Rocco

by Sarah Castille

  Ethan wouldn’t kill a man to save her, and destroy himself so she could be free.

  After her family left, she’d tell Ethan she was ready for that next step. Now that she knew Rocco had fully embraced the life that had taken her mother, she could finally put the past to bed and move on.

  The limo slowed to a stop beside Carvello’s restaurant, an out-of-the way hole in the wall, well off the beaten path in downtown Vegas. Grace had heard about it, but had never tried it out because it wasn’t in the safest area of town, and with so many other options in the city, she didn’t want to take the risk.

  Her father’s bodyguards got out first and checked the street before gesturing for her father to emerge from the limo.

  Grace’s skin prickled and she held out her hand, holding her father back. “Papa. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “I thought you’d gotten over the whole superstitious feeling thing when you became a psychologist,” Tom said. “Did you ever think about why you believe that kind of stuff? It’s not very scientific or logical.”

  “I don’t analyze myself.”

  “Maybe you should,” he suggested. “You might just discover something you didn’t know.”

  “I think I know myself pretty well.” She followed her father out of the limo, cutting off any further conversation about a subject she didn’t want to discuss.

  The owner of the restaurant, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard, greeted them at the door. After the bodyguards checked the restaurant for potential threats, the owner led them to a table in the back corner where the Bianchi family—the capo, his two brothers and their two sons—were seated.

  Grace sighed when she saw the two men who looked close to her age. “Papa. Please don’t be trying to set me up again.”

  “What?” Her father shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands. “You don’t want to meet people? Make some new friends?”

  “I have enough friends.”

  “Relax, polpetto.” Her father patted her arm. “We’re here for a meal. Not a marriage.”

  Tom snickered at the nickname. For some reason, her father had started calling her “meatball” when she hit her teen years and had never stopped.

  “Shut up,” she muttered under her breath as they made their way to the table. “Act your age.”

  “I am acting my age. Twenty-year-olds are allowed to laugh when their fathers call their sisters polpetto.” His smile faded as the capo stood to greet her father. “The only thing that isn’t funny is why Papa is meeting with the Forzanis. They are supporters of Tony Toscani, and Papa’s meeting with Tony didn’t go well. That dude has a couple of screws loose and he pretty much told Papa that if the don didn’t appoint him boss of the Vegas faction over Nico, he wouldn’t abide by the decision. He was incredibly disrespectful. So much so that I think Papa might ask the don to put a contract out on him.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to get the Forzanis on his side in case that happens.”

  Tom nodded. “That makes sense. They run one of the biggest crews in Vegas. I think only Nico and Luca Rizzoli run bigger ones.”

  “Tom…” She swallowed hard. “If the don did put a contract out on Tony, would he use … the De Lucchi crew.”

  “He’d have to. Tony’s too high ranked for an ordinary hit. And they have someone here—Rocco, that guy who used to drive us to school.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice caught. “I remember him.”

  “He’s almost as brutal as Cesare,” Tom said. “I won’t tell you the kind of stuff he’s done because it would make your stomach turn, but he scares the living shit out of even the most hardened wiseguys. He’s one of the most ruthless, cold-blooded enforcers in the entire crew. I guess it makes sense. He’s Cesare’s son, and he’ll be the new De Lucchi boss when Cesare is gone.”

  Her hand trembled as she reached for her chair. “He’s going to be the De Lucchi boss?”

  “Yeah. That’s how they work. Cesare’s dad was boss before him, and then his grandfather and back to whenever the De Lucchis started. That’s why they are required to initiate either a natural born or an adoptive son into the crew so that the De Lucchi crew never dies, and the leadership has the same training.”

  Well, didn’t that make her decision easier. Good-bye Rocco and the mob. Hello Ethan and a normal life.

  And yet … She touched her lips, remembering Rocco’s kiss, the feel of his hard body against hers, that soul-deep connection that had snapped into place the moment they were in each other’s arms. How could something that felt so right be so wrong? How could such a brutal man be so gentle?

  How could she be with Ethan when only Rocco set her on fire?

  * * *

  Rocco smashed the butt of his revolver into the skull of the Bianchi family guard standing in the alley behind Carvello’s restaurant. One of the first lessons Cesare had taught him was how to move undetected in the shadows, and he was always amazed how little attention people paid to the world around them.

  He dragged the body a few feet away and out of sight of the main road. Something about this hit felt wrong, and it wasn’t just because of Grace.

  Enforcers were supposed to feel nothing. They were tools to be used at the will of the boss. And yet Cesare had not been as detached as he usually was when he called with an assignment. His impatience and show of temper were unusual, and that, together with Rocco’s uncharacteristic emotional instability, meant he’d been standing outside the restaurant for the last quarter of an hour trying to decide what to do.

  He heard footsteps on the sidewalk and pressed himself against the wall, sinking into the shadows. Moments later Grace walked past, her phone to her ear, her boots tapping a hurried rhythm on the pavement.

  Jesus Christ. What the fuck was she doing here? A mob meeting was no place for a woman, much less the daughter of an underboss on dangerous ground.

  “Ethan?” He voice carried down the alley. “My dad is trying to set me up again so I told him I’m with you.” A pause. “Yeah. Boyfriend. I thought that would be the end of it but he insists on coming to meet you after dinner.” She sighed. “No, you don’t need to wear a suit, but you do need to lose the track pants. Your green cargo pants would be perfect. They’re in the laundry room.” A soft laugh. “Well it won’t be hard since we’ve been living together for three years.” A nervous laugh this time. “Okay. But it has to be a father-appropriate kiss. See you soon.”

  Ethan? She had a boyfriend? And they were living together? Christ. He hadn’t even considered she would be with someone else. So what the fuck was she doing with him in the elevator? Was that her way getting closure?

  His gritted his teeth and smashed his fist against the brick wall. Breathe. Breathe. He should be happy for her. This was exactly what he wanted. A final cutting of their ties. Why then did he have a sudden urge to find out where she lived and eliminate the competition with a few well-placed blows to that fucker’s face?

  He studied her as she walked down the sidewalk back to the restaurant. Goddam fucking sexy boots. And that dress. He could see the crescents of her breasts, the curve of her hip, and when she walked, the slit in the front opened to reveal her long, toned legs. Naughty dress. Even in frills and flowers, she couldn’t hide that streak of rebel that had intrigued him from the first day they met.

  He couldn’t get a more perfect time for the hit. If he left right now, he could be in and out before she returned to the restaurant. She would never know it was him. And now that he knew what kind of woman she was—the kind who would kiss one man in an elevator and go home to sleep with another—he had no qualms about what he had to do.

  Taking a deep breath, he searched for the darkness inside him, the cold, hard place where he had learned to retreat to escape Cesare’s rage.

  When he was certain Grace wouldn’t hear him, he pulled open the back door and slipped inside. The air was rich with the thick scent of tomato sauce, and the floorboards creaked as he made his way down the hallway. From his vantag
e point near the restrooms, he could see most of the restaurant. Mantini was seated at a big, round table in the corner with the Bianchi family in front of him and a guard on either side.

  Rocco didn’t know much about the Bianchis except that they were aligned with Tony’s crew. Interesting. Maybe Mantini had lied to Nico about the don’s decision to favor Nico’s claim. He made a mental note to let Nico know that Nunzio Mantini had been meeting with the Bianchis before he died.

  He drew out his weapon and screwed on the silencer. But when he turned to take aim, he felt an unfamiliar tightening in his gut, and the walls he’d put up to protect his heart shuddered, cracking, splintering, letting a sliver of light shine through.

  Jesus fucking Christ. How could he whack Grace’s father and brother when she was standing outside? How could he make her suffer through the exact same circumstance in which she’d lost her mother and take away the only remaining family she had? How could he give her up forever, when she had just walked back into his life?

  Fucking Cesare had destroyed everything he cared about to make him into the perfect enforcer. He’d burned all Rocco’s toys and books when he turned ten, driven away his friends, and made Rocco watch as he took the life of the dog Rocco had raised from a pup.

  And then the training began, and Rocco was reborn from the ashes of the bonfire that destroyed his childhood as a creature of torment and pain.

  Ten years he had lived in darkness until Grace walked into his life.

  Cesare had driven Grace away, and Rocco had allowed it to happen. He had sunk back into the darkness, hardened his heart, and accepted his fate. But now he had a second chance. A second choice. Cesare might have taken everything but he had not taken his will.

  He lowered his weapon, waited until he heard the tinkle of the bell on the door that let him know Grace was safely inside.

  As he made his way back down the hallway, he wondered how he could put things right. Start again. Rein in the fierce, almost desperate need he felt when he was with her and show her a different man for the short time he would have before Cesare came for him.

  Because Cesare would come. A De Lucchi never failed to complete a job.

  Do or die.

  He was halfway down the street when he heard the screech of tires. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a black SUV pull up in front of the restaurant. The doors flew open, and five men all dressed in black and wearing ski masks poured out, brazenly waving their weapons in the air.

  Rocco’s heart seized in his chest and he raced back the way he had come, slamming open the back door and plunging into the darkness of the hallway.

  Gunshots cracked the stillness.

  A woman screamed.

  Grace.

  The emergency lights flickered on and he kept to the shadows, racing through the semi-darkness toward the front door.

  “Grace!”

  He spotted her crouching behind a table and cautiously moved toward her. Relief flooded her stricken face when she saw him. He threw himself forward, taking her down to the floor as a bullet pinged over her head.

  “Papa. Where’s my father?”

  He held her down, assessing the situation as gunfire ran out around them. Nunzio’s bodyguards were doing their job, keeping the family safe behind an overturned table.

  But holy shit. Had someone dared to try and whack the New York underboss?

  “Let me up. I have to get to Papa.” She squirmed away and crawled across the floor to kneel beside her father who was groaning on the ground beside an overturned table. Tom was curled against the wall cradling his arm against his chest. The bodies of the Bianchi family lay around him.

  One of the guards screamed and went down, holding his stomach. Rocco took his place, helping the remaining guard protect the family keeping the enemy soldiers pinned near the door.

  “Papa.” Grace touched her father and her hand came away red with blood. “He’s hurt.”

  The guard beside Rocco took a bullet to the chest and he fell, knocking over a table as he crashed to the ground. Glass shattered, and the table flipped over, giving Rocco a shield. One of the masked assailants walked over, his gun pointed at Grace’s fallen father.

  “No. Don’t touch him.” Grace rose to a protective crouch over her father, hands up in front of her in a warding gesture.

  “Then you die, too.”

  Grace grabbed her father’s weapon from beneath his jacket and rose to her feet. “Stay back, or I’ll shoot.”

  Rocco’s brow lifted in surprise. The Grace he knew would never have touched a gun, much less point it at someone with the clear intent to kill.

  “Didn’t your daddy tell you little girls aren’t supposed to play with guns?”

  “He taught me to shoot,” she said, steadying her hand. “And he taught me not to miss.”

  Fuck. She would never be able to live with herself if she killed a man. Grace was a nurturer, a saver of souls. Rocco suffered the burden of every life he was forced to take, he couldn’t image how she would bear the guilt. He had no idea what game these guys were playing or who they worked for, but it was clear whoever had hired the De Lucchi crew to take out Mantini wasn’t the only person who wanted him dead.

  “Did he teach you how to die?”

  Rocco grabbed a water glass and threw it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, drawing everyone’s attention. Taking advantage of Grace’s distraction, he shot the assailant in the chest, firing two bullets in quick succession before ducking behind the table again.

  A scream. Shouts. A groan.

  “Rocco.” She stared at him aghast. “Why?”

  “So you didn’t have to.” Rocco shot out the emergency lights and another gun battle ensured. When he heard the thud of a body hitting the floor, he dived into the darkness, looking for Grace.

  He found her kneeling beside her father, her voice rising above the shouts as their assailants tried to find a light and tend to the man who was down. Clearly, they weren’t professionals. A professional focused on the goal and nothing else.

  “Gracie, it’s me,” he said quietly, touching her shoulder. “Quickly. We’ll go out the back door.”

  “Get the fucking lights,” the ill-tempered assailant screamed. “Find out who shot me. Was it the girl? Kill the fucking bitch.”

  “No.” Another voice, low, commanding. “Just the capo bastone and his son. We need to take the girl alive.”

  Italian. He recognized the Sicilian accent. And they were Mafia because civilians wouldn’t use the term capo bastone or know that it meant underboss.

  “I’m not leaving him,” Grace whispered. “And Tom. Where’s Tom?” She pulled away and Rocco tightened his grip.

  “There are five armed men in here, and some out back. This ambush was well-planned. How does it help your father and Tom if you get kidnapped or killed? I saw some of the staff run out. They will have called 911. The police and ambulance will be here in minutes. We need to get you out of here.”

  “They’ll kill them.”

  “They probably think Tom and your father are already dead, and one of them has his own injuries to deal with.” He pulled her back, and for a moment he thought she would come with him, but she struggled out of his grasp.

  “What about you?” She backed away, her eyes glittering in the darkness. “What are you doing here? Are you part of this?”

  Thank God, he could answer honestly. “No, cara mia. But you need to come with me.”

  Still, she hesitated. “I’m going to go call 911. I’ll wait outside for the police to come. That’s what normal people do.”

  Rocco shook his head. “If you stay here, you’ll spend the rest of your life marked as being associated with the mob. We have our own way of dealing with these things. Our own way of keeping you safe. Someone is after you, Gracie, and you know the police won’t be able to protect you.”

  “Do you have your own way of saving Tom and my dad?” she snapped.

  Yes, he did. He had been taught
how to use the darkness as a tool, to see where others could not. He could take out every man in the whole damn room before she took her next breath. But he wasn’t going to do it. He would lose her forever if she had to witness that kind of bloodbath, and it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, and his pulse kicked up a notch. “The police are coming. The shooters won’t stick around. Trust me, Gracie. Trust me just one more time.”

  She hesitated, and he didn’t blame her. Given how he’d acted since he’d walked back into her life, he was probably the last person worthy of her trust.

  “Okay.” She let out a long breath and grabbed her purse off the ground. “Let’s go.”

  He grabbed her hand and they ran through the back of the restaurant and out the back door where the guard he had knocked out was still unconscious on the ground. He quickly dispatched a second guard at the end of the alley with a blow to the head, and led Grace at a quick walk to his bike a few blocks away as she made her call to 911.

  Heart pounding, he helped her mount the bike, tucking her dress between them. As he sped away from the scene of devastation, Grace wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his back.

  Safe. Grace was safe. His protective instinct sated, he considered the fallout of what had just happened. He had never failed to complete a contract, and once Cesare found out, he would be called to account. How easy would it have been to just let the shooters do the job for him and take the credit? He would have been able to pursue Grace with his conscience clear. And what about Grace? Someone was after her, and there was no way he could leave her now. He might have saved her family, but the price would be his life.

  SEVEN

  An icy chill settled over Grace as Rocco raced through the streets. She had no idea where they were going, but the effort required to talk seemed overwhelming.

  She had just put her trust in the very organization that might have taken her father’s life. No. In a mobster.