Taken by the Italian Mafia(7)

     



 

This would not be how she died. With ever ounce of her being, she would  fight for her life. No matter how scared she was or how hopeless it  seemed, she couldn't give up.

Whitney pressed her lips together, trying to keep herself strong, but  the pressure was too much. As Rocco pulled the gun away and tucked it  into a holster hidden beneath his jacket, Whitney lost it. Although she  didn't scream, or sob, or plead for her life, she couldn't hold back her  tears any longer. Big, hot drops streamed down her cheeks and collected  beneath her jaw. Whitney didn't dare lift her hands to try to wipe the  tears away in case Rocco decided to blow her brains out. Right now it  was his game, and she had to play by his rules.

The car sped forward, leaving The Avenue in the dust. Whitney rested her  forehead against the tinted window and continued to cry in silence.  Minutes ago, her biggest worry was the state of her job and what it  would mean for her future - now she had to worry if there would be a  future at all. It had been a hell of a Friday night already, and it was  still far from over.









Chapter Six





Rocco





"I think you could learn from our pretty guest here, and shut yer yap."  Rocco glared at the back of Piero's head, "Remember who you're dealing  with here. One day, you're gonna wish you paid me more respect."

It was no mystery to anyone who would step up to take over the family  business. Rocco was the oldest son, but beyond birthright tradition, he  had the natural leadership of a Don. Vittore took great pride in sending  his son out to take care of jobs that needed a refined touch. Tonight  was supposed to have been one of those jobs, but Tyrone's coke rage had  fucked that right up. Whatever repercussions his death would bring;  Rocco was prepared to handle them. One day he wouldn't have someone  there to hold his hand through decision making, after all. Vittore was  still spry, but he wouldn't live forever. If the Black Mafia had  anything to say about it, he wouldn't live another week.

The Black Mafia. Rocco shook his head as the thought flitted through his  mind. They liked to paint themselves as a vigilante group, but they  were rotten from the inside out.

They indulged in the same drugs they claimed they wanted off the  streets. They hooked up with the same prostitutes they resolved to free  from their pimps. And they struck deals with the same members of the  Italian mafia they planned to destroy. Hypocrites. Every last one of  them.

Rocco had about as much respect for them as he did the little fucked up  turncoat of a mayor, Luka Belmonte. So much promise down the drain. He  remembered the message he'd delivered at his father's wake, and the look  on Luka's face. Rocco hoped he'd be the one to eventually put a bullet  in that smug traitor. The downfall of the Black Mafia and the Belmonte  line would be his legacy. Rocco would make his father proud.

"My car," Piero shot back, "my rules. If you blow her brains out, you're  gonna be scrubbing back there with a toothbrush 'til not even a UV  light picks up the stains. And if I wanna run my mouth, I got a god  given right to."

Annoyance twitched in Rocco's temple.

"If it was my dad sitting back here," he replied, each word cold and  carefully spoken. "Would you be running your mouth like this?"

Piero was silent for a moment. In profile, the man looked like a  constipated parrot. A big bill of a nose arched forward and ended in a  point. Beady little eyes narrowed, wrinkles deepening them further. Had  it been a brighter color, Rocco would have locked him in a cage and  asked him to sing.

"No," Piero said. The word was short and brief, but it was quickly  followed up with more excuses. "But you ain't your father, kid. I  remember when you was holdin' your first gun. How scared you looked back  then, and the thing wasn't even loaded. You'd'a thought it was alive,  for how you looked."

"And I'm thirty-seven now," Rocco shot back, "and I can't remember the  last time I didn't have a gun on me. Times change. Get with the fucking  program, or you'll regret it."

Just like the little bartender to his left was regretting it right now.  Rocco turned his gaze towards her. As soon as they arrived at their  destination, her bad night would be over.

To Rocco's surprise, the bartender looked back at him. Dark eyes,  glistening with tears, locked upon his Lombardo blues. Beyond simple  sadness and desperation, there were other emotions that Rocco read like  she was a bold print book. Regret. Resignation. Disappointment. He felt  like he was catching a glimpse of her soul. Rocco couldn't remember all  the men and women he'd killed over the years, but none ever made him  feel regret. There was something in the bartender that unnerved him. No  one was supposed to get through his walls, without them Rocco's whole  world would collapse.         

     



 

"You try'na memorize my face?" Rocco asked, compensating for how  affected he felt by putting extra grit into his words. They bit like the  bark of a dog - all shock, no damage. "You try'na place all this?  Try'na see the landmarks?" Each utterance increased in volume, and the  bartender startled and pressed back against the door in fear. Seeing her  cower twinged his gut. He never felt guilt about business before.

"Keep your eyes on the floor for the rest of the ride," Rocco hissed.  The words felt forced, and he had to summon that cold detachment inside  of him. Usually, he slipped between his personal demeanor and his  business persona with ease.

Not wanting to cause trouble, the bartender dropped her gaze. If Rocco  had to guess, she wouldn't be causing him trouble. As much as he hated  to get women involved in business, he appreciated how cooperative most  of them were. Even in the face of uncertainty and death, they were  compliant. It was a nice change from coercing men.

With the bartender's eyes off of him, Rocco was able to pull himself  together. It had been a long night, he reminded himself. The adrenaline  from a kill was still coursing through his veins, it put all his  emotions on edge, not just the aggressive ones. It was natural to feel  affected by a pretty thing with a sweet face and a good body, especially  when she looked at him like that. It was evolutionary - this was her  way of attempting to survive. For most men, it would have worked.

Unfortunately for her, Rocco was not most men.

Piero kept his mouth shut. The bartender kept quiet, crying in silence.  From time to time, Rocco caught the glimmer of one of her tears falling  from her chin. He did his best not to look.

At last, the car pulled into The Factory. The bartender lifted her head  and looked out the window as the car slowed, then came to a stop. An  indiscretion so small wasn't worth correcting, not when her final  moments had just arrived. As long as she didn't fix him with those sad,  soulful eyes of hers, Rocco didn't really care where she looked.

The Factory was exactly what its title implied. The old building near  New York's harbor was one of many that the Lombardo mafia owned. Faded  red brick looked muddy brown, but the walls were still strong and  dependable. Rectangular windows were sealed with metal shutters, rusted  out by time and weather.

At two storeys tall, it was far from flashy, but Rocco liked the  intimacy. The smaller the building, the less chance there was for the  Feds to hide. With mayor Belmonte's new campaign to get crime off the  streets in full swing, he could never be too careful. Belmonte wasn't  doing them any favors. One of these days, Rocco intended to return the  favor.

The industrial section a ghost town, they ran no risk of being  discovered. Confident in his anonymity, Rocco looped an arm around the  front passenger seat and leaned forward.

"Pop the locks." A quick look towards the bartender punctuated his  sentence. "And if you're thinking about running, it'll be a race against  my bullet. If that's a race you can win, the US needs you on their  Olympics team."

The bartender did not look at him, but he did notice her head drop just a  little in resignation. Even a tiny movement like that hit him in a way  Rocco was not used to, and he pursed his lips to try to draw himself  back. This was business, so why was he getting so worked up?

Piero opened the doors, and Rocco freed the bartender. She braced  herself against the side of the car, too terrified to stand straight.  Rocco grabbed her by the arm and walked her to The Factory.

"Won't be long," he called back to Piero as they walked. "Then we can go home and call this night over with.

Right now, that sounded beyond fantastic.

At his side, the bartender sniffled. A shudder ran down Rocco's back,  but he resisted and kept a strong outward appearance. Maybe he needed a  night off. If doing something this simple was a challenge, clearly he  needed some downtime.

"We can either do this the easy way," Rocco told her, "or the hard way.  I've done it both ways, so I can promise you that struggling doesn't  work. I'm too good at what I do."