Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance (10 page)

"R-Rocco," she gasped, lowering her arms so she could cling to his neck. Lower half pulled off the bed, shoulders and upper back resting on the mattress, it was as much support as Whitney could find.

Rocco looked down at her with eyes hardened with dominance. Another pointed thrust of his hips ran his cock over her clit to send Whitney spiraling down into pleasure's grasps. She couldn't take any more.

"Please, take me," she begged, angling her hips in an effort to catch the head of his cock as it worked against her body. The tip caught. Whitney breathed out in delight, offered herself with a lift of her hips, and then shuddered as Rocco pushed onward. The length of his cock buried itself inside of her, pressing up against her wall as it did so. The g-spot stimulation hit all at once, and rippling pleasure seized Whitney and refused to let go. Rocco hadn't begun to thrust, and already she felt like she might cum.

"Right there," came the throaty exclamation. "Oh my god, Rocco. Right there..."

He needed no further instruction. With a buck of his hips, Rocco pushed into her, and Whitney bit back a scream of pleasure. Now she remembered why it was she always fell for the bad boy — bad on the streets, but good in bed. Great in bed, as she was quickly finding out. It was as though Rocco's body had been made in order to give her pleasure, and he was eager to put himself to use. Whitney held on, met his thrusts, and rode out the waves of delight that pulsed through her.

Rocco fucked her hard. Whitney's back and shoulders dug down into the mattress beneath his force, but still she hungered for more. Each push of his hips had her seeing stars. Rocco was like no one she'd ever slept with before, and no one she would sleep with again. The power he possessed and the danger he embodied only made the coupling that much more dynamic.

"I'm going to cum," he told her. Disappointment washed Whitney's enthusiasm away at the thought that their session would come to an end. This whole time she'd been on the brink of orgasm, but she hadn't found her end yet.

"Don't stop," she pleaded.

"I can't stop," it was almost a snarl, but Rocco bit back on his anger just in time. "Where do you want it?"

Stomach. Ass. Chest.
Whitney knew she shouldn't let him stay inside of her, but she didn't want to give him up just yet. If she could ride his cock just a little longer from where she was suspended, if she could tighten herself just a little and let it all go...

"Whitney!" he said, jaw clenched as he fought to hold himself back. The thrusts did not slow — one way or another, Rocco was determined to reach the end.

"Stay inside," she uttered, breathless. As soon as she spoke the words, she bucked her own hips and buried his length inside of her deeper. The pressure between their bodies was outstanding. Whitney knew she was making a mistake, that if she were smart she would get him to pull out, but she couldn't bring herself to part from him just yet.

"Oh fuck," Rocco groaned. As tight as she was, she felt the length of his cock shudder as he came. The first warm offerings of his cum filled her, and Rocco grunted and pushed himself as deep as he could go. Whitney twisted beneath him and rubbed up against him, working on her own orgasm to no avail. Rocco wasn't short lived in bed, but she needed more. Not even knowing that his seed was inside of her, threatening to knock her up was enough to send her over the edge.

But despite what Whitney assumed, Rocco wasn't done yet.

When his orgasm was seen to completion, he took a few seconds to recover his breath, then he flipped her face down onto the mattress and bore down upon her. Their bodies had separated, but the separation did not last long. Before Whitney had much time to react, Rocco had lifted her by the hips and entered her again. The thick erection he'd worked up during his sleep did not wane — he was ready to keep giving her more.

Whitney grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. Rocco worked her hard from behind, every thrust hitting her in just the right spot. The pleasure was unparalleled.

Clutching the pillow tight to her body with one arm, eyes squeezed shut as he worked the cum he'd shot into her deeper into her body, Whitney snuck one arm downward and rubbed her throbbing clit. It was the final push she needed. With a cry muted by the bed sheets, Whitney came. Fluttering pulses of pleasure ran along her walls to tighten around Rocco's cock, and he let herself drown in those feelings for as long as she could. As she was coming off of her high, Rocco pressed into her a final time and grunted low. Another, smaller orgasm struck him, and they finished together.

With Rocco's erection now waning and Whitney's desire satisfied, she allowed herself to melt into the sheets and relaxed in the post-orgasm glow. Rocco settled down atop her and pressed a loving kiss to the back of her neck, letting his fingers trace gentle patterns across her exposed flesh. Rocco rolled onto the bed beside her and laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do you regret that, now that it's all done?" he asked, eyes fixed on a particular point and refusing to move. From the way the words sounded, Whitney figured he was expecting her to feel regret or guilt. She felt neither.

"No. I don't think I could ever regret anything to do with you."

Blue eyes snapped to her, and Whitney smiled. Rocco shook his head, sighed, and drew her close to him with one arm.

"Maybe you're not as smart as I pegged you for. Getting involved with me is bad news."

"Let me worry about that," Whitney told him. "No one's looking out for your best interest but you, after all. If I can't depend on me to make choices, then what am I gonna do with the rest of my life?"

The spark of pride in his eyes was all the reply she needed. Whitney's smile grew, and she closed her eyes as she nestled against him. Sometimes, bad choices were the right ones. She hoped Rocco was the right kind of wrong.

W
as it minutes
, or hours?
Rocco couldn't tell. When Whitney teased him, when her body rose to meet his and worked with his thrusts, time melted away. Rocco had fucked before, but it was never as intense as what he shared with Whitney. Something about her turned him into an animal whose only interest was pleasure. Even after he'd reached orgasm, there was no escape from his impulses. It wasn't until she was satisfied that he was able to reel himself back and breathe in deeply for the first time.

There were two types of girls he'd bedded in the past — those who were just as bad as he was, and those with misguided hearts of gold. For the most part, Rocco tried to stick with women who had their hands dirty. Women like that were looking for quick flings to satisfy their inner cravings, not drawn out romances he could never hope to fulfil. The sex was good, raw, primal, and then it was over. Like ships in the night, they went on with their lives in silence and the incident was never brought up again. Good girls weren't like that. Good girls fell for his blank face and his air of mystery only to get swept up in the moment. When all was said and done, they wanted more than he could give them.

Whitney was a type of woman he'd never met before. Sure, she'd been afraid when shit had gone down, but since that time she had adjusted and overcome her fears. She had been easy to deal with, and as the night dragged on, she'd become confident in herself without forgetting who ran the show. And now, as she lay beside him catching her breath, she seemed glad about what they'd done. No woman had ever been glad that Rocco had taken them to bed. Either they knew what a snake he was and were ready to move on, or they regretted their poor choices immediately. Not Whitney. Rocco reflected on why that was.

From the moment he'd laid eyes on her at the bar, he knew her beauty was rare. The type of women who worked behind a bar were usually a certain breed — fakers. From overdone makeup and put-on stupidity, each one of them reeked of inauthentic femininity. Then there was Whitney. Big, curly hair. Understated makeup. A natural body to die for. She was meant for bigger things than night life, he was sure she would excel at any career.
So why hadn't she?

The silence they shared died. Whitney, who had been curled up to his chest, distanced herself with a little wiggle and rose from the bed. Rocco took the time to admire her body. It wasn't the first time he'd gone to bed with a black girl, but the last time had been before the Black Mafia uprising. There was something special about the tint of her skin, how it glowed with health, that white girls didn't have. Even with hair mussed from sleep and sex, she was gorgeous. A goddess.

"I need to use the bathroom," she murmured, excusing herself. Rocco's clothes and keys were in there, but the gun and holster sat on his bedside table within easy reach. There was nothing in the bathroom Whitney could use against him.

"Have fun," he mumbled back, as Whitney walked, he watched her go. That tight little ass of hers was top notch, and her thighs were thick and shapely. In another life, Rocco would have called her his. The chances of that happening with circumstances as they were unlikely.

When the bathroom door closed, Rocco covered his face with his hand. No amount of sleep or distracting sex would change the fact that his dad had been arrested during a bust. Now that Rocco was the man of the family, it was a matter he had to tend to immediately.

And manage Arturo.

The relationship between Arturo and his father was one Rocco didn't fully understand. About a decade ago, after a particularly gruesome job, Vittore enrolled Arturo in psychotherapy. 

The sessions didn't go well. 

After a month of intensive work, Vittore was forced to fold the poor woman's remains in a barrel, fill it with wet concrete and dump her at sea. There had been no other attempt to try to 'cure' Arturo. Instead, Vittore attempted to manage his issues by giving him jobs where there was no other option but torture resulting in death.
Was that something Rocco would have to worry about as well?

Since childhood, Arturo had been bitter about life. Whether it was because he was the youngest, or the shortest, or the least attractive, there was always something to complain about. When he grew particularly bitter about how he stacked up to Rocco, something bad would happen. One time, Rocco had been on the job when his opponent bested him and took his gun. Staring down the muzzle of his own weapon, Rocco silently said his goodbyes when the gun exploded in the man's hands. Muscle, blood, and jagged bone pieces sprayed across the room. The man went into shock only to die a short time later from blood loss. Two stubs at his wrists was all that was left of his hands. 

Another time, a monoxide leak filled Rocco's apartment while all the others in the same building were clean. Luckily, he'd been on a job when his landlord entered with a spare set of keys to investigate an unrelated plumbing issue. If he hadn't Rocco would've been the one to succumb to the fumes. The culprit was a hole in a new pipe, and although the hole looked natural, no one could explain how it formed. Both times, Rocco couldn't prove Arturo did anything. However, when he saw his brother after each scare, there was a hard look of disappointment in Arturo's eyes. If Vittore was going to spend a significant amount of time behind bars, Rocco worried those attempts may increase in frequency. 

How many times could he dodge death?

For now, he had to find out what the lawyers thought and what they'd nailed Vittore for. The future was still too uncertain to know for sure. All he knew for certain was that after today things were finished with Whitney. He'd let her go with her life, and their paths would never cross again. A dull ache spread through his chest at the thought. What a shame it was, but there was no work around. Not with Arturo around and a destiny as Don looming in the future.

The toilet flushed, but the door did not open. Water ran. Whitney showered. Rocco uncovered his face and looked at the bathroom door. If he was going to visit his dad in jail, the least he could do was shower so he didn't stink the place up. Rocco climbed out of bed, he walked to the bathroom door and slipped inside.

Behind the glass door of the shower she looked fantastic. Water streaming down her body, hair soaked through and surprisingly long now that it wasn't curled, eyes closed as she tilted her head towards the stream, she was like a model out of a commercial. Rocco made his way across the tile floor and slid the door open. The sound of the door running across the track alerted Whitney to his presence, and she jumped in mute fright. Big, frightened eyes locked on him, then softened with recognition. At least she still had the presence of mind to be afraid.

"Hearing you shower made me realize that I needed to take one, too. Might as well save on time and do it together, if you're still comfortable being naked around me."

Whitney hesitated. The dark, soulful eyes he couldn't get enough of looked him up and down before she nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "That's no problem. I mean, it is your house. It was rude of me to shower without asking permission, but I..."

"You what?" Rocco stepped past the entrance way and slid the door closed behind him. A thin layer of warm water slicked the shower floor, running downward towards the center drain. Mist already kissed at his skin and promised comfort.

"Well, I was in here, looking at the shower and I realized that this might be my last time seeing a bathroom. It might be my last chance to step under a shower and feel warm and fresh, or touch a plush towel. I thought I'd better take the chance to savor this moment and remember it. Enjoy it."

She was talking about her own death. Rocco's lips pressed into a thin line as he stepped closer, wasting no time wrapping his arms around her and drawing her body against his.

"I know that I fucked it up yesterday, and that I scared you," he said, "but I meant what I said when I told you I was going to fix this. You're smart to be skeptical, but I am a man of my word. I'm going to get you out of here."

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?