Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance (14 page)

T
he 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 daylight 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?"

Whitney had a feeling that even if she objected, he wouldn't listen. A man who would chase her down, smear blood across her face, and then knock her out wasn't the kind who took no for an answer. All she could do was choke back a terrified sob and huddle against the back of the trunk. Mikhail was not fazed.

"Come to me now," he ordered. Not willing to wait for her to comply, he reached back and grabbed her by the arm. With no other support, he wrenched her forward. Pain seared through Whitney's arm and along her back as he pulled her, and she cried out in agony. Mikhail shook his head.

"Save for camera," he told her. "More screams make more money."

Once she was in range, Mikhail reached in and lifted her from beneath her arms. Like a slab of meat, he dragged Whitney out of the trunk, then with a grunt and a bend in his legs, he hefted her over his shoulder like she was a bag of flour. Unable to bring herself to a stop, Whitney's torso slapped against his back and the wind was knocked from her lungs.

"Good girls stay quiet until it is time to scream," Mikhail said, jovial, as though they were on their way to share a few drinks and some good conversation rather that whatever twisted scenario he planned. "Arturo was right, pretty girl is excellent price."

Arturo.

As Whitney gasped for breath and twisted and squirmed against Mikhail's firm grasp, relief flooded her. No matter what was about to happen to her, she could cling to the small comfort of knowing that it wasn't Rocco who'd done this. There was one person in this world who'd been decent to her. Rocco was no prince, no saint, and the circumstances of their meeting were a black mark against him, but he'd redeemed himself in the end. Rocco was someone special. If only he'd taken her with him...

Slung over Mikhail's shoulder as she was, Whitney wasn't able to get a good view at where they'd come to a stop. The smell of the air reminded her of the warehouse that Rocco had brought her to the night before. If Arturo was involved, Mikhail might have brought her to a similar hideout. When they rose the short cement staircase and entered through a heavy metal door, Whitney thought it more likely.
Was there a derelict warehouse along the shoreline that the Lombardos didn't own? The city really was under their thumb.

"What size does the little mouse wear?" Mikhail asked. "Small? Medium? I have little blue lingerie set for you, will be pretty. Will be perfect."

"I just want to go home," Whitney rasped. The words caught in her throat and irritated it, adding to its dryness. "Call Rocco, please. He'll tell you to let me go."

"Is too late now," Mikhail exclaimed. They walked through an open area. The few dangling bulbs that still worked in the place created more shadow than light. The setting was exactly like a horror movie. Whitney hung her head and tried to focus. If she could hold back on panicking, she could think her way through this and get out, just like she'd done with Rocco. "Now pretty girl belongs to me."

"Does she?" A stern voice cut through the darkness, and Mikhail came to a swift stop. "Cuz I'm thinking that you're full of shit. I'm thinking that the lady belongs to me."

There was seething anger in Rocco's voice. Whitney twisted around just in time to see Rocco step out from the shadows. Although he was dressed in the casual attire he'd worn out of the safe house that morning, he was no less intimidating than he was in a crisp suit while armed. The way he crossed his arms over his chest, how his posture was board straight, and the confidence in his shoulders and stance were all Rocco needed to look dangerous. At that moment he looked downright lethal. Expression beyond pissed, eyes narrowed slits of hate, he stared Mikhail down.

"R-Rocco," Mikhail stammered. "Did not expect to see you here."

"And I didn't expect to see you with my girl," Rocco shot back, "but sometimes life leads us to unpleasant surprises. Lemme try to make sure there are no surprises coming up in your future. Here's the deal. I know my brother told you that you could have her, but my brother is a pompous asswad psychopath who doesn't understand the consequences of his actions. Unfortunately, the consequences of his actions directly affect you. So here's how it's gonna work. You let the girl go, give her over to me right here, right now, and all's gonna be forgiven. You can go home, I can go home, she can go home, and we're all happy. Or if not happy, at least alive. You see, my brother isn't the one who runs this little business — I do. So if you wanna get on his ass about a sour deal, then you take it up with him, but I can't let this transaction happen."

Rocco. Against all odds, Rocco was here. Tears of relief streamed from Whitney's eyes and down her cheeks, but she could not bring herself to sob.

But despite the intimidating command, Mikhail did not release her.

"Have never had bad deal with Arturo before," Mikhail admitted. He took a few tentative steps towards Rocco in an attempt to close some of the distance between them. "It is big surprise. But to have come all the way here with girl only to have deal go south is wasteful. Tell you what, Rocco, we strike up deal."

"No deals," Rocco responded right away. "What I say goes."

"Shush lips and listen," Mikhail begged. "Business is slow, and although Arturo is not big boss, he is smaller part of business beneath your jurisdiction, and his actions are yours to deal with. Allow girl to stay for one night, maybe two nights if she likes it. I will not allow any harm or death to come to her. That way, you get girl alive, I get some of what I was promised, and all are happy."

"Rocco," Whitney begged him, voice crackling, "save me."

"No," Rocco said. The impersonal mask he wore while on the job was on tight. Not even Whitney's cry affected him. "Hand her over now and you get to walk out of here. It's your life or the girl, Mikhail. Choose wisely."

There was a moment's hesitation. Beneath her, Whitney felt the Russian's body tense. Before she knew what was happening, he threw her off of his shoulder so one moment she was in the air, and the next she was skidding along the rough cement floor. The outer layer of the skin along her arm and side scraped. The searing pain brought a howl from her lips, but as much as Whitney wanted to curl up, she couldn't. If she wanted to stay alive, she had to stay alert. Right now, that meant watching the scene unfold between the two criminals before her.

Mikhail drew a concealed knife from a sheath at his side. The blade caught the dim light. Rocco's arms uncrossed, but there was little time between when Mikhail drew the knife and when he rushed Rocco with it. The Don's son was given enough time to turn his body away from the hit, and the blade sank into his shoulder instead of his chest. Both men toppled to the floor, Mikhail screaming, Rocco grunting with pain.

At the far end of the room was an impromptu movie set. A white background and a dirty bed were set up before a camera beneath bright stage lights. Whitney looked towards it, heart racing, to try to find something to use to help Rocco. It looked like he was unarmed.

Beside the set was a silver medical trolley fitted with a tray of medical instruments. Scalpels, pliers, saws, and other nasty looking tools that looked medieval but that Whitney couldn't identify lined the prepared space. That could have been her future.

It was time to make it her present.

Whitney scrambled to her feet and ran across the room as the two men scrapped. Mikhail withdrew the knife from Rocco's shoulder and sent it slamming down into him again, catching him in a similar spot. Rocco, slender and lithe, had no way to knock the massive Russian off from on top of him, and unarmed, he would be killed if Whitney didn't intervene.

Grabbing a scalpel from the tray, Whitney ran back for the scene. Bright red blood splattered the floor around where Rocco lay and colored the knife that left his shoulder. Before Mikhail could stab him again, Whitney sprang into action.

"ROCCO!" she cried. Blue eyes, hardened and unafraid of death, looked her way. Time slowed. As she ran, Whitney launched the scalpel across the floor towards Rocco's hand. Mikhail lifted the knife over his head and was set to slam it back down — this time into Rocco's chest. Instead, Rocco reached out, grabbed the scalpel by its thin handle as soon as it skittered into reach, and slammed the blade into the middle of Mikhail's thigh. The knife slipped from Mikhail's hands and clattered to the ground between Rocco's legs.

"Get the fuck off me!" Rocco growled. The scalpel withdrew and he slammed it through Mikhail's side. The blade sank in to its hilt, disappearing entirely. Mikhail howled in pain and scrambled back.

Now that Rocco was armed, he had a chance. Whitney ran back to the medical tray. If things went sour, she wanted to have a weapon to defend herself with. If it came down to it, she would help Rocco defend himself. Mikhail made it clear he wanted both of them dead.

As Mikhail fumbled for the knife, Rocco jumped into a crouching position and sprung at him. Fueled by adrenaline Rocco was a threat. He tackled Mikhail to the floor and grabbed his hair, wrenching his throat back. Before the Russian could get out another sound, Rocco ran his blade across the man's throat and slit it wide open. Blood spurted from his severed carotid arteries, drenching Rocco's chest and face in splattered crimson with each beat of Mikhail's heart.

"You don't fuckin' take what doesn't belong to you," Rocco growled as Mikhail fell back, limp, to the floor. Like a fish out of water he gasped for air, but the blood that now filled his lungs made drawing breath impossible. It took a few short moments for death to claim him, and once it had, Rocco jabbed the scalpel into his chest and rose. There was no wobble in his step; death was what he did for a living, and it no longer had any effect on him.

Whitney fell to her knees by the trolley and wrapped her arms around herself. In the time that Rocco made his kill, she'd taken a heavy wrench from the table, and now she cradled it in her arms. Had Mikhail come at her, she would have used it as a club. Now that the threat of him doing so was neutralized, all Whitney could think about was how he would have used the wrench on her.
The scalpels, the pliers, the saws... Would he literally have torn her apart while she was still alive for the sick pleasures of vile men?
As much as her throat burned, she managed a sob. Whitney's world had always been troubled, but she never realized how filthy it was until she'd met Rocco last night.

There were no words exchanged between them. Rocco walked across the warehouse floor until he stood in front of her, then dropped to his knees and drew her into his arms. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other slipped around her waist, there was affection beyond simple lust in his touch.

He came for her when she needed him the most.

The wrench fell from her arms. Whitney locked her arms around Rocco's neck and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Warm tears met warm blood. Rocco was bleeding from his wounds, but despite the pain, he tended to her emotional needs first. Apart from the ragged pattern of their breathing and the hitched sobs that died in Whitney's throat, the warehouse was silent. 

It was over.

When he caught his breath, Rocco locked his arms around her and lifted her as he stood. The deep gashes from the knife gaped like grotesque mouths from the exertion, but Rocco paid them no heed. Instead, he held Whitney close and walked across the somber warehouse floor away from the Russian and away from the front door. Mikhail's body lay where he'd left it, lifeless.