Taken by the Italian Mafia(3)

"What the fuck!" another girl screamed. Dressed up in red, breasts near  falling out of her corset top, she glared at Rocco and swung an open  palm at him, intending to slap him across the cheek. Rocco's reflexes  were quicker, and he caught her by the wrist before the blow could land.  Despite the shutdown, the girl in red twisted and screamed at him.

"Lemme go! How dare you turn her down! She's so hot! She deserves a good time!"

Even if the drinks were the best in New York, no kind of alcohol was  worth this drama. Scowl deepening, Rocco released the girl in red and  pushed her back so she stumbled into the crowd behind her. Still  shrieking and furious, the turned on a young man she seemed to know and  beat against his shoulders in a tantrum. Whatever drugs took were top  notch. He left the scene before he could become further implicated.

The dance floor was running out, and still no sign of Tyrone. Just as  Rocco was wondering if he should head back to the bar, he caught sight  of him. All the way at the back, near the back exits, Tyrone was on his  way out from the hall with the bathrooms. With a line or two snorted, no  doubt, the man would be on edge. Rocco needed to be careful.         

     



 

Rocco wove through the crowd to make his way to the back of the room.  Tyrone bumped against a girl carrying a crate of dishes - the bartender  Rocco had ordered his drink from - and excused himself. Rocco counted  his footsteps as he stepped around her. Ten steps away, he made his  move.

Interceptions were always Rocco's favorite.

"You're the collected one," his father had told him. "You have a way  with words, Rocco. You're a good boy. When you speak, they'll listen.  And so here's what I need you to do."

The very first time he'd delivered a message, he'd felt a high  unparalleled to that of any drug. To this day, a spark of that high  still burned when he walked away after a successful job. This was the  life for him. It was time to tell Tyrone to stop fucking it all up.

He swooped in quickly. Tyrone didn't see him coming until it was too  late. Rocco pressed up against Tyrone to speak into his ear. As he did,  he pressed the muzzle of the gun inside his suit coat up against  Tyrone's side.

"I need a word outside, Hisley. Let's go together."

Tyrone's dark eyes turned on him, narrowed in simmering rage. Despite  the danger that lurked in that expression, Rocco did not back down. This  was not the first time he'd dealt with thugs, and it wouldn't be the  last. Right now the game was his to play, and if Tyrone was smart, he'd  stick to the rules.

"On my fucking birthday?" he barked. There was no danger of anyone  overhearing over the pounding club music. "You fuckin' low life mafia  shitheads have no respect. I shoulda known you'd pull a stunt like this.  I have nothing to do with any business, okay?"

"You've got plenty to do with business," Rocco insisted, collected as  ever, "and we're going to talk about it outside. Let's go, Hinsley."

Tyrone Hinsley was the son of Lucas Hinsley, one of the larger players  in the self-proclaimed Black Mafia. The first time Rocco had heard the  title used, he'd laughed so hard he choked. New York City had room for  one mafia family, and that space was occupied by the Lombardo line. As  it had been for decades. A group of thugs banding together was small  fries for the true Don of New York, Vittore Lombardo. But when the group  made their intentions to take down the Italian mafia clear, Vittore  couldn't cast a blind eye. Rocco's father was forgiving, but he was not a  foolish man.

"Aight. We cool. Let's go outside and talk this over, then. It's my birthday, man. Gimme a fucking break."

With the muzzle of a gun pressed to his side, the son of the Don himself  there to deliver a message, this was not the time to whine. Instead,  Rocco grit his teeth and nudged his gun deeper into Tyrone's side.

"Out," he hissed. Without another word, Tyrone turned and strolled  towards the corridor housing the back exits. Rocco followed in his wake,  alert and stern. The transition was seamless. It looked like Tyrone was  alone, and the job would be done quick and easy. When the Don wanted to  send a message, Rocco hated when things got complicated. A Lombardo  always came out on top, of course, but the senseless loss of life was a  true shame.

Tyrone shouldered the back door open and stepped out onto the metal  grating. A metal platform, fitted with a staircase and bordering  railings, led down into a dingy back alley. An industrial dumpster  opened to the right of the door. To the left was a dead end. As Tyrone  took the stairs step by step, Rocco revised his next move.

"To the left," he instructed, "up near the wall and on the side with the dumpster."

Without a word, Tyrone obeyed. The massive brute had gone from annoying  to compliant in only a few seconds. Rocco wondered if the man was  plotting something.

Rocco followed, the soles of his shoes ringing out loud against the  metal grated staircase. With the alley empty, he had no qualms about  removing his gun from inside of his jacket, finger on the trigger and  ready to shoot. The safety was long ago removed. No living Lombardo was  amateur enough with guns to not trust a live one, even when concealed.  Rocco had been handling handguns since he was seven.

"Now that we're alone, can you tell me what the fuck this is all about?"  Tyrone asked. Near the corner between the back wall and the wall of the  club, he turned to look at Rocco. The moon was bright, but the high  walls of the surrounding businesses blocked out most of the light.  Rocco's eyes were still adjusting, but he knew that Tyrone was no better  off. So far, so good.

"I'm here to deliver a message from the Don, Vittore Lombardo." Often,  dropping Vittore's name was enough to make a point. When it came to the  Black Mafia, however, Rocco enjoyed reminding them of just who his  father was. There was no other Don of New York City. Every one of those  thugs deserved to be reminded at every chance.         

     



 

"He's sorry to hear of your cousin's passing, and even sorrier yet that  his invitation to the funeral was lost in the mail. Regardless, he  wishes to send your family his condolences in this time of grieving. And  he wants to remind you that the best kind of life insurance is-"

Beneath the moonlight, Rocco saw a shift in the glint of Tyrone's eyes.  They gave away Tyrone's intentions before he even moved a muscle. As the  thug reached back with lightning speed to unholster a concealed weapon,  Rocco lifted his gun with frightening accuracy. Before Tyrone had a  chance to draw his weapon, Rocco fired off a single shot. The bullet  exploded from the muzzle of his gun and tore through the space between  them to bury itself in Tyrone's skull. The caliber wasn't high enough  that the bullet exited the back of his skull. That was the way Rocco  preferred it. With a ricochet, the brain was damaged more severely. In  the few rare cases where a target survived a head shot, the brain damage  left them in a vegetative state. Vegetables did not talk.

"-not to fucking mess with the Lombardos, you dumb-ass. Shit."

No deaths were supposed to happen, but Tyrone's choices didn't stick to  the plan. As blood pooled beneath the body, Rocco glanced over his  shoulder and towards the street. The gun was silenced, but in New York,  someone was bound to recognize the muted snap of a gunshot in the night.  He had precious little time to get the fuck out before someone strung  two and two together and busted him. Rocco's ride was waiting at the end  of the alley, and if he wanted to make it out unseen, he would need to  hoof it. The creak of rusted out hinges ruined everything.

Rocco turned, finger still snug with the trigger, but arm now at his  side. On the metal platform, a black garbage bag clutched in hand, stood  the bartender he kept running into. She was looking at him with a far  off, dreamy expression on her face, like she walked into a nightmare.

Everything was not going to be fine after all.









Chapter Three





Whitney





The door into the employees only area of The Avenue opened into a long  hall that led to several doors. There was the employee room, Liam's  office, and a couple other doors that were always locked no matter what  the occasion.

Only a few steps into the hall, Whitney heard Liam's voice carrying from  a distance. From the way he spoke and then stopped, then spoke again,  she pieced together that he was having a conversation. Curiosity getting  the best of her, Whitney put her plans to head to the kitchen to drop  off the dirty glasses on hold, and headed down the hall towards Liam's  office. To her surprise, the door had been left open.

"-you think?"

As she approached, Liam's words grew clearer, and Whitney picked up on  another voice. Soft spoken, sweet, and unmistakably feminine. Whitney  pieced together who it was at once. Just behind the door of Liam's  office was the girl Cassandra had seen earlier that evening.