Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance (12 page)

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.

T
he 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.

R
occo 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 make 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?"

There were no memories after that, not until she woke up on the streets the next morning sore and groggy. And for years, her life had only gotten worse. Climbing out of that pit and learning to love and respect herself when no one else cared to had been the hardest thing she'd done in her life.

And now here she was again, succumbing to the weak part of herself that said she wasn't worthy of love because a man had walked out of her life.

"Don't slip back," she whispered. "You can only count on yourself, so don't let yourself down. This is all about you, not about anyone else."

Stockholm Syndrome or something deeper, it didn't matter, not right now. What mattered was that she get out of her head, and get on with her life.

Whitney sat up and cleared the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Now that her life was no longer in danger, it was time to let go of her sorrow. It was time to look after herself again.

With a tiny sigh to steel herself, Whitney rose from the bed and looked across the room. Like Rocco said, under different circumstances, she would've fallen for him hard. If only the night at the bar had gone differently. If only he wasn't part of the business he was a part of.

But there was no sense regretting what couldn't be. Whitney dug her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and resolved to move past this chapter of her life, just as she'd moved past everything else. One step at a time would do it.

"First step," she told herself, "is to get your phone, get your money, and get back to the city. Get as far away from here as you can, and then you'll stop thinking about it."

Recovery mode didn't feel good. Whitney walked to the bathroom and leaned against the door frame. Rocco's clothes were pooled haphazardly on the floor. Rocco had left a big mess. Gone for a handful of minutes, it already felt strange that they'd once shared this space together. Whitney would never see it again.

"Stop stalling," she whispered. A part of her hoped Rocco would have a change of heart and turn around, but Whitney knew that was wishful thinking. Instead, she sank to her knees beside the dry pile of Rocco's clothes and sorted through them until she found his pants. Between the four pockets she found twenty bills, all hundreds. Two thousand dollars was hers, just like he'd promised.

Two thousand dollars in cash was more than she'd had on hand in longer than she could remember. Despite hefty tips, life in New York wasn't easy, and Whitney's life had proved to be a series of misadventures leading to financial ruin. Maybe getting out of the city really was a good idea. Waitresses were in demand all over the country, even in small, inexpensive towns. The glamour of New York was for the young and the rich, and now she was neither.

Rocco's undershirt, was among his laundry on the floor. Money tucked in her back pocket, Whitney plucked it out from the rest of his belongings and held it up by the shoulders. Momentarily weak at the memory of him, she held the shirt to her chest and said her final goodbyes. The smell of him, sweat mixed with a tantalizing cologne, clung tight to the fabric. If she closed her eyes and lost herself enough, it was like he was still there with her. Whitney dropped the shirt and turned her back on the scene. Get away and forget. Move on and tend to yourself. You're only making it harder.

"Phone," she reminded herself.
How much time had she wasted between wallowing on the bed and picking through Rocco's discarded belongings?
Fifteen minutes might have passed already, but she wasn't certain. Whitney left the bathroom to glance out the bedroom window. The room overlooked the back yard, which was vast and just as wooded as the front. There were no other houses in view. Rocco hadn't lied about this place being remote.

Now where had Rocco left it?
After a brief search, Whitney found it tucked into a drawer on the bedside table beside a hunting knife.
How many hidden weapons were in this place, anyway? How many secrets?
She'd never know.

Dragging her feet, Whitney made her way from the bedroom and down the stairs. The front door hung open.

"Weird."
Hadn't she heard Rocco close to door as he and Arturo left
?
Maybe it hadn't latched right.

Not yet ready to leave, Whitney walked over and closed it. Portraits up and down the hall stared down at her.

It was time for her to be strong.

At about a half hour from New York City, Whitney knew it was going to take a while for a cab to show up. While she looked up her current address using the GPS on her phone, she intended to bide her time in the living room in one of the arm chairs. Not Arturo's jizz couch. The plan seemed solid. Whitney walked down the hall and entered the living room.

She never had a chance to sit down.

A firm hand caught her by the shoulder and held her in place. Heart racing with excitement over the prospect that Rocco had come back for her, Whitney turned to the person behind her with a broad grin.

It wasn't Rocco.

The man was tall and had a stern face. Cold grey eyes looked down on her, eating her up with the same kind of wolfish look her ex's thugs had once fixed her with. Whitney didn't remember anything about that night so long ago, but she knew enough to understand that she was in a lot of trouble.

"Who are you?" she asked. There was still a chance that Rocco had sent a driver to take her home, or that she was misreading his expression. Before she got upset, she had to hope for the best.

"Name is Mikhail," he said. A thick Russian accent carried his words and distorted his grammar. "I like the smile of young pretty girl. She is most satisfactory. Will make excellent star."

"S-star?" The Russian man's hand hadn't left her shoulder, and Whitney couldn't help but notice how broad he was. Built like a house, she couldn't pull away from him even if she wanted to.

"In own movie. Wonderful movie. Last moments of pretty girl our customer's favorite." The malicious nature in his gaze unmasked in his voice. "Will pretty girl smile even when my men saw her leg off at hip? It is Mikhail's hope that she will."

It had to be a fever dream. Whitney gasped and tried to draw back, but Mikhail was too strong. His thick fingers dug into her shoulder and rooted her in place.

"You belong to Mikhail now, pretty girl. Come. It is time to put you to work."

Last moments. Saw her leg off. Movie. Whitney had no idea what was going on, but she had enough of a sense of it to scream. The sound echoed through the living room, desperate and fearful, but was short lived, the tall Russian clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggled against him.

"Yes, yes, scream is good, too. Pretty scream. Good quality. Audio will capture very well, I am sure."

From staring down the muzzle of a gun to facing down a man who wanted to saw her to pieces, Whitney jumped from one nightmare to another. In desperation she used all her force to push against him in a bid to escape. When that failed, she thrashed her head to angle herself and bit down on his hand as soon as she had the chance. Mikhail yelped and pushed her away. Whitney's bite drew blood; she could taste it on her teeth.

A stream of harsh Russian words tumbled from his lips, and as they did, Whitney scrambled back down the hall. In a t-shirt with no bra, tight jeans, and no socks of shoes, she was no match for the New York winter, but if she could make it to the road, she at least had a shot. Staying here with her new offender meant a painful death.

She ran for the front door, but heavy footsteps behind her reminded her that Mikhail wasn't willing to let her go. Strong fingers dug into the back of her baggy shirt and ensnared her, and with a shriek Whitney was dragged to a stop. The man behind her was panting, but she knew it wasn't because he was winded from the short pursuit — it was because he was angry. Very angry. The kind of angry where he might not wait to tear her apart limb from limb.

"Let me go!" she cried. "Rocco told me I can go, please, please just call him! I'm not going to say a word to anybody, I swear!"

"Little girl has sharp teeth," Mikhail rumbled. While he held her in place with one hand, he held the other over her shoulder to show her the damage done. Crescent bite marks broke through his skin and bled liberally. "Men like the fight, but we are not on camera yet, girl. You save blood for when it will make dollars."

Mikhail's palm was broad, and there was no escaping it. In one move he pressed it against her face and dragged the injury against her skin. Warm blood spread and smeared from her left cheek, over the tip of her nose, and caught once more on her right cheek.

"Blood looks good on black skin. Understated. Real. Will be good to work with you. What a treat you will be."

With a hold on her shirt but not on her body, it meant Whitney still had a chance. In one swift movement she lifted her arms and dropped down, hoping to break free of her shirt in order to make another sprint for the door. On her way down, Mikhail caught her by the hair. The pull against her scalp brought a fresh wave of agony, and Whitney screamed in pain.

"ENOUGH," Mikhail bellowed. It was the last word she heard. In the next moment the Russian's huge fist bashed into the side of her skull, and Whitney's vision blurred. Time slowed. As her eyes drooped and closed, she wondered if Rocco had arranged for this all along. Maybe Oprah was wrong, humanizing yourself to your attacker did nothing. They'd just find someone else to kill you when they no longer had the will to do it themselves.

Then there was darkness. Whitney's luck had finally run out.