Taken by the Italian Mafia(11)

"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.









Chapter Ten





Whitney





The 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."