Taken by the Italian Mafia(23)

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."