Taken by the Italian Mafia(28)

But despite the intimidating command, Mikhail did not release her.

"Have never had bad deal with Arturo before," Mikhail admitted. He took a  few tentative steps towards Rocco in an attempt to close some of the  distance between them. "It is big surprise. But to have come all the way  here with girl only to have deal go south is wasteful. Tell you what,  Rocco, we strike up deal."

"No deals," Rocco responded right away. "What I say goes."

"Shush lips and listen," Mikhail begged. "Business is slow, and although  Arturo is not big boss, he is smaller part of business beneath your  jurisdiction, and his actions are yours to deal with. Allow girl to stay  for one night, maybe two nights if she likes it. I will not allow any  harm or death to come to her. That way, you get girl alive, I get some  of what I was promised, and all are happy."         

     



 

"Rocco," Whitney begged him, voice crackling, "save me."

"No," Rocco said. The impersonal mask he wore while on the job was on  tight. Not even Whitney's cry affected him. "Hand her over now and you  get to walk out of here. It's your life or the girl, Mikhail. Choose  wisely."

There was a moment's hesitation. Beneath her, Whitney felt the Russian's  body tense. Before she knew what was happening, he threw her off of his  shoulder so one moment she was in the air, and the next she was  skidding along the rough cement floor. The outer layer of the skin along  her arm and side scraped. The searing pain brought a howl from her  lips, but as much as Whitney wanted to curl up, she couldn't. If she  wanted to stay alive, she had to stay alert. Right now, that meant  watching the scene unfold between the two criminals before her.

Mikhail drew a concealed knife from a sheath at his side. The blade  caught the dim light. Rocco's arms uncrossed, but there was little time  between when Mikhail drew the knife and when he rushed Rocco with it.  The Don's son was given enough time to turn his body away from the hit,  and the blade sank into his shoulder instead of his chest. Both men  toppled to the floor, Mikhail screaming, Rocco grunting with pain.

At the far end of the room was an impromptu movie set. A white  background and a dirty bed were set up before a camera beneath bright  stage lights. Whitney looked towards it, heart racing, to try to find  something to use to help Rocco. It looked like he was unarmed.

Beside the set was a silver medical trolley fitted with a tray of  medical instruments. Scalpels, pliers, saws, and other nasty looking  tools that looked medieval but that Whitney couldn't identify lined the  prepared space. That could have been her future.

It was time to make it her present.

Whitney scrambled to her feet and ran across the room as the two men  scrapped. Mikhail withdrew the knife from Rocco's shoulder and sent it  slamming down into him again, catching him in a similar spot. Rocco,  slender and lithe, had no way to knock the massive Russian off from on  top of him, and unarmed, he would be killed if Whitney didn't intervene.

Grabbing a scalpel from the tray, Whitney ran back for the scene. Bright  red blood splattered the floor around where Rocco lay and colored the  knife that left his shoulder. Before Mikhail could stab him again,  Whitney sprang into action.

"ROCCO!" she cried. Blue eyes, hardened and unafraid of death, looked  her way. Time slowed. As she ran, Whitney launched the scalpel across  the floor towards Rocco's hand. Mikhail lifted the knife over his head  and was set to slam it back down - this time into Rocco's chest.  Instead, Rocco reached out, grabbed the scalpel by its thin handle as  soon as it skittered into reach, and slammed the blade into the middle  of Mikhail's thigh. The knife slipped from Mikhail's hands and clattered  to the ground between Rocco's legs.

"Get the fuck off me!" Rocco growled. The scalpel withdrew and he  slammed it through Mikhail's side. The blade sank in to its hilt,  disappearing entirely. Mikhail howled in pain and scrambled back.

Now that Rocco was armed, he had a chance. Whitney ran back to the  medical tray. If things went sour, she wanted to have a weapon to defend  herself with. If it came down to it, she would help Rocco defend  himself. Mikhail made it clear he wanted both of them dead.

As Mikhail fumbled for the knife, Rocco jumped into a crouching position  and sprung at him. Fueled by adrenaline Rocco was a threat. He tackled  Mikhail to the floor and grabbed his hair, wrenching his throat back.  Before the Russian could get out another sound, Rocco ran his blade  across the man's throat and slit it wide open. Blood spurted from his  severed carotid arteries, drenching Rocco's chest and face in splattered  crimson with each beat of Mikhail's heart.

"You don't fuckin' take what doesn't belong to you," Rocco growled as  Mikhail fell back, limp, to the floor. Like a fish out of water he  gasped for air, but the blood that now filled his lungs made drawing  breath impossible. It took a few short moments for death to claim him,  and once it had, Rocco jabbed the scalpel into his chest and rose. There  was no wobble in his step; death was what he did for a living, and it  no longer had any effect on him.

Whitney fell to her knees by the trolley and wrapped her arms around  herself. In the time that Rocco made his kill, she'd taken a heavy  wrench from the table, and now she cradled it in her arms. Had Mikhail  come at her, she would have used it as a club. Now that the threat of  him doing so was neutralized, all Whitney could think about was how he  would have used the wrench on her. The scalpels, the pliers, the saws...  Would he literally have torn her apart while she was still alive for  the sick pleasures of vile men? As much as her throat burned, she  managed a sob. Whitney's world had always been troubled, but she never  realized how filthy it was until she'd met Rocco last night.         

     



 

There were no words exchanged between them. Rocco walked across the  warehouse floor until he stood in front of her, then dropped to his  knees and drew her into his arms. One hand cradling the back of her  head, the other slipped around her waist, there was affection beyond  simple lust in his touch.

He came for her when she needed him the most.

The wrench fell from her arms. Whitney locked her arms around Rocco's  neck and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Warm tears met warm  blood. Rocco was bleeding from his wounds, but despite the pain, he  tended to her emotional needs first. Apart from the ragged pattern of  their breathing and the hitched sobs that died in Whitney's throat, the  warehouse was silent.

It was over.

When he caught his breath, Rocco locked his arms around her and lifted  her as he stood. The deep gashes from the knife gaped like grotesque  mouths from the exertion, but Rocco paid them no heed. Instead, he held  Whitney close and walked across the somber warehouse floor away from the  Russian and away from the front door. Mikhail's body lay where he'd  left it, lifeless.

Never had Whitney appreciated sunlight as much as she did in that  moment. When the metal door leading out back of the building opened and  natural sunlight poured down upon them, she lifted her head and looked  up at the sky. Blue sky. White clouds. The harsh chill of winter on her  exposed skin was a treat. Whitney sniffled and looked back at Rocco. The  stony mask he wore while on the job was still plastered to his face,  emotions impossible to read. It didn't matter. Deep down, Whitney knew  what he was feeling. The fact that he came back for her and risked his  life to save hers spoke more than a smile or a gleam in his eyes ever  could.

A black car waited by the back door. Rocco hefted her to support the  entirety of her weight with his uninjured arm and opened the front  passenger door. With care, he set her onto the seat and looked down upon  her. Dangerous narrowed eyes. Thin pressed lips. Stern features and  hard angles. How could one man be so gorgeous?

"I told you I'd track you down," he said at last. In the distance, a  seagull cawed as though celebrating their fortune. There was no other  noise. Whitney was speechless. The tears that formed in her eyes were no  longer from terror or pain, Rocco's words touched her heart.

"There are many reasons why I'm an awful excuse for a human being,"  Rocco spoke evenly, "but if there's one thing about me that's good, if  there's one smidge of humanity left in me, I swear to God, Whitney  Greene, that it's because of you."

Lips trembling as they held back sobs, vision blurred with tears,  Whitney couldn't bring herself to respond. Rocco didn't need words. His  hand caught in her curls and held her in place, and then his lips were  on hers, hard and possessive, but also protective and loving. Whitney  kissed him back with everything she had, and when the kiss broke, she  knew there was no going back. This was no Stockholm Syndrome, no  misplaced affection, Rocco was in her heart and soul.

Soon enough he'd moved to the driver's seat and brought the engine to  life. Tires crunching on the snow covered roads, Rocco drove from the  warehouse.