Taken by the Italian Mafia(6)

"And I'm gonna take care of it, okay? This isn't my first time out on  the job, and it's not gonna be my last. Cool your jets and do your  fucking job."

From the way Piero's jaw set, Rocco knew he'd pressed his buttons. The  getaway driver wasn't impressed, but it wasn't his job to pass judgment  on Rocco's performance. The only opinion that mattered was that of the  Don, and if Rocco had his way, the Don would never find out. A matter  like this would be dealt with quickly and then forgotten about, just as  it should be.

A routine interception and delivery was turning into such a pain in the  ass. What else could go wrong? As Rocco glanced out the tinted window at  the passing New York streets, he wished it went down differently. Why  were Friday nights never easy?

"Here's what we're going to do," Rocco said at length. "You're gonna  drive me to The Factory, I'm gonna take care of business, and then we're  gonna get home and forget about this bullshit."

Regrettable, but necessary. Rocco's eyes turned to the bartender curled  up on the seat beside him. What a pity it was that he'd have to blow her  brains out, too. In another circumstance, she might have been a girl  worth getting to know. But business was business, and Rocco wasn't about  to get caught up in senseless drama over a heart shaped face and a  drool-worthy set of legs. Family came first, and no woman would ever  convince him otherwise.









Chapter Five





Whitney





From the second the armed stranger grabbed her, Whitney was paralyzed.  The fear was unlike anything she'd experienced before, and with any  luck, she'd never feel again. It wasn't as though she had spent her life  sheltered from violence, her rebellious teen years made her some  dangerous friends. But no one had ever pulled a gun on her before.

The swelling fragility of mortality was impossible to deny when looking  down the muzzle of a handgun. Staring down death locked her lips and  turned her knees to jelly all at once, and when he pulled her down the  stairs, she was unable to resist. Together they ran for the streets. The  back door to The Avenue disappeared behind her, the last hope of  salvation lost.

Whitney's fate was in his hands now.

A black car, unremarkable apart from its tinted windows, idled on the  side of the street at the end of the alley. The tall stranger wrenched  the back door open and shoved her inside. Both of Whitney's palms hit  the leather seat, and she landed rough on her stomach. With the full  weight of her body behind the fall, the wind was knocked from her lungs  and the top button of her vest popped open. She struggled to breathe,  and curled up on the seat as her kidnapper pushed her legs into the car.

Was this it? Was this how she was going to die?

None of it made sense. It had been years since Whitney had been in  contact with any criminals. What had she done to attract this kind of  attention. She was a nobody. No family, no money, no power. The best  thing she'd done in her life was graduate from high school. Why would  someone be waiting for her to take the trash out before rushing her?  This had to be a case of mistaken identity.

But what if these men wouldn't acknowledge their mistake?

The hopelessness of the situation welled inside Whitney as she came down  from the shock of being abducted. Whatever their reason, whatever was  about to happen, there was nothing she could do to fix things. Her shock  grew into full blown panic. The quick, sharp breaths she took did  nothing for her starving lungs. Whitney clamped her hands over her mouth  to try to stop her rapid, uncontrollable breathing, but the terror  welled up inside.

A terrified moan from deep inside deepened into a scream, and at it, the  driver twisted around in his seat and glared at the man who sat beside  her. The expression was so ugly, so distanced from humanity, that  Whitney knew she was in trouble. These were killers. Cold, ruthless,  killers. Why did she always fall for the bad boy? This time, that  attraction might prove fatal.         

     



 

"Get her to shut the fuck up!"

The scream grew. Whitney had lost control of herself to instinct, and  there was no holding back how terrified she was. In desperation she  scrambled up into a sitting position and pried at the door handle. The  handle had no pressure, jiggling uselessly in her palm. The child lock  was on. The window was also locked, only dropping an inch. Even though  she could scream through it, in a moving vehicle it would do little  good. Tears began to fall, choking sobs mingling with her screams of  terror.

"SHUT HER UP!" the driver roared. The tall stranger in the suit had his  elbow pressed against the window ledge, forehead planted firmly in his  palm. A quiet, moody rage built around him, like dark storm clouds  intensifying on the horizon. From where she sat, Whitney saw the  splotches of red on his jacket, and meaty chunks of something. That was  somebody's blood on his shirt. Pieces of somebody's body.

In the height of chaos and crushing fear, Whitney found her voice again.

"This is all a mistake," she sobbed. "I'm not who you think I am. Please  don't kill me! I didn't do anything! If you let me go, I'll never tell  anyone anything about this. Please, please just let me go. I just wanna  go back to work and do my job. I just wanna go home. I won't-"

The cold touch of metal chilled by winter air kissed her forehead. She  looked up into vicious blue eyes, beautiful like sapphires. Whitney went  quiet. The muzzle of the handgun pressed tighter against her forehead,  twisting back and forth slowly to drive the message home. One moment he  was sitting in irritation with his gun on his lap, and the next they  were nose to nose, that same gun pressed against her forehead.

"I will kill you right now," each word, although whispered, was clear,  "if you do not shut up. Blink once, slow, to say we have an  understanding."

The wild fear she'd felt seconds before, had condensed into a tight,  coiled spring right in her core. Whitney summoned the strength she  needed to blink slowly for him, keeping her eyes closed for a good few  seconds before parting her lids.

"Good," he murmured. "Real good. Now keep those plump lips of yours closed."

"If you fucking get brains all over the back seat of my car there will be hell to pay, Rocco."

Rocco. Was that her kidnapper's name, or was it just a handle? Heart  racing with fear, mind too scattered to think straight, Whitney stored  the piece of information away. If she got out, the police would want to  know as many details as she could remember. It was her duty to herself  to get this guy locked away.

If she got out of this alive.

Rocco turned his attention to the driver, scowled, then looked back to  Whitney. The glint in his eyes lacked humanity, like they were made of  hateful glass beads instead of real human parts.

"And I don't care what that price is, or how long I have to spend  scrubbin' blood and brains out of the back seat. In fact, I don't care  about anything later. All I care about is the right now, and that's what  you should be concerning yourself with, too."

Had he read her mind? Did he know she was trying to commit details to  memory? Whitney's eyes widened just a little, lips threatening to part.  The more time she spent with this man, the less real she believed he  was. No matter how stunned she was, Whitney would never forget those  eyes.

"Now you keep bein' a good girl and keepin' quiet, and we won't have a problem."

But it wasn't Whitney voice she had to worry about - an electronic  jingle lit up the back of the car as the phone in her back pocket buzzed  with a text message. Gun still pressed against her head, Whitney kept  still. Rocco remained just as still, eyes boring into her.

"Well, we have a little problem," he corrected himself. "I'm gonna need  to take that phone off your hands. In our car we have a little rule:  present company is way more important than anyone on the other side of a  phone. You wouldn't want to be rude, would you?"

Rocco paused, and Whitney blinked slowly again to show that she  understood. If she was going to get out of this alive, it wasn't because  anyone was going to save her - she was going to save herself. That was  how her life had worked in the past, and that was how it was going to  work now.

"Good girl. You're not all that bad when you're not being batshit crazy,  now are you? So what you're gonna do now is reach back nice and slow  into your pocket and hand me your phone. Take your time. Imagine you're  moving through mud. Gotta slog along, can't move too fast."

Or else he'll put a bullet in your brain. Just as slow as he'd  instructed, she lifted her hand and made its way to her pocket. The gun  against her forehead did not ease back, but it did not press harder,  either. Clutched in her fingers, she lifted her arm in a sluggish way  and brought the phone back in his direction. Rocco let her bring it all  the way to him before he took it from her hands. Requested item  delivered, Whitney lowered her hand onto her lap and left it in plain  view.