Taken by the Italian Mafia(24)

"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.