by Sadie Black
"Bullshit," Arturo shot back. "I trust informants as far as I can throw 'em. There's no way a black woman sunk her claws into one of the biggest political figures in the city without being part of something bigger. Luka was hittin' the clubs five nights a week and closing the establishments down. Don't tell me that all of a sudden he changed his ways because he met some girl. That's not an average girl who can change a party boy, that's a girl who knows what she's doing and has reason to do it. Simmons is working behind the scenes and planting ideas in his head to weaken us, and look what she's done. Now there's dozens of our guys in jail, and look, all of a sudden, she's accepted his apology and they're engaged again. Coincidence? Fuck no. If you can't see it, you're just as blind as dad is."
"Just because she's black doesn't mean that—"
"You must be caught up in the same shit that Belmonte is," Arturo cut in with a shake of his head. "You fucked her, didn't you, that black slut you brought home? She's infecting your mind."
Whitney.
Anger coursed through Rocco's veins and forced him to act. One hand lashed out and grabbed Arturo's arm, fingers digging in painfully. It didn't matter if his brother was driving, he wasn't going to get away with insulting Whitney.
"Fuck you," he hissed. "She isn't infecting me, she's a goddamn girl who got caught up in an unfortunate accident, nothing more. Take what you said the fuck back."
"Let go!" Arturo roared. The easygoing mood slipped away, and he jerked his arm from Rocco's clutches. The car swerved, swaying past the center line before Arturo corrected their course. "Fuck. What is your issue? You really have been indoctrinated, haven't you? They're fucking everywhere, those black spies. I'm gonna take every one of them out I swear to god."
"Pull the car over," Rocco rumbled. If Arturo wouldn't listen to logic, Rocco would beat it into him. No one was going to badmouth Whitney like that. She was a good girl who didn't need to be caught up in all their shit.
"I'm not pulling over."
"Then I will make you pull over."
Rocco caught the wheel and twisted it in his direction. The car swerved to the right and crossed the outside line. Arturo hollered and yanked it back.
"Stop being so crazy, you fuckwad! We're driving to see dad in prison. We don't have time for you to get your thong all tied up over some slut."
Red hot anger blinded him. Breathing hard, teeth gritted and grinding, it took all of his strength not to punch Arturo out on the spot. Whitney was not a slut, she did not have an agenda, and she was worth much more than the shade Arturo was throwing her way. Rocco rolled down the window and let the cold air blast against his face to cool him down.
"Once we take the Black Mafia down and all the dirt on them comes to the surface, you'll see I'm right," Arturo said. "I know you're not gonna believe me now, but I'm sure. One day you'll remember this, and you'll be the first to track down the little slut you let get away so you can pump some lead into her brain. The only way to fix this is the purge New York of our problem. It's gonna take a while, but I'm gonna get it done. I've already made it my mission loud and clear with Cecili. And I've got my next target already lined up."
This was sick.
Rocco felt his upper lip pulling back in a snarl, but he kept his head facing the window so Arturo couldn't call him out on it. He'd pushed his brother about his activities looking for a distraction, but instead he'd renewed his agony. Whitney wouldn't be safe until she got the hell out of New York if this was Arturo's new game. Now Rocco wasn't going to be able to stop thinking about her until he knew she was gone.
"You're sick."
"We live in a sick world, brother," Arturo said, as saccharine as he had been that morning in the kitchen. "Either you're disgusted by it, or you're a part of it. It's time to make your choice."
The choice was clear. Rocco would never be a part of Arturo's world. Sometimes, the ties of blood weren't all they were chalked up to be.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
Rocco
Stonecrest Penitentiary sat tucked away within the limits of New York City. Barred windows overlooked high fences topped with spikes and barbed wire. Even should a felon escape from within, getting past the walls would be next to impossible. Once in, the only way out was being released. No convict had ever managed to escape, not even a Lombardo.
Belmonte wasn't fucking around.
Arturo checked into the visitor parking and brought his car to a stop. Since the heated exchange Rocco hadn't spoken to him. If there was one thing decades with his brother had taught him, it was that Arturo wasn't going to change his mind. No matter how much Rocco came to Whitney's defense, and no matter how much he struggled to teach Arturo, there was no point. Rocco could beat him until both of his eyes were black and his jaw was broken, and Arturo wouldn't change. Silence was a better option for both of them, and Arturo had been strangely respectful of it. What was he hiding behind that polite facade?
"Time to see what's going on with dad," Arturo murmured. He took the keys from the ignition and opened his door as Rocco watched. The way his brother moved and the tone of his voice was off, like he was still acting. Rocco didn't trust him one bit.
Both Lombardo sons exited the car and crossed to the visitor's entrance. Stonecrest wasted no time in making sure that those who came through its doors were as harmless as its prisoners. Rocco was required to take off his shoes and belt to be scanned via x-ray, and just like he was at the airport, he was asked to step through a metal detector. All guns had been left at the safe house, as had knives, files, and lighters. The cops were probably already looking for reasons to bust the both of them.
"Anything to declare, Lombardo?" the prison guard manning the metal detector asked. A nightstick strapped to her side, blonde hair swept up tight into a bun, her expression was stern. Hard lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth were badges of her service here. Rocco recognized her. It wasn't his first visit to Stonecrest, and he knew it wouldn't be his last.
"Nothin' but how exceptionally beautiful you look this afternoon, officer Hulsey. Is that a new shade of lipstick?"
Officer Hulsey's face did not change.
"No, Lombardo, but nice try. Get your ass through the metal detector and let's get this over with.”
Arturo lingered behind him, hairy arms crossed over his chest.
"Stop flirtin' and let's go. We're wastin' daylight," Arturo grumbled. Now that they were in the penitentiary, there was no need for him to sugar coat his words. If Rocco caused a scene, there would be more security on him than a pop star at a concert. No matter what Arturo said, he had to play nice.
"Of course." Biting back on simmering anger, Rocco stepped through the metal detector. The machine did not go off. Clear. Rocco moved to collect his belongings as Arturo moved through.
"Lombardos are clear," officer Hulsey said. "Mike, you keep manning the entrance. I'm gonna take 'em to where they need to go."
Visitation. Rocco dug his hands into his pockets and waited as Arturo dressed. Officer Hulsey never left the room they were in due to security reasons, but she had no interest in eavesdropping, either. Still, communications through the glass wall were always strained. Rocco wasn't looking forward to skirting his way around the subject matter in the way his father and brother were so fond of doing. Ever since he was young he hadn't seen the point in beating around the bush. Except in situations like this.
"Gotcha, Hulsey," Mike said.
"Let's go," Officer Hulsey said. A long, barren hall attached the visitor's entrance to the visitation area. Hulsey led the way, hand never straying far from the nightstick at her belt. Around the Lombardos, all prison guards were cautious. The family reputation preceded them.
At last they arrived at the glass panel. Thick, reinforced bullet-proof panelling offered a peep into the bowels of Stonecrest. One day, these confines might be his future. It was either that, or death. Rocco wasn't sure which one he preferred.
"He's on his way, boys," Hulsey said. She stood by the
door, back to the room. "Make yourselves at home."
A series of chairs lined the glass wall. Rocco and Arturo sat, side by side. The old man that came through the door looked tired. Nothing like the father that Rocco loved and respected.
Vittore was in bad shape.
From the orange coveralls that reddened his complexion to the lines of worry in his face, Rocco's father had aged ten years overnight. Blue eyes that had once sparkled now looked like dull stones, grey and defeated. Rocco's spirits sank; something was wrong. Vittore was a good actor, but he'd never performed this authentically.
"Sit," the guard who trailed behind Vittore barked. He jabbed the butt of his nightstick into Vittore's lower back to send him stumbling forward. The guard standing by the door laughed under his breath.
Rocco clenched his fists, but there was nothing he could do. Between the incident with Arturo and the guard's behavior, he needed to work off some steam. When they got out of here, he'd ask his father for a job. It was far time he redeemed himself after the Whitney debacle and proved what he was made of.
Joints stiff, Vittore sat on the stool opposite his sons. A thick sheet of glass divided them, but it might as well have been a continent. There was a disconnect in Vittore's eyes that turned Rocco's stomach.
"Dad," Rocco murmured into the slits in the glass, "you okay? You look awful."
"One of the most dangerous things a man can be left alone with," Vittore said, navigating his words with introspection, "is his thoughts. Boys, I've been on the phone with my legal team all morning, and it's not looking good. I'm not sure I'll be making it out of these walls alive."
"Don't talk like that. We're gonna get you through this. All of this was just a big misunderstanding, a series of circumstances that are gonna unravel just fine for you once the truth emerges."
As long as officers were around and cameras were recording, there was no way that they could talk overtly about the situation at hand. They had to play innocent to stick up for Vittore's best interest. The game was a delicate one.
Stony blues rose and locked on Rocco's brilliant ones. Once upon a time, friends of the family had cooed that Rocco had his father’s eyes. Now the similarity was lacking.
"Rocco, your optimism is appreciated, but unrealistic. I don't think that things are going to work out in my favor this time. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time one too many times, and now..."
"We're going to sort this out, dad. Don't give up hope yet."
Arturo leaned forward to speak through the slits in the glass.
"I told you to stop hangin' with those lousy low-life scumbags. Even going over for a game night isn't safe, obviously. I just can't believe they think you're caught up in all of this."
The back and forth was one Vittore was used to, one he was fond of playing, but today the passion no longer lit his eyes. Instead, the old Lombardo dropped his head and shook it slowly.
"I'm just glad that I have Rocco to step in for me if this is going to be it. I know that I can trust you to see to whatever business I leave behind. It's a lot of pressure to step in for me, but I know that you'll excel. I couldn't have asked for a better son."
Beside him, Arturo seethed. The compliment was backhanded, meant to bolster Rocco while it diminished Arturo, and Arturo wasn't blind to its meaning. Like a balloon swelling with helium past its maximum capacity, Arturo exploded.
"Your son's a good one, alright," Arturo said. "Last night on his way home from work he met up with a girl who found herself in a bad situation, caught up in all sorts of shit she shouldn't be caught up in, and you know what he did? He brought her home."
Vittore lifted his gaze and fixed it on Rocco. A storm of emotions clouded his eyes, all hostile. Rocco scowled and clenched his fists harder. Arturo was throwing him under the bus.
"There were underlying circumstances," he said. How was he going to dance around this issue to avoid saying anything incriminating? "If I didn't try to help her out, it woulda caused me more grief than if I had left her. It's a complicated situation, but it's fine now."
"Yeah, complicated because his business deal went south," Arturo announced with childish glee. Rocco's eyes narrowed, and he fixed his brother with a pointed look. He had no right to do this. His father didn't need any more stress or disappointment in his life.
"It went south? Rocco, explain."
Behind Rocco's serious exterior, his heart raced. He could walk into a gunfight, face down the most violent men, but facing his father with bad news was a terror unlike any other.
"It went south of no fault of my own," he insisted, locking eyes with his father. Vittore did not look convinced. "Business negotiations were going as planned, and our foreign investor was listening, but something changed all of a sudden and he attempted to shut me down. I had to back out."
"Prodigal son, right here," Arturo remarked with a sly grin. "The oh so precious Lombardo who can't even walk into a simple meeting without messing it up. Isn't it a good thing you have two sons, dad? When Rocco fucks shit up beyond repair, you've got me to step in and take care of the damage."
Rocco turned to look at his brother. Take care of the damage? What was Arturo talking about?
"What is it you've been up to, Arturo?" Vittore asked, curiosity piqued. Although he was behind bars and feeling defeated, the thrill of a good mystery temporarily roused the old Don from his depression. Cunning eyes flicked to his younger son, assessing him. "Tell me what you've done to fix this situation."
"There's no saving the business deal," Arturo said, grinning with confidence, "but I set things right afterwards. That girl Rocco ended up lifting after his business was concluded? She was about as good as the guys you went to play poker with the other night, when the cops busted you for doing things you didn't really do. I couldn't have my big brother dragged down into immoral dealings, so I called someone to have her escorted off the property. She's not gonna be an issue again."
"What?" Rocco staggered to his feet, pulse racing once more. For the first time in his life he found himself terrified of something other than his father. Rocco was scared shitless over Whitney's safety.
"Yeah, I figured that you needed someone to help you step up. I know it's been hard on us since we found out about the injustice done to dad, so it's no wonder you're off your game. That's why teamwork is so important. I called my friend Mikhail, and he's eager to join the team and help us out. Isn't that great?"
Teamwork? Mikhail? The Russian was dirty and dangerous, and if Whitney was anywhere near him, her life was on the line. Rocco's face contorted with rage, but he was unable to act on his impulses. Instead, he rushed Arturo, yanked the car keys out of his pocket, and stormed from the room.
"Lombardo," Officer Hulsey barked as he made down the hallway and back for the entrance. "What about your brother?"
"He can stay," Rocco seethed. "I've got shit I need to get to right away. I just found out he's gone behind my back and fucked up some of the business I was tending to."
"Goddamn Lombardos," Hulsey muttered. "You make sure you check out with Mike before you leave. We need to make sure your weasel asses are out of the building."
Rocco's weasel ass was out. And until he was sure Whitney was safe, he wouldn't be coming back.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
Whitney
The thud of bass ran through her body and reverberated in Whitney's ribcage — a typical sensation while working at The Avenue. But why was she sleeping there? Why was she so groggy? Had someone slipped her a roofie?
Whitney opened her eyes, but there was no light. Wherever she'd crawled up to sleep off her high was sequestered away. And it was cramped. When she went to roll over, she found herself hitting a curved wall.
Where was this?
The floor she laid on was lightly carpeted and hard. When she reached overhead, the low hanging ceiling and the strangely curved wall was carpeted as well. What was this place?
Groggy, Whitney rolled over. Bright day
light crept in from thin, symmetrical gaps. Before she had time to understand what she was looking at, the whole room shook violently, and Whitney was thrown up off the ground and hit the ceiling.
The thudding bass. The carpeting. The light. The turbulence. It came to her all at once — this was the trunk of a car.
The Russian.
Whitney's fingers traced along her head. There was pain there, and as she explored the area, she found tacky spots. Blood. She had been bleeding from where Mikhail had hit her. Whitney let her hand drop away and lay still on the floor of the trunk, doing her best to regain the full scope of her senses. It was going to take everything she had if she wanted to walk out of this alive. There was no time to be delirious and confused.
Beyond the pain along her scalp where Mikhail had hit her and split her skin, Whitney's throat was on fire. If only she had a glass of water to sooth it. That was off the table. She was going to have to make due without.
Why was this happening?
As Whitney went over what she knew, the thudding of the base stopped, and the car cruised to a halt. The engine died. For a long moment she was left in silence, but no moment could last forever.
The sound of a key fitted into the lock of the trunk was loud, like it was attached to a bullhorn. Her eyes focused on the source of the sound. When the lid sprung up and light flooded the trunk, Whitney was not prepared. She squinted and pressed back against the tiny space, but there was no escape. Mikhail, a dark silhouette against the light, leered down at her.
"Mishka is awake," he laughed. "Good, good. Would be better to wake up on set before camera, but is not least desirable circumstance, either. Is good. Now to get our little mouse to her final act."
"N-no," Whitney begged. Words illustrated just how sore and prickly her throat was, and she swallowed what little saliva was in her mouth. It did nothing.
"Yes, yes! Mikhail will make you star. So many men will love you. Is this not what you want?"
