in life, something better suited for her age. Maybe it was time to give New York City up for cheaper pastures.

"How do you like your eggs?" Rocco asked as he switched the finished bacon out for a few more raw slices. He'd collected himself enough to be civil, and some of the tension Whitney felt eased away. Rocco was doing his best to keep his cool around her — that had to count for something.

"Over easy is my usual."

And he was considerate. Rocco could have made eggs however he wanted, but he checked in with her instead to make sure she'd enjoy her meal. Still, a person could be considerate but still not be a good person. Whitney folded her arms on the counter and stared at Mayor Belmonte as he made his speech. From time to time the angle would change, presenting him in a different way.
What made a man like the mayor so different from a man like Rocco?
The answer wasn't as obvious as she hoped.

Both had followed in their father's footsteps, and both were motivated enough to make bold decisions. In Mayor Belmonte's case, his decisions were for the good of the people. In Rocco's case, his decisions were for the good of his family.
Morally, Mayor Belmonte was far superior, but did that make him a genuine person? Or did that make him a puppet to society?

After the talk she'd had with Rocco last night, Whitney wasn't sure. She'd experienced herself how selfish people were. Snatched up and spat out by a new foster family every year for the check, Whitney had experienced cruelty, neglect, and abuse by the very adults who swore to protect her. Every employer she'd worked for had been the same kind of sleazy, and now even Liam was showing his true colors.
No one was a good person at heart. Was hiding it from the public more noble, or was being true to who you were braver?

It was hard to tell.

But beyond what Rocco did during for a living, somewhere inside was a respectable person. He tried to soothe her as she kneeled on the warehouse floor, facing certain death. He put off shooting her time and time again for no solid reason other than that he couldn't bring himself to. He saved her from being choked to death and raped by his brother. Whitney looked over her shoulder and studied Rocco's back as he tended to the cooking. The cold murderer was also her fierce protector. He'd held her close and promised he'd fix everything.

It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome if she wasn't a captive. The attraction she felt for him predated the kidnapping, anyway. From the very first time he'd set foot in the nightclub and she'd spotted him through the crowds, Whitney had felt something stir inside of her. Time had only strengthened that bond.
Was it crazy in the eyes of most people that she could have feelings for a man born this bad?
Sure. But people had never been kind to Whitney anyway;
what did she care what they thought?

It sounded like desperation, she realized. Her fingertips dug into her arms as she tried to work it all out. Love had never been a big part of her life. Not even as a kid. Maybe this wasn't Stockholm Syndrome, but it could have been something else. Rocco was the first person who'd been really nice to her.
Was she desperate for love no matter the source? After all, if Arturo was Rocco's blood brother, how far could two acorns fall from the same tree? If she couldn't find any redeeming qualities in Arturo, why could she find them in Rocco?

"Well uh, it's going to be scrambled eggs I guess," Rocco announced. The bacon was all done and draining on a couple paper towels on a plate by the stove. "I'm no cook, and these eggs are in pieces now."

The image brought a grin to Whitney's face, and she ducked her head down to try to keep from laughing. No, Rocco wasn't his brother. To try to pin him with that would be like saying that Whitney herself was just like either of her deadbeat parents. She knew that no matter what, she'd never abandon any child she had just because she felt like it. Her life would go a different direction from her mother's, just like Rocco's would go a different direction from Arturo's.

"They turn to plastic yet?" she asked, holding back that laugh. It was peeping through in her voice.

"Eggs can turn into plastic?" Rocco asked, incredulous. "What the fuck kind of witchcraft is— oh. Oh, I see it now. Um. Yeah. What exactly is goin' on here?"

There was no holding back the laugh this time. Whitney rose from her chair and joined him at the stove to point him in the right direction. Some of the egg pieces were beyond saving, but most of them had pulled through and would be edible. Just as she was about to tell him how to proceed, the swinging kitchen door creaked on its hinges as it was pushed open.

Arturo stepped into the room.

The atmosphere darkened, and Whitney stepped back from Rocco and kept her eyes on him. Crossing her hands over her chest, she watched as Arturo approached the kitchen area and sat down. The way he looked at her was just as ugly as it had been the day before, but as soon as Rocco turned to look at him, Arturo's expression changed. The hard lines of his face softened, and a charming smile sat on his lips as though it had always been there. Whitney shuddered. It seemed Arturo and Rocco were opposites of each other.  Rocco was hard and emotionless while on the job, but thoughtful and caring while on his own. Arturo was vile and unfeeling in his day to day life, but able to slip on a mask of placidity whenever he wanted to.

"What's for breakfast, brother? It smells great."

Seeing the change in Arturo opened Whitney's eyes. All this time she worried about her feelings for Rocco. She should've been worrying about what Arturo was capable of. If she wanted to stay safe, she was going to have to stay alert and keep a constant eye on him until she got free.

If
she got free.

"
W
hat's for breakfast
, brother? It smells great."

The overly chipper tone made Rocco's skin crawl. Arturo sat on the stool, hands on his knees, fixing both of them with his blue eyes as though nothing happened last night. The bruising on his cheekbone reminded Rocco otherwise. He was surprised Arturo didn't have a full on black eye after their fight last night.

"Bacon and eggs," Rocco replied. He held the skillet with the egg bits in one hand. It was his first time cooking eggs, and while some of them were ruined, it wasn't the biggest fuck up he'd muddled his way through.

"I didn't know you cooked," Arturo remarked, sweet as could be.

"I don't," Rocco said, blunt.

"Well, you're doing a good job at it regardless."

This was an act. Arturo pulled this shit when he was disciplined but still wanted whatever it was he got in trouble for. Rocco had seen it more than once. When he was a kid it had been about dessert or the newest game his father refused to buy for them. As an adult, it had been about drugs or unplanned murders. Rocco wasn't going to let that kind of shit fly.

"Cut the shit, Arturo. You think these games are gonna work? Think again. I can see through this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?" Never had Rocco wanted to punch him more. The sugar sweet tone Arturo was trying to pass off as innocent came across as condescending. "That's no thing, brother. We're just having a civil conversation for once instead of beating each other up. Are you not used to non-violence? That's a shame. How sad it must be for you."

Instinctively, Rocco clutched the frying pan tighter. If their only eggs went flying across the kitchen, it would be worth it to bash Arturo upside the head.

"No you dolt. Between the two of us, I'm the one who's got their shit together. Don't you dare try to pass this off on me."

If it was any other time, Rocco would have let Arturo say whatever lies made him rest easy at night. But here, in front of a girl he was trying to hard to put at ease, Rocco didn't need any kind of personal sabotage. He wouldn't stand for Arturo's lies.

"I guess that's true," Arturo remarked with a whimsical, far off voice, as though he were dreaming. Rocco bit down on his bottom lip in an attempt to control his anger.
Was that Arturo's game, to get him so angry he'd lose his cool in front of Whitney?
Rocco wasn't sure. But whatever Arturo's intentions were, they were making him pissed. "After all, you're the one who's gotten so soft that you brought a hostage here. What would dad think if he knew you brought a black girl home, Rocco? I don't think he'd be very happy at all, do you?"

First one way, then the other. If Arturo inherited anything from Vittore, it was his way of beating around the bush to infuriate his target. Arturo was doing a fantastic job.

"Do you see what you're doing?" Rocco asked. For fear of actually swinging the skillet as a weapon, he set it down. Whitney had crept into the living room while they exchanged verbal blows. She was smart, Rocco wouldn't want to be caught between himself and Arturo either if he were in her shoes.

"All I see if you making breakfast like the fantastic big brother you are," Arturo said, chipper.

Rocco clenched both of his fists, digging the rounds of his fingernails into his palms. No. Arturo was not going to play this game.

"You don't think I'm a fantastic big brother. You don't give a shit whether I can cook or not. If Whitney wasn't here, I'm sure you'd be lounging on that couch in your boxers jacking off whenever you thought I wasn't looking. Just like you did the last time we were forced to come here."

Whitney, who peeped over the back of that same couch to watch them argue, looked down and got up slowly, a look of mild disgust on her face. She moved to the next arm chair over and took the same position.

"That's not nice, Rocco," Arturo scolded.

"Yeah, and you're not nice, ever, Arturo, so drop the fuckin' act. You weren't sweet and innocent ten years ago, and you sure as hell weren't sweet and innocent last night when you tried to rape and choke her to death." Rocco nodded in Whitney's direction.

The smallest shrug punctuated the silence between them. When Arturo spoke again, it was with the same boyish charm as before.

"I was on the job last night. You know how it feels when you can't unwind after a hard night. I did some things I regret, yeah, but that's over now. We duked it out and I burned off some of that energy, and then I went to bed and now it's all better. It's interesting to know she has a name, though. Do you always name hostages? Whitney the witness. Catchy. I can see the humor in it. So when will Whitney the witness whisper her final wishes? Because I feel like you're going on close to twelve hours at this point, and we both know that that's missing person territory, brother."

Did Arturo want to be beaten to a pulp?
Rocco shook his head, trying to draw himself back from the situation and let it go. Having Whitney around was a good reminder that it wasn't always worth it to resort to violence right away. Like his father always told him listening and forgiving came first. It was time to approach the situation with the cold calm only man worthy of being Don could muster.

"She's not a hostage anymore. I'm letting her go with her life. That means that you're gonna let her go, too. No one is going to hurt this girl. We've come to an understanding, and I made her a promise. Unless she does something stupid, no harm is gonna come to her."

Irritation twitched in Arturo's temple, but he otherwise didn't let it show on his face. The easy, placid look remained.

"Well, I suppose you know what's best. It's your job, after all, and it's your promise. I'm just here at your side, along for the ride. You're the big man of the family right now, at least until dad gets out and takes the reins again."

The jab was there, but Rocco let it roll off his shoulders. Arturo was overstepping his boundaries, but he wasn't going to worry about him. More likely than not, their dad would be sprung before the end of the day and taking care of Arturo wouldn't be his concern anymore. What a relief that would be.

"Yeah. Thanks for your encouragement. I'm gonna do a great job, I know. Dad's been prepping me for this day for years — but I guess you know that, don't you?"

Their father's preferential treatment for his first born son over his younger son was a sore spot for Arturo. After all the poking and prodding Arturo had just done, Rocco had no qualms about bringing it up. Let him hurt a little, too. 

Arturo clammed up, lips scrunched together like he'd tasted something sour. The silence was beautiful. Rocco turned back to the stove, opened the cabinet beside it to take out some plates, and divided up the food he'd cooked. All of the gross bits of egg went onto Arturo's plate, as did the worst looking slices of bacon. Just because they were brothers didn't mean shit. If Arturo valued their relationship at all, he'd treat Rocco with a little more respect.

"Here you go, brother," Rocco announced with just as much condescension. He placed the plate of overcooked eggs and bacon in front of Arturo. A fork laid atop it for Arturo's convenience. Rocco brought his plate and Whitney's at the same time into the living room, and sat near her on another arm chair. She settled down onto her seat and accepted her plate with silence. Not willing to draw attention to herself, she mouthed him a thank you. Rocco grinned at her in return. She'd kept him from lashing out and starting a fight, and for that he was grateful.

Your light among the dark.

Rocco bowed his head and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth to push the thought aside.

"We're going to have to go see dad in prison today," Rocco said when the first mouthful was swallowed. "With all the press coverage, the cops are gonna expect us to show up, act like a normal family, all that bullshit. You cleared out your schedule for that, right?"

"Yeah. Course I did. This ain't the first time something like this has gone down."

A small relief. At times Arturo could be stubborn; it was nice to know that today, of all days, Rocco could count on him to behave. He still didn't trust him any further than he could throw him, but for now his cooperation was enough.

"You gonna wear something nice, but not work nice?"

"Not my first rodeo, Rocco," Arturo bit back. He reeled himself in quickly. Rocco knew it had all been an act. Finally, the cracks were starting to show. "I mean, yes. I'm gonna go through the clothes here and find something nice enough that it's presentable, but not too nice. I'll play the part, don't you worry."

In the armchair beside him, Whitney ate slowly and kept her eyes on Rocco. Rocco's gaze swept to her, watching her as she watched him.
What thoughts were going on behind those beautiful dark eyes?
Thoughts that he couldn't pin down, but found himself wanting to know. The realization that in hours their paths would split weighed on him heavier than it should have. 

What a girl.

Breakfast was otherwise silent. The rest of the day was a write off. No matter how much there was no do, there was no guarantee any work would be done at all. Until the details got sorted out, the whole family business would slow to a snail's pace. With reports of up to thirty other men arrested alongside Vittore, Rocco wasn't even sure who he had left to call upon.

When the last of the food was cleared from his plate, Rocco stood and stretched. "I'm gonna go get dressed for the visit," Rocco told his brother. Like a shadow, Whitney had followed him from the living room and into the kitchen and now stood an arm's length away. "You ready to do the same?"

"Yeah," he said, and rose from the stool. He left the plate on the island. "Meet back in twenty, in the hall. We'll take my car."

Would the insidious back and forth ever end?
Not wanting to stir the pot, Rocco nodded. He gestured towards the door for Whitney to follow, and together they left the kitchen and made their way back upstairs.

"Is he always like that?" Whitney asked in a whisper as they ascended. "It felt so... creepy. Like he was pretending to be human."

"That's Arturo," Rocco muttered back. "And he's really starting to piss me off with his disrespect."

Whitney sat on the bed. As he dressed, she'd tied the t-shirt into a knot at her side in an attempt to make it fit better. The change was remarkable, and the way the shirt rode up her side to expose the subtle curve of her hip and the chocolate skin along it caught his breath and sped his heartbeat.

"Here's the plan. In my pile of clothes in the bathroom, there's two thousand dollars in cash. I want you to take it. Use it to call a cab and get you home, pay some rent, pay off your medical bills, get groceries, blow it all on male strippers, I don't care. It's yours."

"You think I'm the type of girl to hire male strippers?" Whitney asked with a laugh. Rocco tried to internalize the sound of it, it was likely the last time he'd hear it.

"No. But I mean, after what you've been through, maybe you wanna celebrate still being alive. Hell, I know I would."

"Hire male strippers?" she asked with a mischievous grin.

"No! I mean I'd wanna get out there and celebrate like I'd won the lottery. Which you kinda did. Not many people walk away from the business end of a Lombardo gun, you know." It was true. In all his years serving beneath his father, Rocco couldn't remember the last time they'd spared a witness. The only promise of silence was death, after all. But when it came to Whitney, there were other motives at play.

"I'm honored." Although she still found it within herself to have fun with him, there was a bittersweet sorrow that hung between them like sheets dampened with rain. Heavy, oppressive, and impossible to miss, Rocco did the only thing he could think to do to address it — he sat beside her on the bed and pulled her against the side of his chest, holding her tight.

"If things were different," he whispered, "I'd want to see where this goes. I'd want to see if there was something more between us than the thrill of a botched job. Right now it's killing me to let you go. There's nothing that I can do about it, but I thought I'd let you know. You're worth a lot more than you give yourself credit for. Don't let me and what happened last night bring you down, you hear me?"

When he turned his head to look at her face, he saw the wet streak down her cheek where tears had fallen. Some soaked into his shirt.

"I don't want to go," she confessed, voice burdened with sorrow. "There isn't anything for me back in my old life. Liam was gonna take my shifts away until he forced me to quit, I've got no family, and my friends are few and far between. All that I've got going for me right now is you, and even you're leaving."

The words were touching, but Rocco knew she was misguided. Strong emotions spurred from the panic of the night before left her doing and saying things she didn't mean.
How could anyone have feelings like that for someone as low as him?

"You're gonna be fine," he promised. "Just keep your chin up. You'll find your way. And if you don't, if you keep struggling and are miserable... When all this is over, when my life stops being so insane, I'm gonna track you down. But don't let that stop you from finding happiness on your own, you got it?"

In time she'd forget about him and find another guy who'd make her happy, Rocco was sure. But right now Whitney needed that confidence to get there. And by all means, when life was less crazy, he had every intention of following through on what he said. More than likely he'd find her at a new job, with a new boyfriend, and he'd leave without making his presence known. That was the way it went sometimes. Rocco accepted what they had for what it was: beautiful and temporary.

Whitney looked up at him, a smile on her lips, and Rocco found himself smiling back. His fingers brushed her jawline, and he inched his face closer until their noses brushed in warm affection.

"I got it," she whispered, eyes sparkling with tears.

"Good girl," he whispered back, and closed his eyes. When their lips met and worked through a tender kiss, Rocco knew he had never felt joy like she brought him before. And he might never feel it again.