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

  The door opened. Whitney made her way back across the floor, slid the clean dishes into position, then told Cassandra what was up.

  "Gonna take out the trash," she cried. Cassandra was pouring a row of shots for a group of guys who were already more than a little gone. "Not feeling too well."

  "Fresh air," Cassandra said with a nod of her head. Whitney closed up their trash, replaced the bag, and made the walk back to the back door. By the time she arrived back in the kitchen, Liam had shut his office door and Darren had the kitchen trash bagged and ready to go.

  "Hey, um," Darren said, hesitating, "Liam came in here after you left. Said he was looking for you. Did you run into him?"

  Whitney pursed her lips, more uneasy than ever.

  "No."

  "Well, after you're done taking the trash out, maybe go look for him. I didn't tell him you were doing this for me, to give you time to prepare yourself for whatever it is he wants to say. Just thought maybe you should know before he corners you."

  Could the night get any worse? Whitney nodded, already checked out. Liam wanted to talk to her to let her know about Thursday. If things were really bad, he was going to tell her not to bother coming in at all next week. What was she supposed to say to him to make him change his mind? There was precious little time to think about it.

  "Thanks for the heads up. I'll track him down when I get back in."

  "I'm sorry this is happening to you," Darren offered in condolence. "I guess that's just the shitty kind of industry we're all a part of, right?"

  "Right." The word was hollow. Whitney hefted the kitchen garbage bag and brought both back towards the swinging kitchen doors.

  "You got this, Whit," Darren assured her. "It seems bad now, but one-day life will be better."

  No matter how much optimism Darren through her way, none of it was sinking in. All Whitney did before she left the kitchen was nod. The gesture was beginning to feel empty, like she was just a puppet on strings. The only good part about tonight was the hot guy she'd served, and even he'd met up with a friend and taken off. Right now the only person Whitney could rely on was herself.

  Out in the hall, just outside the kitchen doors, she set the trash bags down and fished her phone out of her pocket. Tonight, when she got home, she was in need of some personal time to sort through her thoughts and blow her ego back up. Whitney fired off a text to her room mate.

  Whitney (11:32PM): u gonna be home 2nite wen im done work? im gonna take a long bath n hog the bathroom.

  There was no need to mention the bottle of wine she had her mind on. There was nothing a little red, a long bubble bath, and a pedicure couldn't fix. After that, she'd crawl into bed and forget today ever happened. Maybe she'd even dream sweet dreams of the unknown famous face she'd served today. A girl could only hope.

  Tiana (11:33PM): yea ill b sleepin so no big. u feelin ok?

  Whitney (11:33PM): nah. long story. well talk tomorrow.

  By tomorrow, hopefully she'd have her head on straight. Right now she was stuck somewhere between close to tears and sick to her stomach. Whitney wasn't in any place to talk things through. She slid the phone into her back pocket and picked up the trash again.

  At the end of the corridor was a metal door with a push bar, leading into the public hallway with the back exit. Clients weren't encouraged to exit through the back, but fire safety standards required the club to have an alternate exit from the front doors. Like the door she'd just pushed her way through, the back exit was made of metal and sturdy. A push bar opened from the inside, but on the outside there was a handle and a keyhole. Once the door closed, it locked. Back when she'd started at The Avenue, Whitney locked herself out a few times and had to walk around the club and enter through the front doors. These days she was more careful.

  As she crossed into the hall, a sharp crack cut over the distant music. Whitney paused. She'd never heard a noise like that one before. A quick glance down the hallway confirmed that she was alone, and yet the noise sounded so close.

  Whitney stepped out onto the metal platform by the dumpster, jammed the bar's garbage bag into the crook of the door so she wouldn't lock herself out, and took in a deep breath. The stench of garbage wasn't enough to ruin the crisp, refreshing winter air. Cold prickled along her skin, grounding her. No matter what, she always had her own back. Even if Liam cast her to the curb, she would make it work. All her life she'd been making sure that she was okay, and this was no different.

  A movement to the left caught her eye.

  In the shadows of the night, she could just make out the figure of a tall man in a suit. If she hadn't watched him back at the bar, she never would have recognized her handsome stranger, but Whitney was sure it was him. Was he out for a smoke? No matter how long he spent outside in the cold night air, he wasn't about to cool down any, not with the way he looked. Whitney bit down on her bottom lip as she grinned, wondering if she should call out and strike up a conversation. At least one good thing had to come out of tonight, and she thought that he might be what redeemed her terrible day.

  There was no need to call out, the stranger turned all at once and started to run. Towards her. Eyes glued to her even as he sprinted. The pale light of the moon caught something metallic in his hand. In the second it took Whitney to realize it was a gun, her Mr. Not-So-Right had already swung himself up over the railing, his gaze emotionless and detached. Desperate for something to cower behind to shield herself from a direct shot, Whitney yanked the nearest object towards her and to her chest — the garbage bag from the bar. The back door to the club closed, locking her outside with the man who wanted her dead.

  Whitney screamed. But no one except a man pointing a gun at her head was there to hear it.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Rocco

  The rules about witnesses were very clear: never leave one. The bartender had seen him blow Tyrone's brains out. There was only one way he could take care of his problem, and Rocco knew that it was to end it before it started.

  Shoes digging into the freshly fallen powder dusted over the alley, Rocco ran for her. With a shot already fired, he knew he couldn't afford to shoot again without dead accuracy. He wouldn't put a bullet through her skull until he knew for damn sure he wouldn't miss the shot. At the elevation she stood at, and his distance from the platform, Rocco didn't want to risk it.

  He gripped the bottom rung of the railing, and in a display of tremendous upper body strength, hoisted himself up. From there it was a simple matter of hopping over the railing, and once he found his footing, he'd do her in and be done with it.

  If only life were that simple.

  The bartender wrenched a garbage bag from between the door frame and the door to cower behind, then screamed at the top of her lungs. The sound echoed just as loudly through the alley as the gunshot had, but its origins made it that much worse. A silenced gun shot could be explained away by passersby not looking for any trouble, but there was no mistaking the shrill panic of a woman's scream. Rocco knew he was in trouble. People would come running now that a woman was involved. He needed to get out, and he needed to get out now.

  No witnesses.

  With a disgusted scowl, Rocco grabbed her wrist and started to fly down the stairs, dragging her along.

  "If you don't shut the fuck up and keep quiet, I'll blow your face off," he warned her as he dragged her towards the sidewalk. "Same goes for if you don't fuckin' follow me and make this good 'n easy. Got it?"

  The pathetic whimper that followed was a good enough yes. Her dead weight lightened, and the pretty girl who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time followed. If she hadn't screamed, she'd already have been dead. What a disaster.

  Cursing his luck, Rocco ran the rest of the distance between the alley and the sidewalk, where his driver waited. Although she was in dressy flats and shaking like a leaf, the bartender kept stride. Long legs like hers matched his pace easily. Rocco got his first good view of them as they arrived at
the car and he shoved her into the backseat.

  The bartender went in face first, legs dangling across the seat, feet hanging out through the door. With a scowl Rocco pushed her legs up and jumped into the back. As he slammed the door closed, his driver pulled off from the curb and merged with New York's non-stop traffic.

  "What in the ever loving fuck is she doing here? This ain't supposed to be no hostage situation," the driver, Piero, said. The man was older than Rocco by a decade, but he was much lower down in the ranks. Decades of service as a getaway driver for his family translated to a reasonably safe career with little opportunity for advancement. Still, the man had a mouth on him. Piero knew as well as anyone else how witnesses were to be dealt with.

  "Do you think I don't know that?" Rocco bit back. The bartender had curled up into a little ball on the seat beside him and was whimpering, too shocked to deal with what was happening to be a nuisance. Rocco was glad for it. If she started mouthing him off in front of Piero, he'd have to make an example out of her. As the Don's oldest son, he wasn't going to let any member, no matter how low ranking, think he was going soft.

  "You were suppose 'ta deliver a message, Rocco. A message. And now there's a chick in the back seat quaking like a leaf threat'ning everything we set out to do."

  Piero's criticisms weren't making matters any better. Rocco sat back heavily, gun still in his right hand and tucked on his lap, left arm draped over the back of the seat. There was blood splatter and brain matter speckled into the front of his suit. Against the black suit it was barely noticeable, but on his white shirt the bloody chunks were obvious like flashing lights.

  "And I'm gonna take care of it, okay? This isn't my first time out on the job, and it's not gonna be my last. Cool your jets and do your fucking job."

  From the way Piero's jaw set, Rocco knew he'd pressed his buttons. The getaway driver wasn't impressed, but it wasn't his job to pass judgment on Rocco's performance. The only opinion that mattered was that of the Don, and if Rocco had his way, the Don would never find out. A matter like this would be dealt with quickly and then forgotten about, just as it should be.

  A routine interception and delivery was turning into such a pain in the ass. What else could go wrong? As Rocco glanced out the tinted window at the passing New York streets, he wished it went down differently. Why were Friday nights never easy?

  "Here's what we're going to do," Rocco said at length. "You're gonna drive me to The Factory, I'm gonna take care of business, and then we're gonna get home and forget about this bullshit."

  Regrettable, but necessary. Rocco's eyes turned to the bartender curled up on the seat beside him. What a pity it was that he'd have to blow her brains out, too. In another circumstance, she might have been a girl worth getting to know. But business was business, and Rocco wasn't about to get caught up in senseless drama over a heart shaped face and a drool-worthy set of legs. Family came first, and no woman would ever convince him otherwise.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Whitney

  From the second the armed stranger grabbed her, Whitney was paralyzed. The fear was unlike anything she'd experienced before, and with any luck, she'd never feel again. It wasn't as though she had spent her life sheltered from violence, her rebellious teen years made her some dangerous friends. But no one had ever pulled a gun on her before.

  The swelling fragility of mortality was impossible to deny when looking down the muzzle of a handgun. Staring down death locked her lips and turned her knees to jelly all at once, and when he pulled her down the stairs, she was unable to resist. Together they ran for the streets. The back door to The Avenue disappeared behind her, the last hope of salvation lost.

  Whitney's fate was in his hands now.

  A black car, unremarkable apart from its tinted windows, idled on the side of the street at the end of the alley. The tall stranger wrenched the back door open and shoved her inside. Both of Whitney's palms hit the leather seat, and she landed rough on her stomach. With the full weight of her body behind the fall, the wind was knocked from her lungs and the top button of her vest popped open. She struggled to breathe, and curled up on the seat as her kidnapper pushed her legs into the car.

  Was this it? Was this how she was going to die?

  None of it made sense. It had been years since Whitney had been in contact with any criminals. What had she done to attract this kind of attention. She was a nobody. No family, no money, no power. The best thing she'd done in her life was graduate from high school. Why would someone be waiting for her to take the trash out before rushing her? This had to be a case of mistaken identity.

  But what if these men wouldn't acknowledge their mistake?

  The hopelessness of the situation welled inside Whitney as she came down from the shock of being abducted. Whatever their reason, whatever was about to happen, there was nothing she could do to fix things. Her shock grew into full blown panic. The quick, sharp breaths she took did nothing for her starving lungs. Whitney clamped her hands over her mouth to try to stop her rapid, uncontrollable breathing, but the terror welled up inside.

  A terrified moan from deep inside deepened into a scream, and at it, the driver twisted around in his seat and glared at the man who sat beside her. The expression was so ugly, so distanced from humanity, that Whitney knew she was in trouble. These were killers. Cold, ruthless, killers. Why did she always fall for the bad boy? This time, that attraction might prove fatal.

  "Get her to shut the fuck up!"

  The scream grew. Whitney had lost control of herself to instinct, and there was no holding back how terrified she was. In desperation she scrambled up into a sitting position and pried at the door handle. The handle had no pressure, jiggling uselessly in her palm. The child lock was on. The window was also locked, only dropping an inch. Even though she could scream through it, in a moving vehicle it would do little good. Tears began to fall, choking sobs mingling with her screams of terror.

  "SHUT HER UP!" the driver roared. The tall stranger in the suit had his elbow pressed against the window ledge, forehead planted firmly in his palm. A quiet, moody rage built around him, like dark storm clouds intensifying on the horizon. From where she sat, Whitney saw the splotches of red on his jacket, and meaty chunks of something. That was somebody's blood on his shirt. Pieces of somebody's body.

  In the height of chaos and crushing fear, Whitney found her voice again.

  "This is all a mistake," she sobbed. "I'm not who you think I am. Please don't kill me! I didn't do anything! If you let me go, I'll never tell anyone anything about this. Please, please just let me go. I just wanna go back to work and do my job. I just wanna go home. I won't—"

  The cold touch of metal chilled by winter air kissed her forehead. She looked up into vicious blue eyes, beautiful like sapphires. Whitney went quiet. The muzzle of the handgun pressed tighter against her forehead, twisting back and forth slowly to drive the message home. One moment he was sitting in irritation with his gun on his lap, and the next they were nose to nose, that same gun pressed against her forehead.

  "I will kill you right now," each word, although whispered, was clear, "if you do not shut up. Blink once, slow, to say we have an understanding."

  The wild fear she'd felt seconds before, had condensed into a tight, coiled spring right in her core. Whitney summoned the strength she needed to blink slowly for him, keeping her eyes closed for a good few seconds before parting her lids.

  "Good," he murmured. "Real good. Now keep those plump lips of yours closed."

  "If you fucking get brains all over the back seat of my car there will be hell to pay, Rocco."

  Rocco. Was that her kidnapper's name, or was it just a handle? Heart racing with fear, mind too scattered to think straight, Whitney stored the piece of information away. If she got out, the police would want to know as many details as she could remember. It was her duty to herself to get this guy locked away.

  If she got out of this alive.

  Rocco turne
d his attention to the driver, scowled, then looked back to Whitney. The glint in his eyes lacked humanity, like they were made of hateful glass beads instead of real human parts.

  "And I don't care what that price is, or how long I have to spend scrubbin' blood and brains out of the back seat. In fact, I don't care about anything later. All I care about is the right now, and that's what you should be concerning yourself with, too."

  Had he read her mind? Did he know she was trying to commit details to memory? Whitney's eyes widened just a little, lips threatening to part. The more time she spent with this man, the less real she believed he was. No matter how stunned she was, Whitney would never forget those eyes.

  "Now you keep bein' a good girl and keepin' quiet, and we won't have a problem."

  But it wasn't Whitney voice she had to worry about — an electronic jingle lit up the back of the car as the phone in her back pocket buzzed with a text message. Gun still pressed against her head, Whitney kept still. Rocco remained just as still, eyes boring into her.

  "Well, we have a little problem," he corrected himself. "I'm gonna need to take that phone off your hands. In our car we have a little rule: present company is way more important than anyone on the other side of a phone. You wouldn't want to be rude, would you?"

  Rocco paused, and Whitney blinked slowly again to show that she understood. If she was going to get out of this alive, it wasn't because anyone was going to save her — she was going to save herself. That was how her life had worked in the past, and that was how it was going to work now.