"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.
Chapter Twenty
Rocco
"Let me drive, brother. You take a load off and get your head on straight for what we've gotta go do."
A fresh layer of snow crunched underfoot. The sets of footsteps from the night before were covered, the wind and overnight snowfall erased their tracks. If only all trails were as easy to cover.
"Since we're taking my car anyway, I feel it's the least I can do."
The nasty side of Arturo was under careful wraps again, but now that they were leaving the house, Rocco wasn't sure what his motivation was. Earlier he was confident Arturo was sucking up to him to try to get a clear shot at Whitney, but now that theory fell flat. Whitney was going to go back to the city and Arturo would never see her again. So what was it that Arturo was after?
"Alright." Rocco made his way to the passenger's side of Arturo's car and settled upon its front seat. A mix of fast food wrappers and bloody paper towels crumpled into balls littered the backseat. The blood was troublesome. They were on their way to a prison, after all. "You need to be more careful about keeping fuckin' evidence around. There's blood in the back on all those paper towels. You wanna get thrown into the cell next to dad's?"
"Oh, yeah," Arturo admitted. "I forgot. You mind takin' care of them for me once we're on the road?"
The car backed across the snow, tires crunching. Rocco pressed his lips together and sat back in his seat. "Who's blood's that?" As far as Rocco was aware, Arturo wasn't slated to deal with any business last night. His brother was busy, but ever since he'd busted Gino up real good, there hadn't been much need for him.
"Had some fun recently. Got a little messy. Can't say that you don't like it rough sometimes, can ya? We were brought up to like it that way."
Rocco didn't think so. The car wove down the driveway, and he thought about what Arturo had said. It wasn't that they were brought up to crave blood, but to be indifferent to it. Like breaking out with acne or suffering from terrible gas, causing death was an unfortunate part of life that cropped up from time to time. Rocco didn't thirst for it, but he didn't bat an eye when he ended another's life.
"Whatever, I guess."
"You're not yourself," Arturo remarked. "You down about dad?"
Vittore wasn't the problem. As much as it pained him to admit, Rocco know that his father was going to be fine whether he got out of jail or not. All Lombardos knew that either imprisonment or death would end their careers. Vittore knew this was coming. The real root of his trouble lay behind them at the end of the winding driveway they had just about reached the end of.
As much as he wanted to clear the air and talk about how he was feeling, he knew that it was impossible. Arturo would consider him weak and call him out. What kind of a Don mourned the loss of a witness? What kind of Don held off on killing a hostage because he had the hots for her? Their father had taught Rocco better than that. Arturo would be the first one to rub that fact in his face and call him out on it.
"So what's the story?" Rocco asked at last. If he couldn't talk about his problems, maybe he could lose himself in a night of Arturo's debacles. More than likely whatever Arturo had been up to would make him cringe. Maybe Rocco could forget his own regrets to focus on the train wreck that was his brother's life.
"Story with what?" Arturo asked. They turned onto the rural highway in the direction of the city.
"Story with these bloody paper towels," Rocco said. "There's gotta be more to it than what you told me. Spill. We've got a way to go, so we might as well talk, 'specially since you're in such a good mood."
They drove. Rocco twisted around and started fishing the towels up, one by one. The blood on them was dried, as he thought it would be. Unless Arturo was torturing animals again, there was no chance he'd spilled this blood at the safe house.
"Well, you see, I've been uh, 'courting' a lady recently," Arturo said. Both of his hands laid comfortably on the steering wheel, blue eyes on the road. There was a casual comfort in the way he sat that said he was satisfied with whatever had happened. Rocco couldn't hide his surprise.
"Uh, for how long? This is news for me."
"Like a month I think," Arturo said. "From the first time I saw her, I knew I wanted her, so I went for it. Figured that it didn't matter what differences lay between us, s'long as we got along well. And boy, did we get along well."
"Did?" The tense shift didn't escape Rocco. A pile of bloody paper towels on his lap, he bided his time until they moved further from the house.
"Yeah. It's complicated, but God, is it juicy. You wanna hear more?" There was childlike glee in his voice. Rocco frowned, uncomfortable. Whenever Arturo got this excited, the outcome was never positive.