by Sadie Black
"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.
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 fr
ont 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."
They arrived at the door, and he fished a solitary heavy duty key out of his pocket and fit it into the lock. The big door let them into the main warehouse. The place was empty.
"If you want to do it the hard way, that's fine, too, but it's not going to be pleasant. You're going to hurt. You're not going to like it. It's going to be a bigger pain for me, and ruin my Friday night. So the choice is yours, but if I were you, I'd want it to be simple and easy."
Through it all, the bartender remained silent. She was an obedient one, Rocco appreciated that. When they finally made it into the halo of light, he stopped her with a firm hand. It was time to see how she wanted to spend her last moments on Earth.
"Get on your knees," he instructed. Either she would listen to instructions, or he'd make her listen. There was no way around his word.
The bartender sank to her knees. Rocco couldn't help but notice her breasts barely concealed beneath her flimsy vest. She was hot. But it wasn't her body alone that made him hesitate.
Rocco pulled his gun from inside his jacket and stared at the back of her head where he should have already placed the muzzle. On her knees, quivering, he took her in from behind. What was the problem? As he mulled it over, Rocco ran his tongue over his top teeth. It had to be those eyes. The next time he had to haul ass and bring a woman along with him after a kill, he'd order her not to look at him.
"I want you to think about something you love," he said. The words came out of nowhere. During an execution, he forced his target into position and pulled the trigger, simple as that. Tonight was the first time he'd ever tried to ease someone towards a peaceful death. "Or lots of things you love. Pizza. Chocolate. Kittens. That show on tv you watch over and over even though it ended ten years ago. A massage. Your boyfriend. I don't know, whatever it is girls go gaga over. Picture that."
A moment passed. Rocco ran his finger over the trigger, but the gun wasn't in position yet. Why was he having such a hard time?
"Think about how often you got to enjoy all those things, how good it made you feel."
The quivering stopped. Rocco pressed his lips into a thin line and raised the gun into position, but did not touch it against the back of her head. He wouldn't let her know that death was coming until it already claimed her. The sound of his voice would lead her to the grave. He intended to pull the trigger mid-sentence.
Just as his finger was tightening, a sound interrupted the moment. A shrill series of ringing noises echoed through the empty warehouse, and Rocco dropped his arm. It was a sound he recognized well, but rarely heard. His brother was calling from his emergency line.
"Hello?"
Gun pointed at the ground, the bartender on her knees before him, Rocco wasn't in a position to chat — but his brother left him little choice. Arturo didn't call from that number for no reason. Whenever that custom ringtone played, it meant trouble.
"Where the fuck are you?"
"If this isn't life or death, I'm gonna beat you next time I see you. I'm busy. What do you think I'm doing?" Arturo was never straightforward, preferring to make a show of everything. Right now he didn't have time to waste on his brother's theatrics.
"Well, whatever you're doing, it's not as important as what's goin' down. Dad just got caught up in a major raid. We're talking special forces involvement. Some kinda fucking sting operation. It's being broadcast live on TV right now. I just saw him dragged outta the big poker game in handcuffs."
"Shit."
Arturo didn't have to tell him what the implications meant. Vittore had been in and out of jail his whole life, but nothing had ever stuck. Still, in Vittore's absence it would be Rocco's job to step up. And if the cops were cracking down on their organization, it meant that the entire Lombardo family would be under the microscope. It was time to clean up the act until the pigs looked the other way.
"So, you know the drill. When can I expect to see you at the safe house?"
The bartender did not tremble anymore, but her head was hung in resignation. If Arturo hadn't interrupted, she would've been a corpse at his feet.
"I have a situation on my hands right now. The meeting didn't go well, and I've got a witness I need to deal with. I need to tie up loose ends before I can head out."
On the other end, Arturo snorted. It was no secret that he held contempt for his older brother, and Rocco was sure he wouldn't hear the end of his failure.
"Yeah, okay. Just make sure you get it tied up neat. The cops are comin' sniffin', and we don't want to stink of shit."
"I fucking know," Rocco replied, terse.
"See you soon, big brother."
The call ended, line dropping dead. With silent dread, Rocco tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked down at the bartender. A body to clean up so soon after a bust was risky business. As far as he knew, the woman at his feet was an innocent. If the cops found an innocent woman murdered, there'd be an investigation. Rocco knew that with the murder at The Avenue, her place of employment, the trail would lead back to the Lombardo family right away. The no witness rule only applied if it wouldn't sink him in more shit.
"Get up," Rocco ordered. The bartender picked up her head, but didn't look at him. With any luck, she'd keep being good while he figured out the best course of action. An execution was out of the question for the moment. He'd need to pull some strings and get her taken care of by someone who wouldn't lead back to him.
Why did the thought distress him so much?
Legs no longer wobbling, the bartender rose. When she was back on her feet, he directed her back to the idling car. Piero was smoking, arm hanging out the window.
"Get outta the car," Rocco said as he approached. Piero turned his beady eyes toward the young Don and narrowed his eyes.
"It's my car ya fuckface, I'm the driver. Get back in and I'll take you where you wanna go."
"I don't have time for this right now," Rocco rumbled. "There's been an emergency with my father. I'll call someone to come pick you up, but I need to take the car."
Piero's face contorted with distrust, but he didn't object. No one joked when it came to matters involving the Don. The driver left the driver's side door open.
"What about the girl?" Piero asked, gesturing at the bartender. She had her arms crossed over her chest, trying to hide her spilling cleavage.
"I'm gonna take care of it. She's my responsibility, and for now, she's coming with me."
To prove his point, Rocco moved around Piero and popped the child lock on the back doors.
"Get in the car now," he directed her. "If you try anything, remember who's got the gun."
Without a word, the bartender ducked into the back of the car. Once the door closed behind her, Rocco locked the doors again and of
fered Piero a nod.
"Consider this calling it even for all the shit you've been talking tonight."
"You're still just a kid to me, Rocco. An old guy's gotta have some fun," Piero replied.
"And as of tonight, I'm stepping in during the Don's absence," he replied, sharp and to the point. "There's a clean slate between us right now, but talk down to me again, and I won't be so forgiving next time."
Before Piero had a chance to dig himself any deeper, Rocco swung himself down into the driver's seat and closed the door. The keys were still in the ignition, engine idling.
Too much time had already been wasted. It was time to go.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Whitney
What happened to Rocco's father? Whitney found herself more concerned than she should have been. This was the man who'd abducted her and tried to kill her, after all. She had no right to be concerned with his personal life. Whitney crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, willing herself not to listen in.
"What about the girl?"
"I'm gonna take care of her in due time. She's my responsibility, and for now, she's coming with me."
The click of the lock mechanism stirred her from her introspection. Whitney lifted her chin just a little to acknowledge she'd heard, but did not turn to look at Rocco. He opened the back door of the car for her.
"Get in the car now. If you try anything, remember who's got the gun."
It was a reality she wasn't likely to forget. Whitney did as she was told, settling onto the back bench as Rocco closed the door behind her. The driver's side door was open, and she could hear the conversation between Rocco and his driver, but she chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, Whitney took the time by herself to try to cobble together a battle plan.
A hard life meant that she wasn't unfamiliar with types of guys like Rocco. Back in high school, Whitney had dated a guy like him. Dangerous. On the edge. Unpredictable. But high school thugs weren't the same as seasoned hitmen. At least, she assumed Rocco was a hitman. The getaway car and the blood on his shirt told her as much.
