Taken by the Italian Mafia(29)

Neither of them looked back.









Chapter Twenty-Three





Rocco





There was nothing to say, and yet everything to say. Rocco kept both  hands on the steering wheel and kept his eyes glued to the road. The  industrial path eventually gave way to the main street. With a smooth  turn of the wheel, Rocco turned headed for the bridge. It would be easy  to dump Whitney off at The Avenue, or a street corner and tell her to  call a cab, but he knew that that wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what  he wanted at all.

Legs curled beneath her on the seat, head resting against the car window  so that her curls were scrunched against her head, Whitney stared out  the window and said nothing. From time to time, Rocco stole glances at  her. Even with crusted blood smeared across her face and soaking into  her hair, even in the oversized t-shirt tied at the hip, she was  gorgeous. But it wasn't just her looks that forbid him to leave her  behind for a second time. Whitney was worth so much more than her  appearance. It was...

Rocco wasn't sure what it was. There was no doubt that she was different  from other girls, but he found the differences hard to pinpoint. She  was gorgeous, but so were plenty of other girls he'd brought to bed. She  was tough, but so were the women in the industry that he hooked up  with. She was gentle, but Rocco had seduced plenty of good girls that  he'd had no issue showing the door the next morning. So what was it?

Maybe, he thought as he glanced back to the road, it wasn't anything  that could be explained. All the little bits that made up Whitney's  personality happened to fit in just the right way to make her special,  and that was all that mattered. Love was blind, or so they said. Love.  Was that too much, too soon? Rocco couldn't be sure, but he knew there  was no sense in trying to rationalize it. Rocco felt the way he felt,  and it was foolish to try to dismiss it. He just had to figure out what  he needed to do about it.         

     



 

It wasn't until they were off the island that Rocco dared speak again.  Whitney was still awake, but she was fading fast. Before that happened,  he wanted to make sure that he knew what had come to pass after he'd  left the safe house.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she mumbled, turning her head to look at him even as it  rested against the window. "It's just a lot to go through. I um, I guess  you know that, though."

"Yeah." Had it not been for the adrenaline and the searing pain in his  shoulder, Rocco would be in the same state she was in. It was in their  favor that a kill refreshed the spirit and woke the body. Even if he  wanted to, he wouldn't be able to sleep for a while. "What happened?"

"I was going to call a cab," Whitney said, arms crossed over her chest  to hold herself, "and so I went downstairs to wait in the living room  and the front door was open. I thought it was weird so I closed it. When  I went to the living room, that man was there. He grabbed me. He told  me that he was going to make me a star and that I belonged to him, and  said some messed up things, and then... Well, I bit him. I tried to run,  but he caught me and knocked me out. I woke up in the trunk, he brought  me into that building, and you know the rest from there."

Rocco knew the rest better than Whitney did. The Russian mob in New York  was nowhere near as prevalent as the Italian mafia, but the Lombardos  saw every sect of crime as an opportunity. Dealings with the Russians  were often tense, but Vittore had done his part to establish diplomacy.  Mikhail did a lot of cleanup work for them, but it looked like those  days were over. In the days that followed, recovering relations with the  Russians would be a top priority. Rocco didn't need another group on  his ass. The Black Mafia and Arturo's deranged attempts on his life were  enough.

"He was a bad man," Rocco said as though it mattered. Mikhail was a  different shade of bad, but they were variations of the same color.  Rocco couldn't claim he was any better.

"I know," Whitney whispered.

"I'm just glad you're okay. I'm going to make sure your head wound is cleaned up and good to go, don't worry."

Sweet and low, Whitney hummed an affirmative noise and closed her eyes.  Now that the excitement was over and she was no longer in danger, her  body begged her to sleep so it could recover. Rocco couldn't blame her.

The half an hour back to the safe house seemed much longer than it was.

When at last the winding driveway appeared in the distance, Rocco  snapped from his stupor. The dirt driveway weaving between the trees  felt easy to navigate compared to the day before.

As the car slowed and rattled over the uneven terrain, Whitney awoke  from her slumber. With care she lifted her head and looked out over the  forested area.

"The safe house," she murmured, voice cracking with sleep and dehydration.

"Yeah," Rocco said. "This time I'm gonna make sure that it really is safe."

If his dad was right about his prison sentence, it meant that the family  business was in Rocco's hands now. While the responsibility was  daunting, it also meant that Rocco could do whatever he wanted. If he  wanted to bring Whitney with him, no one was there to tell him no. Not  his father, not Arturo, and not any of the men who now worked beneath  him. The Don's word was absolute. His rise to power couldn't have come  at a better time. Under his law, Whitney would be safe.

They parked out front. Rocco killed the engine and dropped the keys on  the driver's side floor. Whitney sat up straight and opened her door,  the cold rush of air the reminder Rocco needed that he couldn't live in  his head so much. Now that the drive was over, it was back to action. He  had Whitney's wounds to take care of.

Rocco exited onto the lawn and directed Whitney towards the door.  Mikhail had the curtesy to close it, but had left it unlocked. Rocco  whisked Whitney inside.

"We've gotta get you cleaned up," he said once she was past the  threshold. From the oversized shirt to her lack of shoes, Whitney was a  mess. The soles of her feet had to be freezing, yet she did not  complain. Her drive was admirable.

"No," Whitney said with a small shake of her head, "I need water first. Maybe food. I'm starving."

Already she was on her way to the kitchen, Rocco found himself trailing  behind. For a man who was so used to playing the active role and taking  charge, Whitney was giving him a run for his money. She knew what she  wanted, and she wasn't afraid to help herself.

She'd taken his lesson about life to heart.

"Then get something to drink and let me cook you dinner," Rocco  insisted. Each step forward left him feeling a little more light headed,  and it was only then that he realized how much blood he'd lost. While  Whitney blazed the way forward, he snuck a glance at his shoulder. Two  deep wounds gaped there, bleeding slowed but not stopped. How was it  that he was more concerned with her than his own well-being? The stony  look returned. He wouldn't burden her with his agony.         

     



 

Whitney didn't reply. She entered the kitchen and went straight for the  sink. Cold water ran, and she washed her hands beneath it before using  them to cup water to sip at. There were glasses in the cabinets  overhead, but Rocco didn't have the presence of mind to tell her as  much. Instead, he plopped down upon one of the kitchen stools and took a  deep breath. Pain tore through his shoulder, all the adrenaline from  the kill gone. The shitty part was about to begin, and he was going to  tough his way through it.

When Whitney was finished drinking she turned off the water and turned  to face him. No matter how impartial and detached his face looked, she  saw through him. Those deep dark pools of her eyes knew his soul and  could see past his defences. It was no surprise when her eyes trailed to  his injuries and she pursed her lips.

"Before you do anything, we need to make sure you're patched up. Where  are your medical supplies? If this is a safe house, you've got to have  some."

Medical supplies. Both of them could use them. Rocco glanced through the  kitchen, trying to collect his thoughts. If a job went wrong and he got  hurt, there was a staff of doctors on the Lombardo payroll who saw to  injuries without hospital visits. It was rare that Rocco took care of  injuries like this on his own.

"In the bathroom upstairs, I think. Under the sink, most likely. Or in the medicine cabinet."

Water dripping from her hands, blood cleared from the front of her face, Whitney nodded.

"You wait here and I'll be back, then. Don't move too much."

That wasn't going to be an issue. Without the buffer that adrenaline  offered, something as simple as clenching his fist sent pain ripping  through Rocco's arm and chest. Not even bullet wounds were this bad.  Mikhail wouldn't walk away from their fight, but that didn't mean he  wasn't good at what he did. Rocco would be reminded of the Russian's  skill for the next few months, or until the injury closed up in full.  Mikhail's last act wouldn't be easily forgotten.