Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance Read online

  "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 craz
y, 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.

  The kiss broke, and deep inside, so did a part of Rocco.

  "Fifteen minutes after we leave, you get the cab to come pick you up. Use your cellphone, I don't need it anymore. And no matter what, take care of yourself."

  Whitney nodded. In parting, Rocco squeezed her hand, then stood. He'd never been much for goodbyes.

  "See you around, Ms. Greene," he said, then turned and walked away.

  The distance between the bed to the door felt like the longest stretch he'd traveled in his life. Every fiber in his being begged him to turn around and reconsider.

  Rocco had fucked up last night beyond belief, but he wasn't ready to give in to failure again. After a vulnerable vacation, it was back to business. A rising Don didn't cry over a woman. He didn't cry, period. Like all storms, this would pass. He just had to pray it would pass quick. If he was going to run the family business, Rocco needed every ounce of his concentration devoted to the job.

  Not some girl who made him feel like he was on top of the world.

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Arturo

  The door to the master bedroom was already closed by the time Arturo made his way up the stairs. Remains of disgusting, crinkling egg film stuck between his back teeth. There was a reason Rocco didn't cook — he was terrible at it. Arturo couldn't wait to scrub the filth out of his mouth, but didn't know if he'd get a chance to get to it. In the next twenty minutes, there was a lot to do.

  Skipping his bedroom in favor of the upstairs bathroom, Arturo closed and locked the door behind him. If he wanted to get any satisfaction out of today, what happened next had to go exactly as planned. Arturo twisted the knobs of the bath tub then turned on the shower. Water rushed down from the overhead nozzle and pattered against the tub floor to drown out any noise he made. Unless Rocco pressed his ear against the bathroom door, he wouldn't know anything. Arturo was sure he was too busy fucking his black slut to care what his little brother was doing in the shower.

  Arturo took his cellphone out, sat down on the toilet, and dialed a number by memory.

  "Who speaks?" a heavily accented Russian voice asked.

  "Arturo Lombardo," Arturo replied, the smirk creeping into his words. There was a laugh building up inside that he was having a hard time holding back.

  "Oh, Arturo," the man said, tone warm within an instant. "How are you, friend? Been long time since last call. Were you pleased with my last work?"

  "Oh, yeah, I was pleased alright. Can I just take a moment to say what excellent work it is that you do, Mikhail? Cuz boy, do you get some excellent work done." Arturo's eyes focused on the painting hanging on the wall opposite the toilet. Painted at a distance on the beach, it was of a property that his father used to own and parted ways with. Such was life. Such was business. Arturo had few memories of the place.

  "Praise is appreciated from one such as yourself. Many thanks. Now, we cut to heart of business. For what do you call today, Arturo? Do not say for me to practice English, I know you better than that."

  Arturo's smirk grew, and he let his head fall back so he stared at the ceiling, neck bared.

  "Perceptive as always. I've got a little job for you to do, Mikhail. Let's just say you've always liked to clean up trash, and boy, do I have some juicy trash for you."

  "Yes, clean up," Mikhail agreed. "Messes are specialty. What kind of mess you have? Big mess, big pay."

  "Oh, when it comes to pay, I don't think you're going to be charging," Arturo cooed. "The truth is; my mess isn't a mess yet. I want you to come take out some trash that I can't get to, got it? And when you see what kind of goods we're talking about, you're gonna thank me. You can have as much fun with her as you want, and make it as messy as you want. All I care about is that the trash is gone and won't be seen again."

  "I think I have understood," Mikhail said slowly. "Pay... Pay is this trash you want gone?"

  "You got it, bud. And I swear, if you're not happy with the price, call me back and we'll negotiate something else. As far as I see it, I think you're gonna be over the moon. If you're in the business of making videos, this is gonna make you rich."

  There was hesitation on Mikhail's end, but Arturo was confident. It wasn't big news to him that Mikhail made snuff films. Shit like that sold like mad on the black market and the deep web, and his father and Rocco were fools for not getting their mitts on something so lucrative. Common whores only went so far; speciality items were where it was at.

  "I accept offer, and will call if price no good. What address and what time may I pick up trash?"

  "The trash will be available in twenty minutes at 11903 NY 79. The house is down a long dirt driveway, and there'll be fresh tire tracks — I'll be leaving. One car will be out front, and the trash will be inside the house, unaware and ready to be picked up."

  "I have written address and am on way. Will be there in half hour."

  "Now that is what I love to hear," Arturo said, smirking wide. "You have lots of fun with this one, Mikhail, and think fondly of your friend Arturo as the money rains down on you from above."

  "I appreciate the many money showers to come," Mikhail replied, serious. "Until the next time, Arturo."

  "Until then," Arturo replied.

  So far, so good. Things were about to get a lot more interesting.

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Whitney

  Rocco closed the door behind him and didn't look back, and Whitney felt like she might fall to pieces. The roller coaster ride of emotions had finally come to a stop — at a low point. Last night she'd prayed to get out of this alive, so why did she feel like she'd lost something along the way? Rocco was little more than a stranger, and although the time they'd spent together was intense, he didn't deserve this much of her heart. Why wasn't she okay with letting him walk out of her life?

  Clinging to what little stability she had left, Whitney collapsed on the bed they'd shared. The scent of Rocco's cologne clung to the sheets to haunt her. Even though he was physically gone, it would be a while yet before thoughts of him stopped popping into her head.

  "This is so stupid," she murmured out loud. A second set of footsteps on the stairs, heavier than Rocco's, confirmed that Arturo was on his way out. The front door slammed. She really was alone.

  "Whitney, snap out of it. You know this is crazy." But even talking to herself wasn't helping her feel any better. In the kitchen she'd talked herself out of believing what she felt was Stockholm Syndrome, but beyond that, there was no earthly reason why she should feel as strongly as she did for Rocco.

  If there's nothing wrong with you, he wouldn't walk out of your life like you're trash he's already forgotten about.

  If there's nothing wrong with you, you wouldn't be so clingy and devastated that's he's gone. You knew him what, twelve hours? You're pathetic.

  If there's nothing wrong with you, why are you all alone?

  No one wants broken goods. Not even your mother wanted to have anything to do with the worthless life she created.

  No one wants anything to do with you.

  A variation of the same thoughts that plagued her during difficult moments hit her. Whitney curled up on the bed and buried her face in her arms. It was true, she never felt good enough. She wasn't good enough to mak
e her father stick around, or to keep her mother by her side. She wasn't good enough for any of her old foster families, and she wasn't good enough for Liam. Now she knew that she wasn't good enough for Rocco, either.

  What made her so undesirable? Was it the color of her skin, the quality of her character, or something Whitney couldn't ever hope to explain? There was nothing she could do about her skin tone, and nothing that she wanted to do about it. If people couldn't accept her for her appearance, they had bigger problems than she did. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but it was one that Whitney would never forget again. As a kid she'd spent far too long wishing she was a little white girl so her foster families might love her more, and so that she might fit in better. That was a place she never wanted to go back to. She was who she was, inside and out, and there was no hiding that. It was just hard to know that even a woman so true to herself wasn't worthy of love.

  "Babe, you know that it ain't you," Jarod had cooed to her once upon a time. Whitney had still been in high school, about to graduate, when she'd found him in bed with another girl. A white girl. "It's just, how can I hold myself back, y'know? You're hot an' all, but goddamn, have you seen this ass?"

  When she'd gone to leave, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks, one of Jarod's thugs caught her by the wrist and drew her into the living room where a group of them sat.

  "Jarod done with you?" he asked. The boys grinned like wolves, not bothering to hide how they looked up and down her body. Their gazes lingered on her breasts and ass, eating her up like she was meat. "Lookit those tears. Girls shouldn't have to cry. If you miss his cock this much, we got plenty to go around. Why don't you come make yourself familiar with 'em, find the one you like best to fill in?"