by Sadie Black
Vittore was never so straightforward. Rocco curled his arm on the table and leaned against it, watching his father's face as it spoke. Despite his age, Vittore was still handsome. Cunning blue eyes, so much like Rocco's, sparkled behind modest wrinkles. Vittore's hair was greying, but with age came dignity. No man dared disrespect such a distinguished Don. One day, Rocco hoped he could amount to half the man his father was.
"I'm thirty-seven, and I still feel like I've got so much to learn," Rocco lamented. Casual talk like this was not his father's preferred style of communication, and yet here they were. Rocco felt at ease to share anything, and hear anything. In this moment, his life was good. "How can I ever fill in for you when I still feel like an amateur at my age?"
"If you didn't feel like an amateur," Vittore replied, "there'd be something wrong with you. The business we're in, Rocco, it's not a business for men with weak hearts or weak wills. This is the work of giants, the work of generations. If you weren't a little concerned about stepping up to fill your old man's shoes, I'd be worried about you."
Truth held in those words, and Rocco sank back against his chair and soaked them in. Everything felt hazy and slow, like waking from a great night's sleep and feeling warm and rested beneath the sheets.
"Were you worried when you took over?"
"Of course I was," Vittore replied. "And so was every other Don. It's part of the territory. But you, there's something special about you. There's something good. Ever since you were a little boy I've been shaping you, building you into the man you need to be. You're a good boy, Rocco. A good son. A good worker. I expect a lot from you, but only because I know you are capable. I trust you, and in this industry, that's a hell of a lot to say.”
Trust. Rocco closed his eyes and though for a long moment. The room felt like it was spinning, and yet he couldn't recall why. Was it because he'd had something to drink? That must have been it.
"That means a lot to me. I just hope that I can live up to your expectations and do you proud."
"You'll do fine, Rocco. Let me give you a piece of advice that my father shared with me when I was getting antsy about replacing him. He told me that being Don isn't just about the work. As much as you fear all the responsibilities and all the relationships you'll need to achieve, there's more to it than that. It's about understanding people and having it in your heart to forgive, but to never forget. Never forget. Let people love you and know how generous you can be, but do not let them take advantage of your generosity. When you know how to read men, how to manipulate men, and how to weed out those who seek to do you harm, you will rarely need anything more. Listen to your gut, listen to your heart, and let yourself be the leader you were born to be."
Each word burst inside of his chest like a firework, sparkling and illuminating, lifting Rocco up higher. The room continued to spin, and Vittore's voice spun with it. Had he been drugged? Was he drunk? Once more, Rocco tried to piece together how he had arrived at the beach house, and how Vittore was there. Hadn't he been arrested? As the pieces began to fall into place, a narrow hand set itself on his shoulder and squeezed gently. The room stopped spinning. Rocco opened his eyes and looked up at the person who stood just behind him. Light cocoa skin, big beautiful curls, and lips to which none other could compare. Whitney. She leaned over his shoulder to reply to Vittore's speech.
"And what about when it isn't enough?" she asked. The question was softly spoken and plain, as though she'd always been a part of their lives. Vittore was unfazed by her presence, and responded with the same kind of attention as he had to Rocco.
"That is when you must show what you're made of, what the years have shaped you into. Show no mercy. Show what you are capable of. Give every one of them a reason to fear waking the monster inside of you."
"Ah," she said with a little nod of her head. Rocco looked down from her and across at Vittore. How was this real? It couldn't be real. The beach house, his father, and now Whitney... "I guess that's straightforward enough. I think Rocco is going to do you proud when he takes over. He's gonna do the mafia justice."
Whitney, the scared little captive with the soulful eyes, now chatted with one of the most dangerous men in the world like it was nothing. Rocco bit down on his bottom lip, but felt no pain. No matter how hard he bit, there was no change. This couldn't be real.
"How do you know?" Vittore asked, the hint of an amused grin lurking behind his serious expression. Whitney grinned at him, shook her head, and settled upon Rocco's lap. One of her arms hooked loosely around his neck. The weight of her body felt real, and so did its heat. When she sat on him like this, Rocco could barely keep his thoughts together.
"I know because when he's getting too crazy or going down the wrong path, I'll be there to reel him in. I'll be that little bit of light optimism in his dark that'll keep him kind, but still ruthless. He's going to be everything you need him to be, and more."
The words that were coming out of her mouth — Rocco couldn't believe them. Between the pressure of her body on his lap and the sudden blinding confidence she demonstrated, he was getting hot. Whitney shifted upon his lap, and he felt himself begin to harden. Wrong. So wrong. And yet...
Each time she moved, her thighs brushed against his. Like silk upon his skin, he'd never felt a woman who felt so fantastic. And the smell of her... Rocco recalled savoring it before. Energetic, vibrant, and fun, like he imagined she was in her down time. What was she like when she wasn't caught up in nightmare scenarios of life and death? He felt he knew. He felt he knew too well. How was a woman as interesting and as attractive as her stuck working for a schmuck like Liam? Why was she still paralyzed in a career that led nowhere? Rocco had no answers, but he had solutions. There were other avenues for her to explore, and he could set her up with them with just a few strong words and a repaid favor or two. It was as easy as that.
"Rocco," Whitney murmured. She'd turned a little so that she faced him, arm still hooked around his neck. Rocco blinked a few times and focused his eyes. The room and his father were gone — they sat on a wooden chair alone, in a house he didn't recognize, but felt familiar.
"Yeah?" he asked, blinking once more to bring himself back to the situation at hand. How easy he felt around her. How free.
Those dark irises locked with his, and Whitney smiled. There was a look in her eyes, a sharp, dangerous kind of look he recognized as part of his own repertoire. This was a Whitney he'd never seen before, but one he found he trusted, just as his father had trusted him. And yet, beyond that look, there was more than just the cold detachment necessary for a life in the family business — there was desire.
"I know that you've got this," she whispered. The touch of her body lit him on fire, and he found himself desiring her with increasing urgency. How could a woman's body feel so right? How could her lips look so tempting? How could every curve of her body root itself in his memory the way it did, dragging him into her web and holding him there? Subjected to her touch, he was just a fly caught up in a spider's silk, and she had him wrapped up tight. "I know that you've got this because I've got you, and as long as that's the case, the future is ours. Nothing will hold us back."
Ours. Us. The memory of they bounced in his mind to bump other thoughts aside. Ever since he was a young man, he had wanted someone he could depend upon, someone he could think of as a partner. The desire was not just professional. After all these years alone, caught up in sex for pleasure, had he found someone he could count on when times got rough?
Whitney smiled and turned her head to the side, allowing the tip of her nose to slide down the length of his. They locked lips, and the feeling of fireworks in his chest returned in full force. Rocco slid a hand over her hip and held her closer, but just as the kiss was about to progress, a realization jarred him from his enjoyment: none of this was real.
With a sharp inhalation and a jump, Rocco woke up. The dark eyes from his dream now peered into him in real life, just as gorgeous as they had been while asleep. Whitney was beautifu
l. As he gazed at her, he knew yesterday's failures hadn't been the result of coincidence. He hadn't found it in himself to kill her because he wanted her all for himself.
No matter how much the professional in him urged him to end her life, he knew he couldn't bring himself to do it. Rocco would keep the one person who made him feel this way safe no matter what she knew. If she felt anywhere near the bond that he felt with her, he knew that his secrets would be kept safe.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Whitney
When Whitney opened her eyes, the room was bathed in morning light. She began to piece together where she was and all that had happened the night before. An abduction. An attempted murder. A near rape. All of it seemed so distant now, as though it had happened to her in another life instead of in another day.
By all rights she should have been terrified, and yet Whitney couldn't bring herself to feel fear when it came to Rocco. The way he'd protected her and kept her safe from Arturo's evil was more telling of his character than the man she'd encountered behind The Avenue. It was foolish, but Whitney wanted to believe that beneath it all, Rocco was good.
As Whitney's sense of surrounding returned, she realized that Rocco still spooned her. Rocco mumbled something in his sleep and tightened his grip around her waist. With a shift of his hips, he brought himself closer. In their new position, the lower half of his body cupped Whitney's ass. Usually she wouldn't have cared, but this morning Rocco had morning wood. The hardened length of his shaft pressed against the back of her jeans with insistence. Whitney's thoughts returned to his nude form, dripping wet from the shower. The member pushing against her felt way bigger than what she'd seen, and what she'd seen was already impressive. Whoever Rocco took to bed at night had to be satisfied every time.
In this case, Whitney thought with a tiny thrill, she was the one Rocco had taken to bed.
Heat rising to her cheeks, imagination twisting through scenarios, Whitney thought about what would have happened between them if the circumstances were different. If the handsome man had come into The Avenue and stayed at the bar, what would have gone differently? She imagined Rocco staying to chat, charming and slick. When some douchebag drunk slurred at her about her skin tone or sex, Rocco would've beat him down with the same venom he'd used in his fight with Arturo. Then, like it was nothing, he would have grabbed Whitney's hand and guided her from behind the bar and into the club as Cassandra looked on in awe. In the back alley, where the hit had taken place, Rocco would have pushed her up against the wall and kissed her hard. The lingering taste of coffee liqueur would cling to his lips, and she'd melt into him despite the cold. And then, when the kiss heated and their bodies began to crave more, he would have run his hand down her side, along her thigh, and inward until...
Whitney closed her eyes as the fantasy continued. Need spread through her lower abdomen and soaked into her groin. Tingling with desire, body craving the cock that pushed against her, she pushed back against it and rubbed in slow, small movements of her hips. If only the night had played out differently. If only she hadn't been dragged into this mess.
Then Rocco moaned.
Terrified that he would wake up to find her rubbing against him like a cat in heat, Whitney pulled away and rolled over. With any luck, he wouldn't know what she was doing. She'd pretend she never felt the erection that had inspired her imagination and left her drenched at the thought of his body.
Rocco woke up.
Blue eyes like sapphires stared into hers, but lacked the intensity and cold calculation they boasted during the day. Until Rocco woke up in full, the killer inside wouldn't surface, and the years of emotional restraint he'd built up wouldn't set in. For now, he was raw, pure, and unapologetically beautiful.
Whitney pressed her lips together and kept her eyes on his. What was it she saw in those blue eyes? Whitney thought she knew, but was too shy to acknowledge it. It was adoration, affection, a kind of connection far deeper than a mobster was supposed to share with his hostage. And although she was reluctant to admit it, Whitney felt as though she returned those same emotions, and that Rocco could read her like a book.
"Why did you take me?" she asked, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "There were so many times you could have killed me or left me to die, but you didn't."
"You know why," Rocco murmured in reply. Although Whitney had moved away before he woke up, there was still scarce distance between them.
"I don't," Whitney murmured. "All I know is that you ran at me when I was out taking out the trash. It wasn't until we got in the car that I saw the blood. You could've just walked away. I would have just thought that the hot guy from the bar was done with tonight, maybe caught up in drugs or something. Was there something more to it? Am I caught up in something I don't know about?"
She'd called him hot. Again. Whitney shifted uneasily in the bed, embarrassed. The need between her legs ached for him, and yet she knew it was wrong. Rocco wasn't the kind of guy who she should get involved with. She'd left that kind of life behind with her high school days. Men who were caught up in illegal dealings were trouble, she'd dated enough thugs to know that. But then again, Rocco was no thug. This was the son of the Don, an intelligent, brutal, efficient killer whose family had most likely been in this business for decades. Rocco wasn't doing this because he came from a broken family — he was doing this because he loved his family with everything he had.
"There's nothing you're caught up in," Rocco told her. She believed him, and it looked like he believed her as well. "You came out after I shot the guy I was supposed to meet up with, and you were looking right at me. What was I supposed to think?"
"Well I mean, I wasn't screaming or panicking. I was only looking at you because... Well, because from the first time I saw you in the club, I thought you were attractive. I was letting myself indulge in a few fantasies about you and... Well, then you rushed me with a gun, and here we are."
Rocco's gaze moved down her face to look at her lips, then moved back to her eyes. Another thrill lit up inside of Whitney. Was he interested? He had to be.
"You're a good girl," he told her. "Honest, street smart, pretty... I'm sorry I got you mixed up in all this. No matter what, I'm gonna fix it, okay? You're gonna be just fine." And then, to seal the deal, Rocco planted a delicate kiss on her forehead. His lips were firm, but not harsh. Whitney couldn't help but imagine how Rocco's lips would feel upon hers. Down her neck. Across her shoulder. Lower...
"Thank you," she whispered, closing the distance between them to cuddle up to his chest. Rocco tensed for a long moment, then relaxed as she fit her head beneath his chin. Like two puzzle pieces come together at last, they fit each other. Whitney had never felt so comfortable.
"I guess you were wrong about me," he murmured, the words fleeting as though he spoke to himself. "You must not find me attractive after everything I've done to you." One of his hands slipped over her waist, and his fingers ran slow circles along the small of her back. The gentle touch sent shivers down Whitney's spine, and she pressed herself closer. Once more she felt Rocco's erection through the thin cotton of his boxers against her, this time against her crotch. If only she weren't wearing pants.
"No," Whitney replied. "You made a mistake, a big mistake, but that's not what defines you in my eyes. What defines you is how you risked yourself to save my life from Arturo. No stone cold killer is going to beat his brother to save the life of some hostage he wants to kill anyway. When we ran into each other in the alley, you weren't really you — you were just on the job, thinking on your feet. The Rocco I saw save my life is the Rocco I think is the real you, and I think that man is attractive as all hell."
A smile crept across Rocco's usually serious expression. The hand that traced circles along her back slipped beneath her oversized t-shirt to trace them directly onto her skin. Fresh arousal swept through Whitney, and she closed her eyes and breathed in deep to try to relegate it. Rocco lit her soul on fire.
"For
your sake I hope you're right," Rocco said. "These days, I find it hard to tell who the real me is."
The sound of his voice, tender and truthful, filled Whitney's heart and implored her to draw away just a little to look up at him again. Rocco's eyes met hers, and a shiver of a different kind passed down her spine.
"I know in my heart that you're not as bad as you make yourself out to be, Rocco. There's nothing wrong with that."
"It's a big gamble to take on a stranger." How had his lips drawn so close to hers? Whitney glanced down. It had been a long time since a man had gotten under her skin like Rocco had. It had been even longer yet since she'd wanted someone this bad.
"Then let's not be strangers," she whispered, heart alive from want of him.
No more words were said.
Whitney didn't know if she had leaned into him, or if he had closed the distance between them. All she knew was that when they kissed for the first time, she didn't care who he was, what he did, or where they were. Rocco's lips were everything she wanted, both commanding and sweet in their insistence. He tasted good in a way she never thought possible after a night's sleep. No matter which way she turned the kiss over in her mind, it was perfect. Rocco was perfect. Whitney never wanted the moment to end.
But a kiss never lasted forever. Rocco parted their lips and looked at her.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're incredible, Whitney Greene?" he asked. Whitney's cheeks grew warm as she looked down.
"Not until right now," she said, and meant it. That kind of kindness and support had never been hers to enjoy, not even from her past boyfriends. Historically her taste in men was terrible, and Rocco only proved her poor choices. But there was a redeemable quality in him that she'd never found in other lovers.
"Well, it's true," he replied, "and it's also true that you have the best goddamn lips I've ever had the pleasure to kiss."
