Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance

by Sadie Black

  Whitney let her head rest against his chest, and for a brief moment it was as though they'd never felt bed. Comfort and happiness filled Rocco from his toes to his scalp at the simplicity of the moment. This was happiness like he'd never felt before. If for no other reason, it was why Whitney deserved to go free. The price she paid for her life was one she couldn't see or understand, but it was one he appreciated to no end.

  "What's the plan?" she asked after a long while.

  "I'm not sure yet," he admitted. The water rushed around them both, blanketing them in liquid serenity. "I'm gonna have breakfast, talk it over with Arturo, and figure it all out from there."

  It was the best he could do. Whitney pulled away from him and finished washing. Without speaking, they both finished showering, toweled off, and returned to the bedroom to dress. Whitney's jeans had another few days wear in them, but her thong was done for. She slipped into the jeans commando.

  "If I can't get you some underwear," Rocco said, "at least let me get you breakfast. You have to be hungry." After the morning they'd had, Rocco was ravenous.

  "Breakfast sounds great. Do you need any help?"

  "I don't know yet; I have no idea what there is in the kitchen. I'll let you know when I do."

  From captor and captive to couple. At least, Rocco thought they acted like a couple. All this love mush they snuck into movies was like this. Domestic. Boring. But now that he was in the midst of it, it was anything but. Whitney was interesting enough that he didn't mind slowing down for a little to spend some time with her. The realization was as troublesome as it was inspiring. Maybe what he'd projected into his dream was true — maybe Whitney was the bit of light amongst his dark. Rocco struggled to accept the thought.

  With him dressed in casual clothes, and her in tight jeans and an oversized men's t-shirt, they headed downstairs and into the kitchen. The place was spotless. A small bowl of fruit occupied the end of the counter space, and Whitney went right for it and plucked up a red apple.

  "Vegetarian?" Rocco asked as he moved to the fridge. A half dozen eggs and a pack of bacon waited for him, alongside an assortment of lunch and dinner items.

  "When I was eight for about two weeks. My foster family wouldn't listen when I said I didn't want to eat meat anymore, so I just ate the side dishes, but it wasn't enough for my growing body. These days I eat what I can afford. With rent as high as it is, sometimes that means chicken ramen until my next shift if other big expenses come up."

  "I thought girls in nightclubs made tons of dough." Rocco tossed the pack onto the counter near the stove and gathered the eggs.

  "If people are tipping right, yes," Whitney said. "But when you're splitting a three thousand dollars one bedroom with a room mate, and you slice your hand open on a rusty tin can lid your room mate left on the can opener and you've gotta go to the ER so you don't die of tetanus, things can start running a little tight in a month."

  A pair of scissors cut the plastic wrapping open. A skillet already heated on the stove.

  "But that's not an every day thing, is it?"

  "No, but you get the point. Unforeseen stuff pops up and all of a sudden money's tight. That's just how it is in New York."

  Rocco didn't know.

  Bacon laid into the pan, sizzling as it cooked, the pop and hiss of searing fat was all that laid between them. Whitney seated herself upon a stool near the kitchen's center island. The island divided the kitchen from the living room, where a large television was mounted on the wall surrounded by chairs and a plush couch. Rocco left the bacon to go turn it on and flip it over to the news. If there was public coverage of the bust, then there might be coverage of any following investigations. He needed to know what he was walking back into so he could be on his best game.

  "You must be in and out of the hospital on the regular, with the um, kind of work you do," Whitney said. "I'm not a fan of doctors. I mean, what kind of a person is able to jab a needle into another person's arm, or wants to expose themselves to contagious diseases every day?"

  "Comes with time," Rocco remarked. His eyes were glued to the television. "When you deal with people like I do, after a while you realize they're just meat. All you got to do is take care of your own meat. Guess doctors must come to the same conclusion."

  On the television, smiling like a prep school kid who won a contest, was Luka Belmonte, New York's youngest mayor.

  "This morning I stand before New York with exceptional news. Last night the city's special forces, conducted a raid on the mafia activity. I'm proud to announce that we have placed thirty-one confirmed members of New York's mafia behind bars, including suspected ring leader Vittore Lombardo. With so many arrests, corruption in the city is destined to reach an all-time low. Even though today's announcement is a victory, I encourage all of you to keep your eyes open for illegal activities —"

  "What a fucking dickwad," Rocco mumbled as he muted the television. Whitney planted her elbows on the counter and leaned forward.

  "Mayor Belmonte?" she asked. "I thought all mayors were corrupt. Does that mean that he's not working with you guys?"

  "Not anymore," Rocco said between clenched teeth. Luka's smug face and treacherous attitude grinded on Rocco's nerves to no end. When he went to Marcello Belmonte's funeral to deliver a message, he wanted to pop a cap straight through Luka's obnoxiously white teeth. That charming grin of his was enough to win political favors, but there was no way it was enough to stop a bullet.

  "Oh." Troubled silence from Whitney. "I guess there's a lot that I don't understand about how your world works."

  "And it's going to stay that way," Rocco said as he returned to tend to the bacon. A pop of fat hit him on the arm, and he bared his teeth in pain but otherwise did not react. Luka had his blood boiling.

  Just how far had Belmonte forced Vittore to fall?

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  Whitney

  As he muted the television and made a scathing remark about not letting her into his life, Whitney bowed her head and let the storm pass. Now that the afterglow from orgasm was wearing thin, and the excitement of the lay was over, she remembered who she spoke with. Rocco was a killer, a mobster, and exactly the kind of man she didn't need in her life.

  So why was it that she couldn't get over the thought of him?

  Tall and athletic. Handsome and well spoken. Intelligent. Capable. Were he to apply himself to any other field, he would have been the perfect guy. But no one was perfect.

  During that episode of Oprah, after discussing what to do during a hostile situation, Oprah had talked a little about Stockholm Syndrome. During a hostage situation, the captives would sometimes begin to sympathize with the man keeping them. Some would even be compelled to help the criminals. At the time, Whitney couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind could sympathize with someone threatening to end their life. Now she understood a little more. Was what she felt for Rocco Stockholm Syndrome, or was it something more?

  Oprah hadn't talked about how to tell if your feelings for the man holding you hostage were real or not. As Rocco cooked breakfast, Whitney came up with her own litmus test in order to judge whether her attraction was genuine. If she could list what she liked about Rocco with honesty, then she'd know what she felt was real. If the reasons felt too flimsy to be genuine, she'd accept it was Stockholm Syndrome.

  With any luck, he'd be good on his word and let her go home, and she could go on with her life without looking back. After all of this, she wasn't sure she wanted to go back to The Avenue at all. It was time to move on and find a new spot in life, something better suited for her age. Maybe it was time to give New York City up for cheaper pastures.

  "How do you like your eggs?" Rocco asked as he switched the finished bacon out for a few more raw slices. He'd collected himself enough to be civil, and some of the tension Whitney felt eased away. Rocco was doing his best to keep his cool around her — that had to count for something.

  "Over easy is my usual."
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br />   And he was considerate. Rocco could have made eggs however he wanted, but he checked in with her instead to make sure she'd enjoy her meal. Still, a person could be considerate but still not be a good person. Whitney folded her arms on the counter and stared at Mayor Belmonte as he made his speech. From time to time the angle would change, presenting him in a different way. What made a man like the mayor so different from a man like Rocco? The answer wasn't as obvious as she hoped.

  Both had followed in their father's footsteps, and both were motivated enough to make bold decisions. In Mayor Belmonte's case, his decisions were for the good of the people. In Rocco's case, his decisions were for the good of his family. Morally, Mayor Belmonte was far superior, but did that make him a genuine person? Or did that make him a puppet to society?

  After the talk she'd had with Rocco last night, Whitney wasn't sure. She'd experienced herself how selfish people were. Snatched up and spat out by a new foster family every year for the check, Whitney had experienced cruelty, neglect, and abuse by the very adults who swore to protect her. Every employer she'd worked for had been the same kind of sleazy, and now even Liam was showing his true colors. No one was a good person at heart. Was hiding it from the public more noble, or was being true to who you were braver?

  It was hard to tell.

  But beyond what Rocco did during for a living, somewhere inside was a respectable person. He tried to soothe her as she kneeled on the warehouse floor, facing certain death. He put off shooting her time and time again for no solid reason other than that he couldn't bring himself to. He saved her from being choked to death and raped by his brother. Whitney looked over her shoulder and studied Rocco's back as he tended to the cooking. The cold murderer was also her fierce protector. He'd held her close and promised he'd fix everything.

  It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome if she wasn't a captive. The attraction she felt for him predated the kidnapping, anyway. From the very first time he'd set foot in the nightclub and she'd spotted him through the crowds, Whitney had felt something stir inside of her. Time had only strengthened that bond. Was it crazy in the eyes of most people that she could have feelings for a man born this bad? Sure. But people had never been kind to Whitney anyway; what did she care what they thought?

  It sounded like desperation, she realized. Her fingertips dug into her arms as she tried to work it all out. Love had never been a big part of her life. Not even as a kid. Maybe this wasn't Stockholm Syndrome, but it could have been something else. Rocco was the first person who'd been really nice to her. Was she desperate for love no matter the source? After all, if Arturo was Rocco's blood brother, how far could two acorns fall from the same tree? If she couldn't find any redeeming qualities in Arturo, why could she find them in Rocco?

  "Well uh, it's going to be scrambled eggs I guess," Rocco announced. The bacon was all done and draining on a couple paper towels on a plate by the stove. "I'm no cook, and these eggs are in pieces now."

  The image brought a grin to Whitney's face, and she ducked her head down to try to keep from laughing. No, Rocco wasn't his brother. To try to pin him with that would be like saying that Whitney herself was just like either of her deadbeat parents. She knew that no matter what, she'd never abandon any child she had just because she felt like it. Her life would go a different direction from her mother's, just like Rocco's would go a different direction from Arturo's.

  "They turn to plastic yet?" she asked, holding back that laugh. It was peeping through in her voice.

  "Eggs can turn into plastic?" Rocco asked, incredulous. "What the fuck kind of witchcraft is— oh. Oh, I see it now. Um. Yeah. What exactly is goin' on here?"

  There was no holding back the laugh this time. Whitney rose from her chair and joined him at the stove to point him in the right direction. Some of the egg pieces were beyond saving, but most of them had pulled through and would be edible. Just as she was about to tell him how to proceed, the swinging kitchen door creaked on its hinges as it was pushed open.

  Arturo stepped into the room.

  The atmosphere darkened, and Whitney stepped back from Rocco and kept her eyes on him. Crossing her hands over her chest, she watched as Arturo approached the kitchen area and sat down. The way he looked at her was just as ugly as it had been the day before, but as soon as Rocco turned to look at him, Arturo's expression changed. The hard lines of his face softened, and a charming smile sat on his lips as though it had always been there. Whitney shuddered. It seemed Arturo and Rocco were opposites of each other. Rocco was hard and emotionless while on the job, but thoughtful and caring while on his own. Arturo was vile and unfeeling in his day to day life, but able to slip on a mask of placidity whenever he wanted to.

  "What's for breakfast, brother? It smells great."

  Seeing the change in Arturo opened Whitney's eyes. All this time she worried about her feelings for Rocco. She should've been worrying about what Arturo was capable of. If she wanted to stay safe, she was going to have to stay alert and keep a constant eye on him until she got free.

  If she got free.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rocco

  "What's for breakfast, brother? It smells great."

  The overly chipper tone made Rocco's skin crawl. Arturo sat on the stool, hands on his knees, fixing both of them with his blue eyes as though nothing happened last night. The bruising on his cheekbone reminded Rocco otherwise. He was surprised Arturo didn't have a full on black eye after their fight last night.

  "Bacon and eggs," Rocco replied. He held the skillet with the egg bits in one hand. It was his first time cooking eggs, and while some of them were ruined, it wasn't the biggest fuck up he'd muddled his way through.

  "I didn't know you cooked," Arturo remarked, sweet as could be.

  "I don't," Rocco said, blunt.

  "Well, you're doing a good job at it regardless."

  This was an act. Arturo pulled this shit when he was disciplined but still wanted whatever it was he got in trouble for. Rocco had seen it more than once. When he was a kid it had been about dessert or the newest game his father refused to buy for them. As an adult, it had been about drugs or unplanned murders. Rocco wasn't going to let that kind of shit fly.

  "Cut the shit, Arturo. You think these games are gonna work? Think again. I can see through this kind of thing."

  "What kind of thing?" Never had Rocco wanted to punch him more. The sugar sweet tone Arturo was trying to pass off as innocent came across as condescending. "That's no thing, brother. We're just having a civil conversation for once instead of beating each other up. Are you not used to non-violence? That's a shame. How sad it must be for you."

  Instinctively, Rocco clutched the frying pan tighter. If their only eggs went flying across the kitchen, it would be worth it to bash Arturo upside the head.

  "No you dolt. Between the two of us, I'm the one who's got their shit together. Don't you dare try to pass this off on me."

  If it was any other time, Rocco would have let Arturo say whatever lies made him rest easy at night. But here, in front of a girl he was trying to hard to put at ease, Rocco didn't need any kind of personal sabotage. He wouldn't stand for Arturo's lies.

  "I guess that's true," Arturo remarked with a whimsical, far off voice, as though he were dreaming. Rocco bit down on his bottom lip in an attempt to control his anger. Was that Arturo's game, to get him so angry he'd lose his cool in front of Whitney? Rocco wasn't sure. But whatever Arturo's intentions were, they were making him pissed. "After all, you're the one who's gotten so soft that you brought a hostage here. What would dad think if he knew you brought a black girl home, Rocco? I don't think he'd be very happy at all, do you?"

  First one way, then the other. If Arturo inherited anything from Vittore, it was his way of beating around the bush to infuriate his target. Arturo was doing a fantastic job.

  "Do you see what you're doing?" Rocco asked. For fear of actually swinging the skillet as a weapon, he set it down. Whitney had crept into the
living room while they exchanged verbal blows. She was smart, Rocco wouldn't want to be caught between himself and Arturo either if he were in her shoes.

  "All I see if you making breakfast like the fantastic big brother you are," Arturo said, chipper.

  Rocco clenched both of his fists, digging the rounds of his fingernails into his palms. No. Arturo was not going to play this game.

  "You don't think I'm a fantastic big brother. You don't give a shit whether I can cook or not. If Whitney wasn't here, I'm sure you'd be lounging on that couch in your boxers jacking off whenever you thought I wasn't looking. Just like you did the last time we were forced to come here."

  Whitney, who peeped over the back of that same couch to watch them argue, looked down and got up slowly, a look of mild disgust on her face. She moved to the next arm chair over and took the same position.

  "That's not nice, Rocco," Arturo scolded.

  "Yeah, and you're not nice, ever, Arturo, so drop the fuckin' act. You weren't sweet and innocent ten years ago, and you sure as hell weren't sweet and innocent last night when you tried to rape and choke her to death." Rocco nodded in Whitney's direction.

  The smallest shrug punctuated the silence between them. When Arturo spoke again, it was with the same boyish charm as before.

  "I was on the job last night. You know how it feels when you can't unwind after a hard night. I did some things I regret, yeah, but that's over now. We duked it out and I burned off some of that energy, and then I went to bed and now it's all better. It's interesting to know she has a name, though. Do you always name hostages? Whitney the witness. Catchy. I can see the humor in it. So when will Whitney the witness whisper her final wishes? Because I feel like you're going on close to twelve hours at this point, and we both know that that's missing person territory, brother."

  Did Arturo want to be beaten to a pulp? Rocco shook his head, trying to draw himself back from the situation and let it go. Having Whitney around was a good reminder that it wasn't always worth it to resort to violence right away. Like his father always told him listening and forgiving came first. It was time to approach the situation with the cold calm only man worthy of being Don could muster.