Taken by the Italian Mafia(5)

Could the night get any worse? Whitney nodded, already checked out. Liam  wanted to talk to her to let her know about Thursday. If things were  really bad, he was going to tell her not to bother coming in at all next  week. What was she supposed to say to him to make him change his mind?  There was precious little time to think about it.

"Thanks for the heads up. I'll track him down when I get back in."

"I'm sorry this is happening to you," Darren offered in condolence. "I  guess that's just the shitty kind of industry we're all a part of,  right?"

"Right." The word was hollow. Whitney hefted the kitchen garbage bag and brought both back towards the swinging kitchen doors.

"You got this, Whit," Darren assured her. "It seems bad now, but one-day life will be better."

No matter how much optimism Darren through her way, none of it was  sinking in. All Whitney did before she left the kitchen was nod. The  gesture was beginning to feel empty, like she was just a puppet on  strings. The only good part about tonight was the hot guy she'd served,  and even he'd met up with a friend and taken off. Right now the only  person Whitney could rely on was herself.

Out in the hall, just outside the kitchen doors, she set the trash bags  down and fished her phone out of her pocket. Tonight, when she got home,  she was in need of some personal time to sort through her thoughts and  blow her ego back up. Whitney fired off a text to her room mate.

Whitney (11:32PM): u gonna be home 2nite wen im done work? im gonna take a long bath n hog the bathroom.

There was no need to mention the bottle of wine she had her mind on.  There was nothing a little red, a long bubble bath, and a pedicure  couldn't fix. After that, she'd crawl into bed and forget today ever  happened. Maybe she'd even dream sweet dreams of the unknown famous face  she'd served today. A girl could only hope.

Tiana (11:33PM): yea ill b sleepin so no big. u feelin ok?

Whitney (11:33PM): nah. long story. well talk tomorrow.

By tomorrow, hopefully she'd have her head on straight. Right now she  was stuck somewhere between close to tears and sick to her stomach.  Whitney wasn't in any place to talk things through. She slid the phone  into her back pocket and picked up the trash again.

At the end of the corridor was a metal door with a push bar, leading  into the public hallway with the back exit. Clients weren't encouraged  to exit through the back, but fire safety standards required the club to  have an alternate exit from the front doors. Like the door she'd just  pushed her way through, the back exit was made of metal and sturdy. A  push bar opened from the inside, but on the outside there was a handle  and a keyhole. Once the door closed, it locked. Back when she'd started  at The Avenue, Whitney locked herself out a few times and had to walk  around the club and enter through the front doors. These days she was  more careful.         

     



 

As she crossed into the hall, a sharp crack cut over the distant music.  Whitney paused. She'd never heard a noise like that one before. A quick  glance down the hallway confirmed that she was alone, and yet the noise  sounded so close.

Whitney stepped out onto the metal platform by the dumpster, jammed the  bar's garbage bag into the crook of the door so she wouldn't lock  herself out, and took in a deep breath. The stench of garbage wasn't  enough to ruin the crisp, refreshing winter air. Cold prickled along her  skin, grounding her. No matter what, she always had her own back. Even  if Liam cast her to the curb, she would make it work. All her life she'd  been making sure that she was okay, and this was no different.

A movement to the left caught her eye.

In the shadows of the night, she could just make out the figure of a  tall man in a suit. If she hadn't watched him back at the bar, she never  would have recognized her handsome stranger, but Whitney was sure it  was him. Was he out for a smoke? No matter how long he spent outside in  the cold night air, he wasn't about to cool down any, not with the way  he looked. Whitney bit down on her bottom lip as she grinned, wondering  if she should call out and strike up a conversation. At least one good  thing had to come out of tonight, and she thought that he might be what  redeemed her terrible day.

There was no need to call out, the stranger turned all at once and  started to run. Towards her. Eyes glued to her even as he sprinted. The  pale light of the moon caught something metallic in his hand. In the  second it took Whitney to realize it was a gun, her Mr. Not-So-Right had  already swung himself up over the railing, his gaze emotionless and  detached. Desperate for something to cower behind to shield herself from  a direct shot, Whitney yanked the nearest object towards her and to her  chest - the garbage bag from the bar. The back door to the club closed,  locking her outside with the man who wanted her dead.

Whitney screamed. But no one except a man pointing a gun at her head was there to hear it.









Chapter Four





Rocco





The rules about witnesses were very clear: never leave one. The  bartender had seen him blow Tyrone's brains out. There was only one way  he could take care of his problem, and Rocco knew that it was to end it  before it started.

Shoes digging into the freshly fallen powder dusted over the alley,  Rocco ran for her. With a shot already fired, he knew he couldn't afford  to shoot again without dead accuracy. He wouldn't put a bullet through  her skull until he knew for damn sure he wouldn't miss the shot. At the  elevation she stood at, and his distance from the platform, Rocco didn't  want to risk it.

He gripped the bottom rung of the railing, and in a display of  tremendous upper body strength, hoisted himself up. From there it was a  simple matter of hopping over the railing, and once he found his  footing, he'd do her in and be done with it.

If only life were that simple.

The bartender wrenched a garbage bag from between the door frame and the  door to cower behind, then screamed at the top of her lungs. The sound  echoed just as loudly through the alley as the gunshot had, but its  origins made it that much worse. A silenced gun shot could be explained  away by passersby not looking for any trouble, but there was no  mistaking the shrill panic of a woman's scream. Rocco knew he was in  trouble. People would come running now that a woman was involved. He  needed to get out, and he needed to get out now.

No witnesses.

With a disgusted scowl, Rocco grabbed her wrist and started to fly down the stairs, dragging her along.

"If you don't shut the fuck up and keep quiet, I'll blow your face off,"  he warned her as he dragged her towards the sidewalk. "Same goes for if  you don't fuckin' follow me and make this good 'n easy. Got it?"

The pathetic whimper that followed was a good enough yes. Her dead  weight lightened, and the pretty girl who found herself in the wrong  place at the wrong time followed. If she hadn't screamed, she'd already  have been dead. What a disaster.

Cursing his luck, Rocco ran the rest of the distance between the alley  and the sidewalk, where his driver waited. Although she was in dressy  flats and shaking like a leaf, the bartender kept stride. Long legs like  hers matched his pace easily. Rocco got his first good view of them as  they arrived at the car and he shoved her into the backseat.

The bartender went in face first, legs dangling across the seat, feet  hanging out through the door. With a scowl Rocco pushed her legs up and  jumped into the back. As he slammed the door closed, his driver pulled  off from the curb and merged with New York's non-stop traffic.

"What in the ever loving fuck is she doing here? This ain't supposed to  be no hostage situation," the driver, Piero, said. The man was older  than Rocco by a decade, but he was much lower down in the ranks. Decades  of service as a getaway driver for his family translated to a  reasonably safe career with little opportunity for advancement. Still,  the man had a mouth on him. Piero knew as well as anyone else how  witnesses were to be dealt with.         

     



 

"Do you think I don't know that?" Rocco bit back. The bartender had  curled up into a little ball on the seat beside him and was whimpering,  too shocked to deal with what was happening to be a nuisance. Rocco was  glad for it. If she started mouthing him off in front of Piero, he'd  have to make an example out of her. As the Don's oldest son, he wasn't  going to let any member, no matter how low ranking, think he was going  soft.

"You were suppose 'ta deliver a message, Rocco. A message. And now  there's a chick in the back seat quaking like a leaf threat'ning  everything we set out to do."

Piero's criticisms weren't making matters any better. Rocco sat back  heavily, gun still in his right hand and tucked on his lap, left arm  draped over the back of the seat. There was blood splatter and brain  matter speckled into the front of his suit. Against the black suit it  was barely noticeable, but on his white shirt the bloody chunks were  obvious like flashing lights.