Taken by the Italian Mafia: A Dark City Romance

by Sadie Black

  If he didn't know where Mikhail liked to do business, Whitney would be dead, butchered for sick pornography. Never again would he cast a blind eye to such actions. Under his command, the mafia would uphold respectable crime. Arturo would have to adjust.

  "I may be hurt, but let me care for you now," Rocco insisted. Long fingers stole the sponge from Whitney's hand, and he dipped it beneath the water in her place. A squeeze voided it of the filth it had picked up, and when he lifted it anew, it was primed with fresh suds.

  "You've already done so much," Whitney whispered. Rocco eased her back against the back of the tub.

  "And I don't feel like it will ever be enough," he replied.

  The sponge met her skin and trailed to her shoulder. Down one arm it went, then the other. All the while, Whitney watched him.

  "Whatever it is between us," Rocco said, "I can't shake it. Whatever spell you cast on me stuck, Whitney. I don't think I'll ever be the same."

  Rocco raised the sponge to her injured head, cleaning the sticky blood away. The scrapes Whitney had taken when Mikhail threw her to the ground looked raw, but clean. She'd be better in no time.

  "I don't think I'll be the same, either," she whispered. Nothing more was said as he washed her hair, freeing it from the caked blood and dirt. When at last she was cleaned and they were rinsed free of soap, Whitney took his hand and guided him back to his feet. As she stood, water streamed down her rich skin, like rivers over dark shores.

  "Come."

  Whitney plucked a towel from a nearby bar and turned to dab the water away from his injured shoulder. When she was sure no harm would come to it, Rocco took it from her and tossed it aside. Two plush white bathrobes hung on the back of the bathroom door, and he wrapped her in one of them before taking the other for himself.

  "I thought I'd never see this place again," she told him. "I thought I'd never see you again, even though you said you would come to find me. I can't tell you how happy I am to be standing here, in this place, with you."

  "This place is a nightmare," Rocco said, "and I'm the boogeyman. Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure you wouldn't be happier turning your back on this darkness? It's like mixing black paint into white paint — there's no way to go back. If you're here, it means you'll always be here. There's still time to save yourself."

  With a twisted little smile and a quirk of her eyebrow, Whitney caught upon the front of his bathrobe and pulled herself close. Now that the fear of abduction had worn off, her true self shone through. Funny, charming, gorgeous, and unafraid to flirt with danger, she was all he could ask for in a woman.

  "I don't need to be saved. Not anymore."

  The cunning vibrancy in her eyes hooked him and refused to let go. Disregarding the pain he felt in his shoulder, Rocco wrapped his arms around her and held her close. If this was what she wanted, who was he to deny her? He wanted it just as badly.

  He directed her across the hardwood of the bedroom. When she sank onto the unmade bed, he could resist her no longer. The white robe hung open around her dark body, offering him a view that took his breath away. Whitney was stunning. Unwilling to waste another moment, Rocco climbed up onto the bed after her and straddled her thigh. One of his knees sank into the space between her legs, the other outside her body. Favoring his good arm to support his weight, he leaned over her and looked into her eyes. There was no need to speak.

  How could he ever leave her behind?

  Rocco shifted his weight onto his elbow and ran his hand through her damp hair. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. No matter what he faced. He was the Don, and no one would come between him and what he wanted — and right now he wanted her.

  When their lips met at last, there had never been a sweeter kiss. Despite the need he felt for her, Rocco would not rush things. Whitney's lips were to be savored and adored, and he would offer her the worship she deserved. She was worth it all.

  With each kiss, Rocco melted into her touch. Lower he sank until their bodies were flush, the full brunt of his excitement pressed against her stomach. Whitney wrapped her arms loosely around his neck and kept him close, enamored.

  "Make love to me," she whispered against his lips. "Show to me that you mean what you say."

  If that was all it took, Rocco would prove it to her every day.

  Hard and ready for her, he let his hand dip down over her stomach and down her thigh. Rocco's fingertips traveled inward, teasing her sex. Even after their bath, she was ready for him. What a poor, misguided creature. Didn't she know he was bad to the core? As his finger moved inward to tease the bud of her sex she moaned and pressed up against him, he knew it didn't matter. Whitney was interested in who he was as a person, and he was determined to be the best person he could be for her.

  Slow movements teased her to new altitudes of desire, and it wasn't long before Whitney squirmed beneath him, desperate for him. The look in her eyes, heavy with arousal, was his invitation. Whitney parted her thighs.

  As she moved beneath him, Rocco moved to correspond. The hard length once pressed against her stomach ran between her legs to reintroduce itself to her slit. And then, when their positions aligned just right, her caught in her entrance and pushed forward with gentle insistence.

  Whitney gasped and clung to him a little tighter.

  "Rocco," she uttered, hips moving to meet his thrust. Their movements were slow, but did not lack in passion. Rocco was caught up in her, and she felt so good he never wanted what they had to end.

  Each time he sank in, he felt as though he was deeper than he'd ever been before. There was no one else for him.

  Both of their bodies sore and injured following the events of earlier that afternoon, there was no reckless, mindless fucking. What Whitney gave to him was far more precious. Making love had always sounded so half-assed and pansy to Rocco, but now he understood. Sharing himself with a woman he loved was infinitely better than any quick and mindless fucks he'd had in the past. Whitney was the key to it all.

  Stolen kisses and delighted gasps replaced the senseless slap of skin on skin and the creaking of bedsprings. What they made together was beautiful and meaningful. Rocco would never forget it.

  "Ohh, Rocco," Whitney breathed — and then he felt it. The tight walls of her sex shivered and contracted against him, plunging him deeper into the waters of her pleasure. It was Rocco's turn to gasp. A surge of pleasure shot through him and tightened in his balls, and relief came all at once. His seed passed through him and into her, marking her body as his once more. His girl, he'd told Mikhail. He wouldn't forget it again.

  "Rocco," she murmured again, a smile spreading her lips. Instead of reply, he kissed her. Orgasm spread through them both, then rippled into nothing — but the feelings he had did not diminish. When Rocco withdrew, he lay by Whitney's side and pulled her into his arms, pressing one last kiss against her lips.

  "Whitney Greene," he muttered back. "I'm a man of my words. Whatever the future holds for us, I'm gonna make sure that it goes smoothly. Don't you worry about a thing."

  The way she looked at him, eyes alit with adoration, told him that she trusted him. There was no bigger compliment. And it was that feeling of contentedness that lingered with him as he fell asleep by her side.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Whitney

  Safe in Rocco's arms, warm beneath the sheets, Whitney had never slept more soundly. Exhaustion from terror was real, but so was the relief from it that followed. Now that the shock had worn off and she'd found her safety net, Whitney cherished every second that she was still alive.

  And as messed up as it made her feel, she didn't recall a time when she was happier.

  Even living paycheck to paycheck, career uncertain, the fleeting nature of life had never hit her as hard as it had in the last twenty-four hours. There was no predicting what would happen, and it was a fact of life Whitney had to learn to live with whether she was with Rocco or if she was on her own. What mattered was how yo
u dealt with it and got through it, and Whitney was done with worrying. Instead, she intended to live each moment to the fullest and enjoy what good she had while it lasted.

  It didn't last long.

  In what felt like seconds after she'd closed her eyes and fallen asleep, the slam of their closed bedroom door against the wall startled her awake. The hall light was off, but even in the shadows, Whitney could recognize the stumpy, chubby silhouette of the man in the doorway.

  Arturo.

  "You killed Mikhail?!" Arturo roared as he entered the room. Whitney was awake at once, and clutched her robe around her as she scrambled up towards the headboard. Rocco had already sat up, peering at his brother through the darkness. "You fuckin' killed Mikhail over some black slut? All this bullshit over a tight cunt and a taboo, Rocco? Are you shitting me?"

  "She's not a slut, she's not a taboo lay, and what we do behind closed doors is none of your fuckin' business," Rocco growled. He rose from the bed. "You leave her the fuck alone and stop sticking your nose in my business! I'm Don now, and you're going to listen to what I tell you, or God help you, Arturo, I won't be held responsible for what happens."

  The whites of Arturo's teeth caught in the moonlight as he sneered. A rustle of fabric followed a quick hand gesture, and he pointed his gun at Rocco's head. Rocco froze. Naked and unarmed, Arturo had the clear, lethal advantage.

  "You know what?" Arturo said, holding his aim steady. "I'm fuckin' sick of your bullshit power trips and your superiority complex. Ooh, I'm Rocco. I'm dad's favorite and I'm gonna be Don one day, so you'd better shut your trap, Arturo. Ooh, we're in a war with the Black Mafia? I'll just bang this black slut anyway cuz I'm above the rules."

  "Arturo, stop—"

  "Arturo, stop! I don't like it when you call me out on my BULLSHIT. WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE BLIND TO ALL MY FUCKUPS LIKE DAD IS?" Arturo burst into screaming, eyes wild and shoulders tight with unchecked rage and delusion. "Well you know what, Rocco? Dad's in fuckin' jail. Now that he's locked up there's only one thing that's stopping ME from being on top, and that's you."

  A flick of his thumb unlocked the safety. Whitney gasped. Rocco was frozen on the spot, face a cold mask of impartiality.

  "So buckle in for a wild ride," Arturo sneered. All of a sudden his aim pivoted from Rocco to Whitney, muzzle of his gun trained directly at her skull. "Cuz I'm gonna ride her until she's beggin' me to stop. I'm gonna make you watch as I slice away that black skin until she's all pink and red all over. As she's still alive and screaming in agony, I'm gonna go back and fuck that pretty pussy you love so much until I'm ready to shoot my load all over her skinless carcass. I'm gonna slice off those lips and make her eat the pieces. I'm gonna—"

  An inhuman cry of rage echoed through the room and cut Arturo off mid sentence. Emotion slipped through Rocco's stony mask, overriding the hardened criminal he had fostered through the years. Before Arturo knew what was happening, Rocco lunged through the air at him, fists swinging.

  The gun went off. A deafening pop and the bright light of an explosion filled the room with their violence. Whitney dropped onto the bed, but searing pain shot through her, burning like nothing she had ever felt before. The sensation was so overwhelming she had no idea where it originated from. All she knew was that she'd been shot.

  "YOU FUCKIN' BASTARD!" Rocco cried. Another shot went off, but the bullet lodged into the wall. The sound of metal skittering across the hardwood floor marked the moment the gun was struck from Arturo's hands. Rocco was on the attack, and no injury was going to stop him from defending Whitney's honor.

  Both men fell to the floor, screaming at each other. Their voices mingled as one, words impossible to pick out. Fists flew. One moment Rocco had pinned Arturo to the ground, slamming his fist into his face as he had the night before on the stairs, and the next Arturo had gained the advantage and was sinking low blows in an attempt to cripple his brother. Even as she lay in agony on the bed, warm blood seeping from her shoulder, Whitney knew that no matter what, the key to victory lay in the one gun that had skidded across the room. She couldn't let Arturo have it. Gritting her teeth and struggling to rise, Whitney got up from the bed and staggered across the floor. The gun had come to a stop when it met the wall. She scooped it up and held it tight, finger hovering near the trigger. If Arturo came at her or Rocco broke away from him, she would shoot him. Until then, she didn't want to kill the wrong man.

  Rocco's fist connected a savage blow with the back of Arturo's head. Arturo slumped, momentarily stunned, and Rocco ripped the belt from around his brother's waist and wrapped it around his neck. By the time Arturo began to recover, it was too late. Rocco rose to his feet and planted his foot against Arturo's head to secure it in place. With one hand he pulled on the length of the belt, tightening the choker until Arturo struggled to breathe. Still, Rocco pressed onward. Whitney watched as Arturo's face turned bright red, the color visible even in the low light of the bedroom. His noises he made grew fainter, then stopped entirely. Still Rocco pulled at the belt. It wasn't until Arturo's body had laid still and silent for a good thirty seconds that he dared drop the noose.

  Arturo was dead.

  "Goddamn it," Rocco muttered, taking his foot away to stand beside his brother's corpse. "God fucking damn it, Arturo. I told you what would happen. I fucking told you."

  Whitney lowered the gun she held, her relief greater than any sorrow she felt. The gesture caught Rocco's attention, and he turned his head to look at her. There was no question that this man was dangerous, a man who didn't hesitate to kill, but there was also no question that Rocco was a man who would defend Whitney at any cost. He was a man she could count on.

  "Are you okay?" he asked. "You're bleeding. Oh fuck, are you okay?" The vulnerability cracked his voice, and Rocco rushed to her side to hold her close. At long last, Whitney looked down at herself. The bullet had worked its way through her shoulder, mirroring the location of the stab wounds Mikhail had inflicted on Rocco.

  "I got shot," she mumbled, numb. "I can't believe it. I can't believe I'm still alive."

  Rocco's clenched around hers, forcing her fingers to hold the gun that much tighter. He clicked on the safety as he did so.

  "And I want you to stay alive. This gun, it's yours now. You keep it on you wherever you go. I'm gonna teach you how it works, how to load it, where the safety is, how to aim... No one is going to threaten you again. If ever I'm not around, I need you to know how to stick up for yourself. No one is going to fuck with us."

  "No one," Whitney parroted back, dazed. The pain was vibrant and real, but with Rocco there it didn't seem all that bad. At his side she found protection. At his side she found strength and adoration. More than adoration... As insane as it was, Whitney knew that her feelings ran deeper than that. In the wake of yet another attempt on her life, facing her mortality, she knew it clearer than ever before.

  "You got it," Rocco praised, pressing a loving kiss to the side of her head. "You got it, babe. You and me, I promise. We're in this together now. We've even got matching battle wounds to prove it. I promise you're gonna be okay."

  "Rocco," the suddenness of the word startled even Whitney. She fixed him with her gaze, knowing that if she didn't speak now, she wouldn't have the guts to say it again. "I love you."

  He kissed her with raw passion, and when he pulled away, his blues stared down at her with the kind of love she'd been looking for all her life.

  "And I love you too, Whitney Greene," he whispered to her. "You told me once that the world was ours. Now I think that you were right."

  Rocco pulled her to the door of the bedroom. He threw the white robes they'd worn from the bathroom back over them. Whitney's quickly soaked through with blood.

  "I'm taking you to the Lombardo doctors, screw the police investigations. C'mon. We've gotta vacate the area anyway so my own clean up guys can take care of this mess."

  They left the house together, settling back into the car to drive back to the city to seek care from the Lom
bardo family doctors. On the drive, Whitney watched Rocco as he worked. Already on the phone with his clean up crew, on his way to take care of her injury, he was exactly the right kind of man for the job. Tough, responsible, and unwilling to back down from the problem at hand. Would it be tough to stick by his side? Likely, Whitney thought. The danger of being associated with one of the most lethal men in New York was unlike any she'd faced before, but then again, Whitney had never had an easy life. What was one more hurdle if it meant she finally had the love she'd wanted since she was small?

  One more hurdle was nothing. Rocco was worth it all. The mysterious stranger who'd enchanted her from first glance was hers. No matter what business he was a part of, she wasn't willing to let him go.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Whitney

  Epilogue

  The Lombardo penthouse was beautiful. Whitney had never lived in such splendor before. Through the broad windows, New York stretched out before her as though she owned it all.

  When it came down to it, that wasn't all that far off from the truth. In six short months Rocco had risen to power in ways Vittore could never had dreamed of, so she was told. For the most part, Whitney liked to stay out of the family business, but when they paid their visits to Vittore at Stonecrest Penitentiary, the former Don covertly gushed as much.

  The pride in Rocco's father’s eyes wasn't put on. Whatever Rocco was doing, it was great. Regardless, he still worked tirelessly to try to find a loophole to spring his father from jail. Vittore had been sentenced for life, but Rocco was determined to find a technicality in there somewhere. There always was.

  "I've got work tonight, babe," Rocco called to her from the bedroom where he dressed following a long shower. Whitney reclined on one of their couches, a book propped open.

  The television on the wall cost more money than she'd ever had on hand. While Whitney wasn't sure how much the paintings and other artwork that livened the space were worth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Deep down she was still the same girl she'd been before she'd met Rocco, but now that girl had access to riches beyond her wildest dreams.