Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance (6 page)

A
twisted mile
of driveway led to the safe house. The untouched snow stretched out before him meant Arturo hadn't made it in yet.

If this was some kind of joke, there would be words. Knowing Arturo's temper and personality, words wouldn't be enough. The only punishment Rocco's brother responded to was physical. Rocco was very different from his brother. To Rocco, the family business was just business. To Arturo, the family business was pleasure.

Rocco popped the locks on the back doors. Whitney did not move to open her door, so Rocco did it for her. The night was frigid, wind whipped through the surrounding trees. If Whitney had dressed for the cold weather it would have been a fine time for her to try to run. But in her revealing vest and indoor flats, she was in no condition to get away. The cold would get her long before any passing motorists would.

"Inside," he instructed, and slammed the door closed behind her. Since their talk, her mood had improved. Faced with her inevitable death, she'd come to accept her mortality. It was good. Rocco wouldn't have to feel so bad when the moment came.

          "This is a safe house?" she asked in a near whisper. Rocco wasn't sure if she was talking to herself, or if she was asking him.

          "This is a Lombardo safe house," he replied, then nudged her forward with his palm. 

          "I guess when the apocalypse hits, you'll be the most popular family on the block."

          Rocco laughed and shook his head, pushing her up the stairs and towards the front door.

          "We're already the most popular family in New York," Rocco replied.

          Whitney shook her head in disbelief, "you guys are the real deal. At first, I didn't know what to think of you and your setup, but I mean... Who are you guys? Who are you with? You keep mentioning your family, but—"

          "It means exactly what you think it means."

          Rocco dug his hand into one of his inner jacket pockets and withdrew another key, jamming it into the door lock.

          "So you're... You're who, exactly?" Whitney asked.

          "I'm the boss's son. Oldest son. And right now, with my dad facing an emergency, so I'm in charge."

          "Jeeze," Whitney murmured, and this time he was sure it was to herself. Rocco pushed her into the front hall. Portraits of men and women from his family lined the walls, serious faces looking down to remind him of all that he had to live up to. It was the kick in the pants Rocco needed. Right now, his father needed him to be the strong leader that he was brought up to be. Rocco wouldn't let him down.

          "We're on a large property, with no one around. If you try to run, I'll hunt you down and this will end messy. If you make a lot of noise, all you're going to do is make me angry. Got it?"

          "Yes," she agreed. Whitney glanced from portrait to portrait, taking in his history. Something about it made Rocco uneasy. He caught her by the arm and dragged her down the hall to a polished staircase. Rocco paused in front of the first step, bringing Whitney to a halt.
Now that they'd arrived, what was he to do with her?
Rocco's plan had run out of steam. This was a hostage situation, and she needed to be treated like a hostage.

          "Stay here," he barked. The keys to the car were with him, and unless she was a lot more hood than she let on, he figured a sweet little bartender like her had no idea how to hotwire a car.

          When Whitney didn't reply, he made haste from the hallway and into the kitchen. One of the kitchen drawers had a false bottom where small items could be stowed.  Rocco pulled the drawer free, slid the bottom out, and pulled a pair of handcuffs out.

          Rocco slid the tiny key into his pocket, put the board back in place, and returned to the stairs. Whitney had wandered, but hadn't gone far.

          "Ms. Greene," Rocco insisted, jarring Whitney. With a little jump she turned, eyes wide, like a kid who'd just been caught dipping her fingers into her mother's jewelry box. "I thought I told you to stay here."

          "I'm sorry," Whitney replied. "I thought maybe that meant the hall, and you weren't all that specific, so—"

          "Just get over here."

          Until he figured out what he was going to do with her, Whitney would stay right here, handcuffed to the landing to make sure she stayed put. While she settled in, he'd head upstairs and take advantage of the empty bathroom. Rocco needed a good, hot shower not only to wash his body of Tyrone's gore, but to clear his head.

          When Whitney was in arm's reach, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the stairs. Beneath the guidance of his hands, she sank down into a sitting position on the third step, her dark eyes imploring. Rocco refused to fold.

          "Turn your back to the railing and put your hands behind your back," he instructed. Whitney did as she was told, and he pushed her closer to the railing so that her wrists were near the support columns. It was no effort at all to loop the handcuffs around the column nearest her wrists to secure her to the railing. There was no way Whitney could get free.

          "If I hear you trying to get out, if I hear you causing any kind of trouble, you're going to wish that I'd killed you back at The Factory, got it?"

          "Yes." She kept herself pressed back against the railing and as small as possible as he towered over her. The power dynamic between them was well established, and Rocco felt horrible for it. This was a mess.

          The master bedroom had a private bathroom. With his dad behind bars — at least for the moment — the master bedroom was his. Rocco went right for it, but left the door open in his wake. With Whitney tied to the stairs, he wanted to hear if she tried to cause any trouble.

          Tonight was a disaster.

          Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. The perfect storm his failures was topped off by his father's arrest. It was time to take a minute to catch his breath and think things through.

          Rocco undressed and ran the water to heat it. When the pooling water met the blood stains on his skin, it stained pink. All of this because of Tyrone Hinsley. If he hadn't already shot the fucker, Rocco would have killed him for all the trouble he caused.

          Beating pellets of water cleansed his impurities and soothed his soul.
Why was he so freaked out over this? Vittore had been arrested before, and every time nothing had come of it.
The answer came to him quickly. 

Belmonte. 

New York's youngest mayor decided he didn't like the conditions of his loyalty, and now he was working his ass off to bring the crime ring down. Belmonte's resistance began after he started dating the news reporter, Ciara Simmons. Rocco wondered if Belmonte's lover was connected to his betrayal. Rocco had never heard of a Simmons associated with the Black Mafia, but it wasn't impossible. From what he'd seen of her, Simmons was the straight laced, prudish, driven individual that the Black Mafia loved. 

So unlike Whitney.

          Rocco's thoughts drifted back to the captive bound to the railing on the first floor. They'd known each other for only a few hours, but in that time Rocco had gotten a good feel for her. Sincere, tough, and willing to do what it took in order to keep her freedom. Whitney was admirable in a different way from Simmons. She knew that she was the only one who had her back, and it meant that she was willing to do what it took to keep herself safe. That in itself was something special.

          Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to leave her alive, Rocco thought as he lathered up, if Arturo didn't get to her first. Rocco's little brother was unhinged. Rocco couldn't stand his psychopathic tendencies; Vittore saw him as beneficial to the order. When there was a tough hit that no one wanted to get dirty with, Arturo was trotted out like a hungry dog before a steak. Rocco didn't want to think of the lives Arturo had taken. Friends, family, and children, Arturo spared none. If he found out Rocco was considering sparing Whitney's life—

          A scream pierced through the house, wrenching Rocco from his thoughts. Savage, terrified, and definitely female, there was no one it could be but Whitney.

          Heart racing, Rocco bolted from the shower for the stairs. Naked, dripping wet, he wasted no time in closing the distance between himself and his hostage.

Arturo made it at last, and from the sounds of it, he was ready to take care of Rocco's unfinished business.

T
he click
of the handcuffs sealed her fate. Metal bit into her wrists. Whitney let her gaze fall, resolving to keep cool for as long as Rocco was watching. No one liked a snivelling, weak willed shell of a woman. If she wanted to get out of here alive, she was going to have to try to strengthen the connection between them. 

What she'd felt for Rocco when he was a customer at the bar had been real, and it had been intense. Despite her treatment, that attraction remained and left her feeling guilty. Here was a man who'd threatened to kill her and yet who she still thought had the most gorgeous eyes in the world. His laughter was bright sparks during an otherwise terrifying drive. His light Italian accent was a sweet song.

          Whitney couldn't look at him. Not when she felt like this.

          There were no words exchanged between them before Rocco took to the stairs. When his footsteps grew distant, Whitney dared to lift her head. With Rocco out of sight, she tested the strength of the handcuffs. Tugging made the metal squeeze her wrists. She could only imagine how much it would hurt if she really put up a struggle. 

Whitney knew that not all banister rods were secured, and if she squirmed with enough force, she might be able to dislodge the one she was cuffed to. It wouldn't fix the problem that her hands were bound behind her back, but her legs were unbound — she could run. Rocco had warned her that there was nowhere to run to, but there had to be somewhere, had to be someone. At half an hour or so outside of New York, there had to be people. All she needed to worry about was the cold.

          Flats now soaked as the snow on them melted, Whitney would have to go barefoot, or risk the water in her flats freezing to her feet. If she did manage to break out, Rocco was bound to hear and come running. Whatever he was doing upstairs wasn't going to keep him from taking her out if he needed to.

          The sound of a running shower began.

          Whitney lifted her head towards the noise, hearing the patter of water. If Rocco was taking a shower, it meant she might have a little more time than she thought. Twisting and turning, she strained against the railing. The sharp edges of the handcuffs dug into her wrists, but Whitney powered through the pain. Bracing her bare feet against the steps, she added the weight of her body to her efforts—

          —but the rod didn't so much as wiggle.

          Collapsing back against the step, Whitney took a deep breath and tried to convince herself that this wasn't the end. Rocco had laughed at her joke. He'd talked back and encouraged her to keep talking. He'd been nice. The signs all pointed in positive directions, so she should try to relax and not do anything to make him angry.

         
What if she screamed? Would it bring help, or was the property really as remote as what Rocco had told her?
It seemed isolated, but maybe there was another house not all that far off. Maybe calling out for help wasn't such a bad idea.

          Over the sound of the shower, Whitney heard a noise — a car door slammed in the distance. Every inch of her body tingled, adrenaline rushed through her veins. She took in a deep breath to scream as loud as she could when the door opened. A short, thick man with a bulbous nose came inside. As excited as she was to see a new face and possible salvation, Whitney didn't piece two and two together.

          "Oh my god," she said, voice hushed so Rocco couldn't hear it, "thank god you're here. You have to help me. There's a man upstairs, and he's trying to kill me. Please, call the police. Set me free. There isn't much time."

          The man at the end of the hall looked at her. From the distance they were at, Whitney could see his body in full. No taller than 5'4, pudgy but also muscular, with dark messy hair and blue eyes, there was a troll-like quality to him. His broad square jaw pocked with old acne scars and red with ingrown hairs, and his brow was low and flat like a caveman's. There was evil in his eyes.

          "Well, well, well," the man muttered, stretching his head from side to side until his neck popped. Each snap sent a shiver down her spine. "What do we have here?"

          "Please let me go," she begged him. "This is a misunderstanding. I'm not supposed to be here. I just wanna go back to work and go on like nothing ever happened. It's all just a mistake."

          "A mistake, huh?" the short man asked as he approached. "How is it a mistake that I come into my house after my pops has been locked up, thanks to a meddling of a black slut, only to find another black slut tied up to the stairs? That doesn't sound like a mistake to me. To me, that sounds like cosmic justice, like all the little tiny coincidences in the universe led up to this beautiful moment."

          Step by step he drew closer, taunting her like a cat stalking its prey. Only Whitney was no bird — her liberty was tucked away in Rocco's coat pocket, the small key to the handcuffs far beyond her reach.

          "I have no idea what you're talking about," she breathed.

          "Nah. Ya do," the man insisted. He stood just a few feet from the stairs now, eyes glittering with malicious intent. "It's not by chance that you're here. Now I know what Rocco meant when he said he was in the middle of some business. I think this runs much deeper than a 'witness' situation, now doesn't it?"

          Whatever he was implying, Whitney didn't understand. Instead she struggled against the railing that much harder, desperate for mobility.

          "I have no clue what you mean," she said, some of her inner desperation leeching into her tone. "I didn't do anything."

          "So what, you were Tyrone's lover?" The man leaned down over her, nose nearly brushing hers. The blue eyes he fixed her with looked like Rocco's, but their intensity was all wrong. Instead of gorgeous, they were crazed. Frightening. "Sister? Cousin? Because all you black sluts end up related to that shit somehow. I know it."

          "I don't even know a Tyrone," Whitney squeaked. The man's breath was rancid, and every time she inhaled she could taste it. Stale and pungent, like yeast mixed with tobacco. It turned her stomach.

          "Well," the man said dismissively, clucking his tongue, "I guess in the end, it doesn't matter. It's all going to end the same way, anyway. Going to start the same way, too."

          Both of his hands squeezed at her breasts through her vest, and Whitney yelped in surprise and pulled back. There wasn't far to go, bound to the railing as she was, but it was enough to knock the stranger's hands off of her.

          "No! Stop!"

          "I don't stop for no one," the man hissed, "dumb slut."

          The hands returned, but this time the fingers sank into the tightly woven cotton and ripped it apart. The buttons shot across the room and skittered across the hardwood in all directions. The destroyed garment fell onto her arms. Whitney hadn't been wearing a bra. Her bare breasts were exposed. The short man drew back to ogle them.

          "Guess my big brother isn't so stupid after all," he said to himself. "Hooking up with this piece of dark chocolate before it's all gone is the smartest thing he's done in a while."

          "Stop!" Whitney begged, tears starting to pool along her lids as fear and helplessness set in. She would have rather been killed back at the warehouse than raped and killed by Rocco's brother.

          "You have a problem with listening, doll?" he asked. Both hands returned to her breasts and squeezed hard, and try as she might to break away from him, there was no place for Whitney to go. Her back was already pressed up against the railing. "I said that I don't stop for no one."

          The thumb and index finger caught her nipple and twisted it hard, and Whitney howled out in pain. The short man laughed and twisted it harder, then let her go and slapped her hard across the cheek.

          "I'm gonna fuck that dirty cunt of yours, you dumb bitch," he rasped, more animal than man. Already he was working his belt, and to her horror he pulled it off completely and fit it around her neck like a choke collar.

          "I'm gonna fuck the life outta you. Won't that be a good way to go, with a fat cock pounding you as you take your last breath? I bet you'd love that, you dirty slut."

          Before he had the chance to tighten the belt around her neck and crush her vocal cords, Whitney let out one last blood curling scream. If anyone lived nearby, they'd hear it.

          As Rocco's brother worked his fly open, a crashing noise from upstairs followed the sound of hurried footsteps. Rocco appeared at the top of the stairs, naked from head to toe and soaking wet.

          "Back the fuck up, Arturo."

          Even as he spoke, Rocco took the stairs two at a time to close the distance between himself and the pair. Whitney looked up to watch him, but as she did, Arturo tightened the belt around her neck and caused her to sputter and choke.

          "Yeah, well what cha gonna do about it?" Arturo sneered. The belt tightened further, digging into Whitney's neck. No matter how she strained to breathe in deep, she couldn't. Deprived of oxygen, her body began to panic, and she flailed uselessly where she sat.

          There was no reply from Rocco. Instead, the belt loosened, and almost immediately after a thud shook the house. Gasping to fill her lungs, Whitney shook her head and then looked towards the noise. On the landing of the stairs were Rocco and Arturo, swinging their fists wildly; Rocco had tackled him from above and knocked Arturo away from her in a bid to save her life.

          It wasn't the first fight Whitney had seen, but it was the ugliest. Both men were experienced with violence, and they didn't hold back. Arturo was on his back, pinned to the ground, but not for long. The ugly, sinister expression he'd fixed Whitney with was now directed at his brother. It looked like he was going to love knocking Rocco down a peg or two, and knock him down he did.

          Arturo's fist flew through the air and connected with Rocco's jaw. Rocco fell back, the force of the hit causing him to roll onto the floor. For the first time, Whitney got a good view of his nudity. Through all that was happening, she couldn't help but sneak a look downward to see what the handsome killer was packing. Even fresh from the shower and unexcited, Rocco was hung. Ashamed that she'd even thought to look when both men were fighting and her life was on the line, Whitney closed her eyes and turned her head away. Grunts and growls and the crack of bone and flesh as it was struck were her only indications to how the fight was going. It didn't sound good.

          God, Whitney thought to herself, if you're there, please help me get out of this alive. I know I'm not religious, and I haven't been the best, but... But I could really use some help right now. 

          A last ditch effort. Whitney opened her eye a crack to peek at the fight. Rocco was back on top, and with a mighty slam of his fist, he stunned his brother. Scrambling to his feet, Rocco backed up to the stairs, undid the belt from around Whitney's neck with quickly, and lunged back into the fight. A snap of his wrist licked the belt across Arturo's side, and the man recovered enough to yelp with pain.

          "FUCKER!" Arturo spat. "WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR ISSUE?"

          "You wanna keep being beat, Arturo?" Rocco asked, tone devoid of emotion. The cold killer was back — this was the same man who was out in the alley, not the one Whitney had got to know on the car ride over. "Cuz I can keep going. We can make this just like when you were seven, when you lit the cat on fire and dad beat you until you bled. Do you want that?"

          "SHE'S JUST A WHORE," Arturo screamed, spittle flying from his lips. Rocco cracked the belt down again, catching Arturo in close to the same spot. The belt cut through his shirt like it was nothing, exposing the raw skin beneath.

          "I don't care what she is," Rocco said, "what I care about is she is my responsibility, my job. You are not welcome to step in and make judgments in my place. Until dad gets out, I
 
am the one in charge around here. Is that understood?"

          "You're sick, Rocco. I'm family."

          "And she is my business. If you don't step in and fuck with my job, I won't have reason to fuck with you."

          Rocco tossed the belt over Arturo's chest, and Arturo snatched it up with such vigor that Whitney was sure he was going to keep fighting. Instead, the younger of the Lombardo brothers scrambled to his feet, glared daggers at Rocco, and turned on his heels. Arturo left the house. The front door slammed in his wake.

At least, Whitney thought as she watched him go, she hadn't ended up in a back alley with Arturo. Next to him, Rocco looked like a saint.