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

  Despite her past, she felt unprepared to deal with this situation, but she was determined to try. Whitney kept coming back to an episode of Oprah she'd watched many years ago. According to Oprah, if a man threatened you with a gun or knife, you weren't supposed to let him take you to another location. Whitney cast her gaze towards the factory. So far, she was batting a solid zero.

  Not only did she let Rocco to take her away from The Avenue, but she was about to allow him to take her to a third destination. This wasn't good.

  None of this was good.

  Panic began to well inside of her again. If Rocco's phone hadn't interrupted, she knew she'd be dead on the warehouse floor.

  Rocco got in the car. Whitney's eyes widened as she recalled the next step to surviving a violent encounter. According to the show, most women who were able to humanize themselves ended up surviving. By talking about her life, by convincing Rocco she was a person and not just a body, she might be able to get out of this mess.

  Whitney knew she was supposed to keep quiet, but now that Rocco was behind the wheel, she thought he couldn't shoot her as easily. Keeping on the road while aiming at a hostage in the back seat sounded unrealistic. Pulling over to the side of the road and blowing her brains out was another story. But she had to risk it.

  When the car cut back onto the road, Whitney looked up at the back of Rocco's headrest. They sat on the same side of the car.

  "I don't know why you took me instead of let me go," she said, keeping her words softly spoken as she watched his body language for signs of aggression, "but I think you think I'm the wrong kind of girl. I want you to know that I'm not the kind who'd run her mouth when it's not smart to."

  Rocco remained silent, eyes on the road. Whether he was ignoring her or listening, Whitney couldn't tell.

  "I'm not one of those good girls who runs crying to the police, or anything like that. I had a tough life. I was a foster kid, you know. That whole system ate me up and spit me out at eighteen. I'm sure you must know some other um, some other people like you, who went through the same system. Us foster kids, we know how the streets work. We know who to respect."

  "Then why are you flapping yer gums when I told you to stay quiet?" Rocco asked. The lack of tension in his shoulders and bite to his words told Whitney that she had nothing to worry about. For now, she could keep pushing him, keep making herself a real person in his eyes.

  "Cuz I don't think you got the right impression of me back at The Avenue. I lead a clean life, but that doesn't mean that I'm stupid. I'm a bartender, I see a lot of really shady stuff, and I've kept my lips sealed. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I'm telling you that I'm not gonna cause you any trouble. In fact, it'd be a lot less trouble if you just let me go right now. We'd part ways, and you'd never have to see me again."

  "You're right," Rocco said, and for a moment her heart soared with hope, "I don't have reason to trust you. You're staying put."

  The disappointment was instantaneous. Whitney fidgeted on the spot, trying to come up with ways to convince him. It was time for a different approach.

  "I haven't done anything to anyone, you know. Ratted or otherwise. I'm a good girl. When you started talking about pizza back in that warehouse? Oh my god, did I want pizza. Pizza and Doritos are my favorites. I think I could eat Doritos all day, every day, if it wouldn't turn me into a gross cheesy blimp. A perfect day for me would be to wake up with nothing to do, roll outta bed whenever I feel like it, order some pizza and get a bag of Doritos to snack on all day, and then dance to Michael Jackson in my kitchen with a glass of wine. My favorite song of his, well, it's 'Smooth Criminal'. I guess that's kind of ironic now."

  To her surprise, Rocco snorted with laughter. Was it working? Was she really humanizing herself in his eyes? Whitney brightened at the prospect, hopeful that she was helping undig her grave. Maybe it would keep her alive.

  But instead of engage in the conversation, when he spoke, it was to shut her down.

  "You need to shut up, and actually shut up this time. Remember who's in control here. I don't wanna hear your voice this whole drive, blabbing in my ear."

  Unlike the drive to the factory, Rocco had taken his time to shut her down this time around. Was he coming around? Whitney thought she could speak again without drawing his wrath, as long as she kept from screaming or crying. Still, it was best to wait for a while to show him she was listening to what he said.

  Without the radio playing, the car fell dead silent. Whitney wasn't sure what else to say without sounding fake. Yet the more time that ticked by in silence, the more she knew she was losing the small connection she'd made with him. Surely he'd had other hostages who'd tried the same techniques, and had developed a thick skin against methods like this. Once more Whitney felt crushed. Was there really nothing she could do to bring him around?

  She looked out the window. None of the landmarks she saw looked familiar, but she tried to take note of them anyway. At some point they'd left New York to travel through a rural area. What kind of a safe house was Rocco heading to?

  Landmarks would do here no good if he were going to execute her as soon as they arrived. There had to be another way to make a connection. If it couldn't be about her, it would have to be all about him. There were only a few things that Whitney knew about the man who sat in the driver's seat: he was dangerous, he was handsome, and there was an emergency with his father.

  There it was — her in.

  Hoping to break through Rocco's stony outer layer, Whitney pieced together what she'd say.

  Sorry about your dad.

  I know it's strange, but if there's anything I can do to help with your emergency, let me know.

  If you need someone to talk to, I'm here.

  None of them seemed right, but she had to try. Just as she parted her lips to speak, after what felt like an eternity of silence, Rocco's low voice met her ears.

  "I like Michael Jackson, too."

  Maybe she wasn't dead after all. Taking his response as an invitation, Whitney let her tongue guide her as she continued to share her passions. If this was really what would get her out of a premature death, she would never doubt the power of daytime television again.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Rocco

  "I remember when I heard that he died, I was working a crappy retail job to make ends meet. The announcement came on over the radio and I thought it was a joke. It was on a Thursday night. I just couldn't believe it."

  "What did I say about shutting up?" There wasn't bitterness in his words, and the bartender saw through his weakness and kept chatting.

  "The station played MJ songs for the rest of the night, and when 'Smooth Criminal' came on, I went into the back and started bawling. Isn't it weird how you can never meet a person, and yet they can still have such a profound impact on your life? Like, imagine if Leonardo DiCaprio died tomorrow. I don't think I could take it. I was just a teenager when 'Titanic' came out, and I managed to sneak in and see it in theaters, and oh my god, Leo. I've loved him ever since. He was probably my first crush."

  A deep inhalation followed by a long exhalation grounded him, but Rocco did not correct her. The bartender rattled on.

  "And there's seriously something going on about him not winning an Oscar, you know? Some kind of conspiracy. That's just not right."

  "Quiet," Rocco insisted. Although he gripped at the steering wheel with a little more force, he did not find himself as agitated as he should have been. The bartender was going on about nothing in particular, and yet he found he didn't mind. In a way, her blathering was endearing.

  "Oh my god, are you guys behind it?" she asked, leaning forward just a little so she was closer to the driver's seat. There was mild humor in her tone. "Is it really some conspiracy within crime circles to keep him from winning? Like he owes money, or I don't know, owes something. I don't think he has a problem with money, you know?"

  The hostage was getting way too comfortable with her situatio
n. Rocco forced himself to scowl, steeled himself on the inside, and narrowed his eyes as he looked ahead at the road.

  "What's your name?" he asked, some of that bitterness he prided himself on creeping back into his words.

  "Whitney."

  "Your full name," Rocco insisted. It was time to try some scare tactics, time to see if she would fold. An obedient girl like her had to be easy force into submission.

  "... Whitney Greene," she said. Hesitation returned to her voice, confidence soured with doubt. It was as it should be. Rocco breathed in deep and spoke low and slow.

  "Ms. Greene," his words were like dark clouds rolling on the horizon, "perhaps I've been too lenient in my approach. Perhaps you misunderstand what it is that's happening here. Let me remind you. Right now, you are my property. If it wasn't for some pressing circumstances, you would be back in The Factory right now, bleeding out. Dead. I am the one with the gun, I am the one behind the wheel, and I am the one who you are going to respect. Got it?"

  "Got it," Whitney whispered. She sank back into her seat and wrapped her arms around herself. When Rocco glanced back at her in the rear view mirror, he saw her gazing out the window, eyes sad. The deflated way she held herself hit him hard. What was it about her that ate at him like she did? Rocco wished he knew so he could address it and get over it. Feeling like this was a liability.

  "So keep those pretty lips of yours shut, and we won't have a problem."

  "Do you really think I'm pretty?"

  The question took him by surprise, and Rocco was stunned into silence. A glance in the rear view mirror found Whitney looking at him instead of out the window, face serious. Had she heard any of what he'd just said? Yet, despite his request for silence, Rocco found himself compelled to answer.

  "Of course you are. Why is it that all the pretty girls ask that? Is it just because you like hearing it, or what? You're pretty. Anyone who thinks otherwise is blind."

  A glimmer of confidence crossed her sad eyes, and Whitney sat up straighter.

  "No, it's because no one's ever told me that and meant it before. And lately, I've been feeling more old than I am pretty."

  Fifteen minutes passed in the blink of an eye, in another fifteen they would arrive at the safe house. Her stories made the time fly by. Whitney Greene. It was a good, simple name. Sharp, beautiful, funny... It was a shame he had to kill her. No amount of money could buy silence. Vittore had always told him that the only sure bet for a still tongue was a dead body.

  "The world we live in's obsessed with youth and narrow beauty standards," Rocco replied. Why was he baiting her along? Deep down, he realized it was because he was hoping she'd keep talking. It wasn't the things she said that mattered, but the sound of her voice was so alluring. "Screw what the world thinks. Man is evil by nature. No one's gonna think twice about tearing you down, so you gotta rise above and hold your head high. That's what I do, at least. No one messes with me."

  She was as good as dead, but if he could put her mind at ease in her final moments, it felt like a nice thing to do. After all, this was his fault. If he'd been quicker on the trigger, sharper in his reflexes, Whitney wouldn't be an issue anymore. All the unnecessary drama he was putting her through wasn't her fault. As an innocent, she deserved to go as easy as possible.

  "Thank you," she mumbled. "I think... I think I've always kind of known that. People have been cruel to me my whole life, even since before I was born, really. My dad left when mom was pregnant. My mom left when I was six. When grandma died and I got put in foster care, it was just more of the same. People only wanted me because I meant an extra check in the mail each month. They didn't give a shit about me as a person. And just tonight, my boss..."

  The conversation trailed off. Whitney plopped back against the back seat and looked out the window again.

  "What about him?" Rocco asked.

  "It doesn't matter," Whitney replied. "All that matters is that I think you're right about most people. They don't care about anyone but themselves, even if they pretend otherwise. I guess that's why so many marriages end in divorce, right?"

  There was a turn in the road ahead. Rocco took it in silence, and once the way because straight once more, he replied.

  "Yeah. I guess you're right."

  Nothing was said, and yet something different hung in the air between them, unspoken. The pull of it was like gravity, inescapable and fundamental. It was a sensation the likes of nothing Rocco had felt before, and he found himself craving more of it. Maybe one day, when his life settled down, he could search for something like this again.

  The rest of the drive was spent in quiet reflection. Rocco glanced in the rear view mirror to see what Whitney was doing, but every time he looked it was more of the same. The gorgeous bartender sat with her elbow on the window ledge, head in her hand, looking out the window. While her posture mimicked his on the drive to The Factory, her attitude was different. There was a battle happening inside of her, a clash between hopelessness and positivity. With any luck, she'd find her closure before she lost her life.

  In the distance, Rocco spotted the lights from the safe house. Had another fifteen minutes really gone by? It seemed hard to believe. As they approached, he slowed. A skeletal staff maintained the house twice a week, and the lights were kept on timers. If everything was as it should be, the house would be clean, tidy, and stocked. Rocco didn't know how long they'd be looking to stay, but they'd have their needs taken care of.

  They.

  He ran his tongue over his top teeth.

  It wasn't like Whitney was going to be staying with him. As soon as he figured out a good way to off her, she was going to be gone.

  They.

  Rocco bit down on his back teeth and corrected himself. They meant him and his brother, of course. Whitney didn't figure into this at all. And yet, as he pulled up the dirt driveway, he couldn't shake the thought that Whitney was exactly who he'd been considering.

  They.

  They arrived at the safe house. It was time to get back to business.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Rocco

  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 ano
ther 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.