Rocco: A Mafia Romance (Ruin & Revenge)

by Sarah Castille

  Once the paperwork was done, she glanced over at Rocco, standing in the corner like he had every right to be there. “Are you here…?”

  “To see you.” He nodded at the producer. “Bob.”

  “Any time.” The producer swallowed hard and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Give my regards to Luca.”

  “Will do.” With a firm hand on Grace’s lower back, Rocco guided her out of the studio she could walk through in her sleep.

  “He knows Luca?” she asked as they walked to the elevator.

  “He owes Luca money and he hadn’t paid the vig. Now that he’s done me a favor, he owes slightly less money and he gets to keep all his fingers.” He pushed the button on the elevator and she was momentarily at a loss for words. “Was that a joke?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Her heart thudded in her chest and she pushed away the mental image of Rocco chopping off the producer’s fingers with his knife. “So, what did you think?”

  “I’d buy the beer.”

  Her lips quirked at the corners. Rocco had never been one to mince words. “You like pale ale?”

  “Your voice. I felt it in here.” He thudded his chest, and her amusement faded when she remembered their altercation on Friday night at the restaurant.

  “Nice to know you can still feel.”

  “I’m not a monster, Grace.” The elevator door slid open and they stepped inside.

  Grace turned her head as the doors slid closed and deliberately brushed her hair away from the scar. “That’s not how it looked that night at Newton Creek.”

  There. She’d said it. Put it out in the open. He had killed someone in front of her, and she would never be able to erase the image from her mind, never be able to accept that the man she loved could cross that line.

  “It was you or him. I chose you. He was far from an innocent man.”

  “Don’t.” She held up a warning hand. It was hard enough to accept he could take a life; she didn’t want to know he had done it for her. “That doesn’t make it right.”

  Seeing him again made her realize that she had never truly healed from any of the experiences that had defined her life—her mother dying in her arms, discovering her father was in the mob, Cesare kidnapping and assaulting her and holding her hostage at knife point until Rocco did as he commanded. She still had nightmares of blades slicing through her body, still felt her mother’s blood warm in her hands, still woke to see Rocco’s face, twisted in anger and fear and helpless despair.

  He shuddered, closed his eyes. “Nothing about this world is right. And if I’d had a choice—”

  “There is always a choice,” she said bitterly, cutting him off.

  “You mean run away? That choice would have meant my death and yours. You know that.”

  She did know that. There was no running from the mob. No hiding. Once you became a made man there were very few circumstances in which you would be allowed to leave. Fewer still for a member of the De Lucchi crew. The enforcers saw too much, knew too much, had done too much.

  “How did you find me?”

  He shrugged and she knew she’d never get an answer. Not that she needed one. The Mafia owned this town.

  “Why are you here?”

  Rocco pushed the stop button and the elevator jerked to a halt. “I want…”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you lied to me.” He stroked a thick finger along her jaw, sending delicious tingles through her body. “I couldn’t handle the thought of you with Benito.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Rocco.” She looked up at his handsome face and had a sudden urge to touch all his scars, run her fingers along his stubble, kiss his cheeks, his jaw, his sensual lips. She wanted to touch him, taste him again, relive the past that she knew should stay in the past. It was impossible not to be attracted to him. He oozed charisma and sex appeal. They had formed a connection fourteen years ago and time had not diminished his pull in the least.

  “I can’t handle the thought of you with anyone.” He cupped her jaw, tilted her face so she stared into his beautiful dark eyes flecked with gold. The heat of his hand made her knees feel weak, and she had to remind herself that she had a new life now. One that was free of the mob and the drama that went with it. He was part of a world that had almost destroyed her, and the best thing she could do for herself right now was shut this down.

  “What do you want?”

  Rocco had never been a big talker, but he seemed to be struggling to express himself, almost as if he were overwhelmed with emotion, which was pretty much how she felt now.

  “Gracie…”

  She almost melted at the nickname he had used for her when they were together, and the sound on his lips brought back memories of hot, sweaty nights, his big hard body covering hers, whispers in the dark, gentle hands, soft lips, and his thick, hard cock. He had introduced her to sex as he introduced her to so many things: gently, softly, his entire focus on her pleasure until she was ready to fly.

  “You’re the only person who ever called me Gracie,” she murmured softly, trapping his hand against her cheek with her palm. “I missed hearing it.”

  His growl of warning sent awareness sizzling through her, ripping the breath from her lungs. His gaze dropped, hot and hungry, to her lips as if he knew just what she was thinking.

  “Okay.” She let out a breath, tried to take control of the situation. “How about we start again. Hi, Rocco. Nice to see you. I missed you.” The last two words dropped from her lips before she could catch them, and her body moved almost of its own accord, closing the distance between them until they collided, mouths crashing together in a savage kiss.

  His hands tangled in her hair, fisting the soft strands, pulling her roughly toward him. And then they were one again. Teeth and lips and tongues and breath reforming the connection they had lost six years ago. His kiss was everything, her world, her life, the beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her lungs, nectar for her soul. His tongue pushed through the barrier of her lips and she took him in, devoured him, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him close.

  Out. Of. Control.

  He groaned into her mouth, pressed his hard, lean body against her, pinning her against the wall of the elevator until every inch of him was pressed against every inch of her.

  This close she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the hint of nicotine, and an undercurrent of something wild. He felt like he was made to fit against her, like she had finally been made whole.

  “Rocco,” she whispered when they finally came up for air, chests heaving, hands roaming, hips grinding.

  “Don’t talk.” His hand slipped from her hair to cup her jaw, holding her still as he ravished her mouth, drinking her down as if he were dying of thirst. Her head spun, and she couldn’t remember if she needed to breathe or why the red light in the elevator was flashing or if her legs needed to do something except wobble like jelly.

  “Arms around my neck, dolcezza.”

  She slid her arms over his shoulders, clinging to him, pressing her body into his heat. He was so strong. So big. So hot. His muscles so hard. He held her effortlessly, kissed her desperately. She had never felt their age difference as she did now, but he was just so much more than the men her age, so much man.

  For the first time in six years, she felt alive. Rocco was here. She could smell him, touch him, taste him. All the things she had imagined since she left, she could have right here, right now, and God, she wanted them all. Rocco’s lips, Rocco’s mouth, Rocco’s tongue, all the beauty of his face looking down at her, the sweetness of the whiskey when he kissed her, the warmth of his breath, the softness of his tongue as he explored her mouth. It was like the first time all over again.

  * * *

  She wanted him.

  She wanted a bit of the dirty and selfish bastard that he was, and he was happy to oblige. Catching her slim wrists, he pinned her hands to the wall above her head with one hand and fisted her hair wit
h the other.

  “You want this?”

  “Yes,” she said, without hesitation.

  He took her mouth again, rough and hard. Electricity filled the space between them and he felt something snap into place—a connection—the bond he’d felt the first time they met.

  Fuck. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected any of this. All he knew was that he had to see her one last time, had to try and end things in a way that would allow them both to move on after he did the one thing that would make her hate him forever.

  His hand slid down her body, and he squeezed her breast so hard she made a soft noise in her throat.

  It was the sound that did it.

  Soft. Willing. Open.

  Grace had always been soft. Sweet. Although she liked her sex rough, he had never been as rough as he knew he would be if he took her now. He was unmoored, lost in a sea of emotion, caught between desire and the need to let her go.

  And suddenly it felt wrong. His thoughts felt wrong. This. Felt. Wrong.

  But she wanted it, wanted this, wanted him. For these few moments, he could have her the way he had imagined every night for the last six years: in his arms, giving herself to him, as if that one terrible night at Newton Creek hadn’t happened. He could take what she offered and then push her away. By the time he fulfilled his contract, their connection would be broken.

  Resolved, he slid his hand between them and yanked up her dress. “You ready for me?”

  “Why don’t you find out?” She nipped his bottom lip, and his cock, already hard and aching, stood to fucking attention. Grace had always liked to tease.

  A growl rose up through his throat as he shoved aside her panties and slicked a thick finger through her folds. “Dirty girl. You’re soaked.”

  “And you’re hard.” She ground her hips against his erection and he almost came right then. His Grace had never been sexually aggressive and it fucking turned him on.

  “Is this what you want?” His words came out harsher than he intended. “You want me to fuck you in your pretty dress up against this wall in an elevator where someone might see us? You want me to tear off those panties and shove my cock inside you so deep you forget your own name?”

  “I want you.” She nuzzled his neck. “Any way I can have you.”

  Fuck. No. Bold, aggressive Grace he could handle. Soft, sweet Grace he could not. He wanted slapping and swearing and biting and scratching. He wanted her anger and her hatred. He wanted to suffer for the choices he had to make. He wanted passion, but more than that he wanted pain. He wanted her to make it easy for him to hurt her and walk away.

  He didn’t want to be reminded of Grace the way she had been before that night at Newton Creek when he ripped away the veil of her innocence and destroyed their bond.

  “Fight me,” he murmured as he palmed her breast in his hand through the thin fabric of her shirt.

  “I don’t want to fight you.” She bucked against him, grinding her hips against his. “I’m not saying no, Rocco. I’m saying yes.”

  He nipped her collarbone, ran his tongue down her neck, tasting the familiar sweetness of her skin. When she shuddered in a breath, he moved lower, feathering kisses over the crescents of her breasts, tugging the filmy fabric down so he could pop a rosy nipple from beneath her pink bra.

  Pink. Not red. Or black. No four inch heels and skin-tight, barely-there clothes that screamed “fifty for a hand job, eighty for oral” that would make it easy for him to take what he wanted without even the smallest emotion flickering in his chest.

  Grace had never dressed in slutty clothes. Even though she could have pulled off any look, she always wore flirty little dresses or tiny cut-off shorts with tank tops and loose sweaters. She’d looked slightly hip, a little chic and always very sexy but in a teasing, not a revealing, kind of way. Her clothes hinted at the treasures underneath, but only one man could claim her bounty.

  His hand hovered over the edge of her dress, muscles tightening as he prepared to tear the fine fabric and fully expose her breast for his viewing pleasure, leaving her to deal with the consequences when the elevator doors opened.

  She whimpered softly, arched her back, willingly offered her breasts into his hands. Trusting. So trusting.

  Hail Mary, full of Grace!

  Christ. The last thing he wanted in his head when he was about to bury himself in the woman who had ripped out his heart, and walked away from eight years of memories without even a fucking good-bye was the goddam fucking Ave Maria. That was what he got for going to confession every two weeks to confess his sins to a mob-friendly priest.

  He released her hands and drove his fingers into her hair, yanking her head back so hard her soft, sensual lips formed an “O” of surprise. He was going to bruise those lips with his kisses, mark the slender column of her throat with sharp nips of his teeth.

  Blessed art thou amongst women

  His mind skipped over some words, homing in on what it appeared to think were the relevant parts of the prayer, reminding him that she was a woman—a young woman—and he was bigger and stronger and older and that he could very easily harm her if he didn’t take care.

  Well fuck that. His body was tight and primed and ready to take her, and his stupid conscience could take a back seat on this ride.

  He was going to yank her dress up to her waist, tear her panties away, and bury himself deep in her hot, wet cunt. He would fuck her hard and make her come screaming his name. And then he would leave her the way she’d left him and she would know how it felt to be betrayed by the only person who had ever meant anything in your life.

  Except she’d only been a girl and he’d been a man. A man she had trusted with her body and her heart. A man she didn’t know was a monster.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God,

  Pray for us sinners

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t take her like this in a public elevator with her pretty dress hiked around her waist while she looked up at him with those beautiful caramel-colored eyes like he was a fucking dream come true.

  He was no fucking dream.

  He was nightmare. And he had lied to her. He was a monster. The worst of men.

  “I can’t do this.” He released her, unwound her body from his, and lowered her to the ground.

  “What?” Dazed, she took a step toward him, and he shook his head.

  “No, dolcezza. I can’t do this to you.”

  “No?” Her cheeks flamed red, and her hand flew to her cheek, covering her scar. He knew what she was thinking, but he was beyond words, unable to assure her that it had nothing to do with the scar on her face and everything to do with the scar on his heart.

  He hit the button and the elevator lurched to a start. Thank god it was a small building and no one had called maintenance about the stalled elevator. He gestured to the dress he had rumpled. “Fix yourself up.”

  She stared at him, stunned, making no move to cover the part of her breast that he exposed. The sight of her so disheveled and confused, so pale and beautiful in the hard fluorescent light of the dingy elevator hammered home the rightness of what he’d done. She didn’t belong here. And not with him.

  “Gracie,” he said softly, pointing because he didn’t trust himself to touch her again. “Fix your dress.”

  Her hand shook as she straightened her clothes, but she didn’t look up, keeping her head tipped to the side, resting in her hand.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” He reached for her, and she slapped him away, fire replacing the confusion in her eyes in a heartbeat. And fuck. Didn’t that just make him want her all over again.

  “Get away from me.”

  The elevator doors slid open and she walked out into the lobby.

  “Grace. I didn’t want—”

  “I don’t want anything from you.” She pulled open the front door.

  And then she was gone.

  SIX

  “Whoo hoo. Hot babe alert!” Ethan turned down the volume
on the TV and ogled Grace as she walked into the living room where he was spread out on the couch with his golden lab, Trevor.

  “Too much? I’m having dinner with my dad and my brother and my dad’s friends. They’re leaving tomorrow, and it’s my last chance to see them.” She smoothed down the ethnic floral boho dress, black with red, pink, and green flowers and a deep V neckline. She’d paired it with black ankle boots and an oversized fringed bag.

  “You might want to rethink the boots,” Miguel piped up from the kitchen where he and Olivia were making dinner. “They scream ‘fuck me.’ Not sure if that’s the message you want to be sending when you’re out with your dad and brother.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Olivia gave him a swat with her tea towel. “They are perfectly respectable. Fuck me boots are white, or covered in laces and buckles, or they are black and shiny and go up to mid-thigh…”

  “You got a pair of those boots?” Miguel licked his lips.

  Olivia snorted. “If I do, you’ll never see them.”

  “You look nice,” Ethan said from the couch as she grabbed her bag. “Hot, but not in an inappropriate-for-a-family-dinner kind of way.”

  “Thanks, Ethan.” She raised her voice by way of chastising Miguel and headed outside where Tom and her dad were waiting in a black Bentley limo with her father’s two bodyguards.

  She stared out the window as her father and Tom discussed the Vegas political situation. Maybe Olivia was right about Ethan. He was a nice guy, a great musician, and he’d been a good friend. He was devastatingly handsome, and they had a lot in common. He’d made it clear more than once that he was interested in taking their friendship to the next level, and of all the guys she’d been with since Rocco, there were none she liked more.

  But best of all, he was normal. A civilian. With no ties to a criminal organization. Ethan’s friends wouldn’t meet unexpected and violent deaths that required a full black wardrobe and a funeral every Sunday. He wouldn’t have dozens of “uncles” and “cousins” with strange nicknames, and he would keep his money in the bank and not in a hidden safe under the floorboards. He wouldn’t mysteriously show up at her place of work uninvited, gain entry into a private studio by threatening to break the producer’s fingers, and then kiss her breathless in an elevator, only to brush her off and walk away.