by Sadie Black
There were no memories after that, not until she woke up on the streets the next morning sore and groggy. And for years, her life had only gotten worse. Climbing out of that pit and learning to love and respect herself when no one else cared to had been the hardest thing she'd done in her life.
And now here she was again, succumbing to the weak part of herself that said she wasn't worthy of love because a man had walked out of her life.
"Don't slip back," she whispered. "You can only count on yourself, so don't let yourself down. This is all about you, not about anyone else."
Stockholm Syndrome or something deeper, it didn't matter, not right now. What mattered was that she get out of her head, and get on with her life.
Whitney sat up and cleared the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Now that her life was no longer in danger, it was time to let go of her sorrow. It was time to look after herself again.
With a tiny sigh to steel herself, Whitney rose from the bed and looked across the room. Like Rocco said, under different circumstances, she would've fallen for him hard. If only the night at the bar had gone differently. If only he wasn't part of the business he was a part of.
But there was no sense regretting what couldn't be. Whitney dug her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and resolved to move past this chapter of her life, just as she'd moved past everything else. One step at a time would do it.
"First step," she told herself, "is to get your phone, get your money, and get back to the city. Get as far away from here as you can, and then you'll stop thinking about it."
Recovery mode didn't feel good. Whitney walked to the bathroom and leaned against the door frame. Rocco's clothes were pooled haphazardly on the floor. Rocco had left a big mess. Gone for a handful of minutes, it already felt strange that they'd once shared this space together. Whitney would never see it again.
"Stop stalling," she whispered. A part of her hoped Rocco would have a change of heart and turn around, but Whitney knew that was wishful thinking. Instead, she sank to her knees beside the dry pile of Rocco's clothes and sorted through them until she found his pants. Between the four pockets she found twenty bills, all hundreds. Two thousand dollars was hers, just like he'd promised.
Two thousand dollars in cash was more than she'd had on hand in longer than she could remember. Despite hefty tips, life in New York wasn't easy, and Whitney's life had proved to be a series of misadventures leading to financial ruin. Maybe getting out of the city really was a good idea. Waitresses were in demand all over the country, even in small, inexpensive towns. The glamour of New York was for the young and the rich, and now she was neither.
Rocco's undershirt, was among his laundry on the floor. Money tucked in her back pocket, Whitney plucked it out from the rest of his belongings and held it up by the shoulders. Momentarily weak at the memory of him, she held the shirt to her chest and said her final goodbyes. The smell of him, sweat mixed with a tantalizing cologne, clung tight to the fabric. If she closed her eyes and lost herself enough, it was like he was still there with her. Whitney dropped the shirt and turned her back on the scene. Get away and forget. Move on and tend to yourself. You're only making it harder.
"Phone," she reminded herself. How much time had she wasted between wallowing on the bed and picking through Rocco's discarded belongings? Fifteen minutes might have passed already, but she wasn't certain. Whitney left the bathroom to glance out the bedroom window. The room overlooked the back yard, which was vast and just as wooded as the front. There were no other houses in view. Rocco hadn't lied about this place being remote.
Now where had Rocco left it? After a brief search, Whitney found it tucked into a drawer on the bedside table beside a hunting knife. How many hidden weapons were in this place, anyway? How many secrets? She'd never know.
Dragging her feet, Whitney made her way from the bedroom and down the stairs. The front door hung open.
"Weird." Hadn't she heard Rocco close to door as he and Arturo left? Maybe it hadn't latched right.
Not yet ready to leave, Whitney walked over and closed it. Portraits up and down the hall stared down at her.
It was time for her to be strong.
At about a half hour from New York City, Whitney knew it was going to take a while for a cab to show up. While she looked up her current address using the GPS on her phone, she intended to bide her time in the living room in one of the arm chairs. Not Arturo's jizz couch. The plan seemed solid. Whitney walked down the hall and entered the living room.
She never had a chance to sit down.
A firm hand caught her by the shoulder and held her in place. Heart racing with excitement over the prospect that Rocco had come back for her, Whitney turned to the person behind her with a broad grin.
It wasn't Rocco.
The man was tall and had a stern face. Cold grey eyes looked down on her, eating her up with the same kind of wolfish look her ex's thugs had once fixed her with. Whitney didn't remember anything about that night so long ago, but she knew enough to understand that she was in a lot of trouble.
"Who are you?" she asked. There was still a chance that Rocco had sent a driver to take her home, or that she was misreading his expression. Before she got upset, she had to hope for the best.
"Name is Mikhail," he said. A thick Russian accent carried his words and distorted his grammar. "I like the smile of young pretty girl. She is most satisfactory. Will make excellent star."
"S-star?" The Russian man's hand hadn't left her shoulder, and Whitney couldn't help but notice how broad he was. Built like a house, she couldn't pull away from him even if she wanted to.
"In own movie. Wonderful movie. Last moments of pretty girl our customer's favorite." The malicious nature in his gaze unmasked in his voice. "Will pretty girl smile even when my men saw her leg off at hip? It is Mikhail's hope that she will."
It had to be a fever dream. Whitney gasped and tried to draw back, but Mikhail was too strong. His thick fingers dug into her shoulder and rooted her in place.
"You belong to Mikhail now, pretty girl. Come. It is time to put you to work."
Last moments. Saw her leg off. Movie. Whitney had no idea what was going on, but she had enough of a sense of it to scream. The sound echoed through the living room, desperate and fearful, but was short lived, the tall Russian clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggled against him.
"Yes, yes, scream is good, too. Pretty scream. Good quality. Audio will capture very well, I am sure."
From staring down the muzzle of a gun to facing down a man who wanted to saw her to pieces, Whitney jumped from one nightmare to another. In desperation she used all her force to push against him in a bid to escape. When that failed, she thrashed her head to angle herself and bit down on his hand as soon as she had the chance. Mikhail yelped and pushed her away. Whitney's bite drew blood; she could taste it on her teeth.
A stream of harsh Russian words tumbled from his lips, and as they did, Whitney scrambled back down the hall. In a t-shirt with no bra, tight jeans, and no socks of shoes, she was no match for the New York winter, but if she could make it to the road, she at least had a shot. Staying here with her new offender meant a painful death.
She ran for the front door, but heavy footsteps behind her reminded her that Mikhail wasn't willing to let her go. Strong fingers dug into the back of her baggy shirt and ensnared her, and with a shriek Whitney was dragged to a stop. The man behind her was panting, but she knew it wasn't because he was winded from the short pursuit — it was because he was angry. Very angry. The kind of angry where he might not wait to tear her apart limb from limb.
"Let me go!" she cried. "Rocco told me I can go, please, please just call him! I'm not going to say a word to anybody, I swear!"
"Little girl has sharp teeth," Mikhail rumbled. While he held her in place with one hand, he held the other over her shoulder to show her the damage done. Crescent bite marks broke through his skin and bled liberally. "Men like the fight, but we are not on
camera yet, girl. You save blood for when it will make dollars."
Mikhail's palm was broad, and there was no escaping it. In one move he pressed it against her face and dragged the injury against her skin. Warm blood spread and smeared from her left cheek, over the tip of her nose, and caught once more on her right cheek.
"Blood looks good on black skin. Understated. Real. Will be good to work with you. What a treat you will be."
With a hold on her shirt but not on her body, it meant Whitney still had a chance. In one swift movement she lifted her arms and dropped down, hoping to break free of her shirt in order to make another sprint for the door. On her way down, Mikhail caught her by the hair. The pull against her scalp brought a fresh wave of agony, and Whitney screamed in pain.
"ENOUGH," Mikhail bellowed. It was the last word she heard. In the next moment the Russian's huge fist bashed into the side of her skull, and Whitney's vision blurred. Time slowed. As her eyes drooped and closed, she wondered if Rocco had arranged for this all along. Maybe Oprah was wrong, humanizing yourself to your attacker did nothing. They'd just find someone else to kill you when they no longer had the will to do it themselves.
Then there was darkness. Whitney's luck had finally run out.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
Rocco
"Let me drive, brother. You take a load off and get your head on straight for what we've gotta go do."
A fresh layer of snow crunched underfoot. The sets of footsteps from the night before were covered, the wind and overnight snowfall erased their tracks. If only all trails were as easy to cover.
"Since we're taking my car anyway, I feel it's the least I can do."
The nasty side of Arturo was under careful wraps again, but now that they were leaving the house, Rocco wasn't sure what his motivation was. Earlier he was confident Arturo was sucking up to him to try to get a clear shot at Whitney, but now that theory fell flat. Whitney was going to go back to the city and Arturo would never see her again. So what was it that Arturo was after?
"Alright." Rocco made his way to the passenger's side of Arturo's car and settled upon its front seat. A mix of fast food wrappers and bloody paper towels crumpled into balls littered the backseat. The blood was troublesome. They were on their way to a prison, after all. "You need to be more careful about keeping fuckin' evidence around. There's blood in the back on all those paper towels. You wanna get thrown into the cell next to dad's?"
"Oh, yeah," Arturo admitted. "I forgot. You mind takin' care of them for me once we're on the road?"
The car backed across the snow, tires crunching. Rocco pressed his lips together and sat back in his seat. "Who's blood's that?" As far as Rocco was aware, Arturo wasn't slated to deal with any business last night. His brother was busy, but ever since he'd busted Gino up real good, there hadn't been much need for him.
"Had some fun recently. Got a little messy. Can't say that you don't like it rough sometimes, can ya? We were brought up to like it that way."
Rocco didn't think so. The car wove down the driveway, and he thought about what Arturo had said. It wasn't that they were brought up to crave blood, but to be indifferent to it. Like breaking out with acne or suffering from terrible gas, causing death was an unfortunate part of life that cropped up from time to time. Rocco didn't thirst for it, but he didn't bat an eye when he ended another's life.
"Whatever, I guess."
"You're not yourself," Arturo remarked. "You down about dad?"
Vittore wasn't the problem. As much as it pained him to admit, Rocco know that his father was going to be fine whether he got out of jail or not. All Lombardos knew that either imprisonment or death would end their careers. Vittore knew this was coming. The real root of his trouble lay behind them at the end of the winding driveway they had just about reached the end of.
As much as he wanted to clear the air and talk about how he was feeling, he knew that it was impossible. Arturo would consider him weak and call him out. What kind of a Don mourned the loss of a witness? What kind of Don held off on killing a hostage because he had the hots for her? Their father had taught Rocco better than that. Arturo would be the first one to rub that fact in his face and call him out on it.
"So what's the story?" Rocco asked at last. If he couldn't talk about his problems, maybe he could lose himself in a night of Arturo's debacles. More than likely whatever Arturo had been up to would make him cringe. Maybe Rocco could forget his own regrets to focus on the train wreck that was his brother's life.
"Story with what?" Arturo asked. They turned onto the rural highway in the direction of the city.
"Story with these bloody paper towels," Rocco said. "There's gotta be more to it than what you told me. Spill. We've got a way to go, so we might as well talk, 'specially since you're in such a good mood."
They drove. Rocco twisted around and started fishing the towels up, one by one. The blood on them was dried, as he thought it would be. Unless Arturo was torturing animals again, there was no chance he'd spilled this blood at the safe house.
"Well, you see, I've been uh, 'courting' a lady recently," Arturo said. Both of his hands laid comfortably on the steering wheel, blue eyes on the road. There was a casual comfort in the way he sat that said he was satisfied with whatever had happened. Rocco couldn't hide his surprise.
"Uh, for how long? This is news for me."
"Like a month I think," Arturo said. "From the first time I saw her, I knew I wanted her, so I went for it. Figured that it didn't matter what differences lay between us, s'long as we got along well. And boy, did we get along well."
"Did?" The tense shift didn't escape Rocco. A pile of bloody paper towels on his lap, he bided his time until they moved further from the house.
"Yeah. It's complicated, but God, is it juicy. You wanna hear more?" There was childlike glee in his voice. Rocco frowned, uncomfortable. Whenever Arturo got this excited, the outcome was never positive.
"Yeah. Tell me."
"I've been banging Cecili Hinsley."
Silence. Tyrone Hinsley's sisters were hot, but they were off the market. No Lombardo would sleep with a Hinsley if he wanted to wake up alive. What was Arturo thinking?
"I see what you're thinking," Arturo accused. "I told you, I liked it and I went for it. Turns out Cecili's a little freak in bed. All it took was a bit of dirty talk to get her going at first. I told her I was gonna turn on dad for his bullshit tendencies of favoring you, and she was purring like a kitten. So I hit it again and again, and then last night shit got real."
The blood on Rocco's lap was making more sense by the second. He looked down at it and waited for the other foot to drop.
"So what was different about last night?"
"Last night, she set up this situation for me, this twisted, wonderful situation. Had three hostages tied up when I arrived at her house. I fucked her in her bed it was so sexy. And then, after that, she got me to come downstairs and pump lead through each of their skulls."
There it was — classic Arturo. Rocco hit the down button on the window and began to toss the paper towels out the window. They caught the wind and blew away, scattering the evidence. No one would know any better. Rural roads were perfect for eating up incriminating trash.
"So I guess you got a little dirty from that?"
"Not even," Arturo said, proud of himself. The glee was building, impossible to hold back. Rocco glanced to him. The smirk that spread Arturo's lips was diabolic. "Once that was done, she was gonna suck my cock. As soon as she was on her knees in front of me, I blew her brains out. I ended up stepping in her blood by accident, the bitch, so I had to clean it up."
"You killed Cecili Hinsley?" Rocco asked, mouth dry. As much as Vittore hated the insolence of the Black Mafia, they weren't authorized to off the family on a whim. Tyrone Hinsley was cleared, because Vittore had asked Rocco to deliver the message one way or the other, but Cecili? "Dad's gonna be pissed."
"Dad can suck it," Arturo said, lighthearted. "All
of those black bitches think they can bat their eyelashes and prop up their tits, and the Black Mafia knows it. They know we're weak when it comes to offing women. They know we'd never target a woman when a man makes a bigger impact."
"No..."
"And they're using that to their advantage, Rocco. Can't you see?"
What was Arturo going on about? Rocco raised the window and turned his full attention to his brother. A sinking feeling sullied his mood worse than it had been before. Arturo wasn't just deranged anymore; he was compelled by whatever story he'd made up. Women simply didn't play as large of a role in most jobs. Rocco had taken down a couple of them before by orders of the Don, and he knew in the future he'd order a few more of them removed.
"No, I can't see."
"Cecili Hinsley was pulling the strings for her family, and was trying to use me against my family. That's what they do. They don't have guns; they don't kidnap or strong arm their way into power... They marry their way there. Cecili was trying it with me, and I know for a fuckin' fact that the Simmons girl is doing it with Belmonte. Why else would a family as powerful as the Belmontes turn their backs on us? We had it good, us two. Marcello was one of dad's best friends, and look at what happened. His son met one of those black bitches, and all of a sudden, the Belmontes are spittin' in our faces and tellin' us to get lost. It's no coincidence, Rocco. Cecili Hinsley and Ciara Simmons might as well be the same girl cuz they're pulling the same shit."
The accusations were as wild and unfounded. Rocco stared, composing his thoughts. Arturo was the voice of passion and insanity, and he was the voice of logic and reason. It was time to put his brother in his place, but he needed to do so in a way that would force Arturo to listen.
"There's no reports from any of our informants that Simmons is involved in the Black Mafia."
