Taken by the Italian Mafia(2)

"Cassie," Whitney called out, "did you see that?"

Although they stood only two arm lengths from each other, Cassandra was  busy with her own clients. She looked over at Whitney, shrugged, and  turned back to her work. What passed between Whitney and the stranger in  the suit had strictly been shared between them. Whitney wasn't sure if  she'd been imagining it all or not. Maybe that shot she'd slung back had  been a little too potent.

When she looked back into the crowd to try to see him again, he was already gone.         

     



 

Skin prickling following the encounter, already in a better mood,  Whitney worked with enthusiasm. Friday night brought out the thirstiest  crowd, and if she wanted to prove that she was still worth keeping on  the payroll, she needed to do a good job.

One song faded into the next, the bass throbbing in the floorboards and  rattling in her chest. Cassandra swept her blonde hair up into a high  ponytail and flashed a little more skin. The crowd thickened. The club  grew busier. People milled by the bar now, a sea of hands trying to wave  her down to place their orders. Whitney was relieved to see  reinforcement arrive. Lily, a sweet brunette who'd been working at The  Avenue for eight months, ducked beneath the division between bar and  club.

"Thank God you're here," Whitney called out. "I'm gonna take the dishes  back and bring out a clean set. Take care of the crowds for a sec,  okay?"

"You got it," Lily replied. Whitney pulled the plastic crate of dirty  dishes off the shelf and cut out from behind the bar to get to the  kitchen entrance. So far, the club had been insane. Despite the tips  she'd lose now that Lily was here, Whitney was glad for a chance to  catch her breath.

Whitney scanned the crowd. People were always interesting to watch, but  tonight was different. Tonight there was one man in particular she was  interested in seeing again. Was he here with friends, or was he flying  solo, looking for a good time? The answer would say a lot about his  character, and she was dying to get to know more of the story he teased  her with behind those blue eyes.

"'scuse me, chicky," a man grunted as he passed. His muscular frame  towered well over six feet. At first Whitney mistook him for one of the  bouncers. When she turned her head to watch him make his way towards the  floor, she knew she'd been mistaken. The midnight color of his skin was  one she hadn't seen before. Some of The Avenue's bouncers were dark,  but none of them came close to how pigmented this man was.

From across the crowd, tall, white, and handsome emerged. Whitney perked  up and paused by the kitchen door to watch them. So he was here with  friends. Maybe the muscular man was his bodyguard?

She watched as her blue-eyed heart stopper approached Mr. Midnight skin.  The two of them changed direction and walked off to the back together.  It wasn't long before the crowd swallowed them, and she lost sight of  where they went.

A bodyguard. Whitney grinned to herself, more mystified than ever. If he  was worth personal security, her stranger had to be more than a model.  It was a long way from Los Angeles, but there was still a chance he  could be an actor. More likely, he was just an attractive man who had a  beefy friend, and the two of them were out for a night on the town. What  hot guy didn't have a good wingman, after all? It was all part of the  game she saw night after night.

Putting the thought of him aside, Whitney saw herself into the kitchen.  The more time she loitered, the less money she'd be bringing home - and  with her job potentially on the line, she needed every dollar she could  get.









Chapter Two





Rocco





"A black Russian."

The Avenue was too loud. Rocco had never been to the popular nightclub  before, but already he found the hype overrated. For the average man  looking to overspend on drinks, and try his luck with a beauty swaying  on the dance floor, this was the place. But Rocco wasn't average, and he  wasn't looking to score.

Before his attention wandered, the bartender slid the finished drink  across the counter. Dark liquor swirled over ice, catching the flashing  lights from the dance floor hypnotically. Expensive clubs like this were  notorious for cutting quality to turn a buck, but Rocco had heard good  things about Liam. The man had his flaws, but running a business wasn't  one of them. From time to time, when he went over the ledgers with his  father, he remarked the profits The Avenue turned for them. Liam was an  asset, that much was clear. With any luck, his drinks would be as top  notch as he was.

Rocco lifted the glass, sipped, and allowed the flavor to wash over his  tongue. Coffee and the sting of alcohol blended as one, his first  swallow smoothly coated his tongue. Good drink. Maybe it was time to  rethink his opinion on the club.

"You make a good drink," he remarked aloud, unsure if the bartender  heard, but not really caring one way or the other. Praise where praise  was due. For the price he'd paid, the drink was decent quality. The  bartender was more than decent quality. For just a moment, Rocco let  himself break from the job to appreciate her. Big, stylish hair. A heart  shaped face with a kind of spunky sweetness to it that drew his eye and  kept his attention. Heavy breasts. A tiny waist. Although he couldn't  see much more beyond the counter that separated them, he she had a  stellar pair of legs to close the deal with. Unlike the other girls who  worked here, she didn't look like she might be underage. Rocco usually  thought Liam's taste in women was piss poor, but the dark skinned  bartender in front of him was a rare vintage. He hadn't imagined he'd  find a classic beauty like her in a dingy, pop-trash place like this.         

     



 

Rocco slid a twenty from his pocket across the table and left. A fine  drink paired with an attractive bartender was worth the tip. He imagined  it was the kind of attention she usually got, and she'd forget his face  before long as the swarm of party goers overwhelmed her. The less  people who remembered his face, the better.

In an ocean of short skirts, buttoned down shirts, and dark jeans, Rocco  was overdressed. The suit coat he wore made him too stiff, too  'uncool', and his tie was overkill. If everything went right, a couple  of party goers remembering his face wouldn't mean anything. Everything  would be fine.

Drink in hand, music drowning out his sense of hearing, Rocco wandered  to get a feel for the place. Most people in attendance were in their mid  twenties, he guessed. They were at an age where budding professionalism  hadn't yet sucked the youth out of young adults, if they were even done  with their studies by that point. Young bodies, boundless energy, and  no sense of responsibility. What a thrill it would be to be young and  unbound by duty.

Another tilt of the black Russian to his lips saw more than half of the  drink disappear. Good quality, but not much quantity. A pity. Rocco wove  through the crowd and pressed the rest of the drink into the hands of a  young woman who was already too drunk to do much more than bounce on  the spot. She looked after him with a dazed expression, then looked down  at the drink in confusion. Rocco didn't look back to see what she did  with it. There was only one person he needed to keep tabs on, and he  needed to find him.

Tyrone Hinsley was a big man, built like an ox. Broad shoulders, big  muscles, a core twice as big as Rocco's, and thighs that could crush a  coconut. Rocco had never met him, had never spoken to him on the phone,  but he'd seen pictures. Dark skin and a low brow met a large nose with  flared nostrils. A shaved head. Big ears. It wasn't easy to misplace a  man who commanded as much presence as Tyrone did, yet Rocco had failed  to spot him. Their informant said Tyrone was here to celebrate his  birthday. If Rocco received faulty info, there would be strong words had  with the little rat who'd squeaked so confidently.

But the night was still young, and he still had a lot of ground to cover  in the club. It would make sense if Tyrone showed here, in the heart of  enemy territory. The informant had sold him coke, and drugs were  strictly forbidden within Tyrone's little group. No one would catch him  blowing up his birthday if he partied on turf none of his peers were  brave enough to set foot onto.

Rocco pushed onward when a girl caught him by the arm. Heart racing,  eyes narrowed, he snapped his head to look at her out of instinct. Small  tits, wavy brown hair, and big blue eyes. She wore a black lace dress  that left very little to the imagination. At not much older than  twenty-one, what she revealed was perky, and youthful. What a shame she  wasn't after him when he wasn't on the job. The huge smile on her face  dimmed with uncertainty when he looked at her, faltering beneath the  intensity of his stare.

"Dance with me," she cried over the throbbing beats. "You're hot."

Rocco scowled, pulling his arm back.

"No."

The rejection was cold and absolute. The girl's smile faded in its  entirety, and a frown dragged at her lips instead. It looked as though  she might cry. A sweet young body like hers likely wasn't used to  rejection, but Rocco had no time for games. He didn't care for sugar  coating. A woman was just as capable as a man at facing the facts. While  he didn't enjoy dragging them into business, he saw no reason to treat a  woman, average or attractive, any different. All brains were human,  after all. Whether they were processing information or being spilled  across the pavement, they all worked the same way.