“They’re not gonna recognize me. Without the beard they don’t know who I am, probably. Not right away. We’re gonna walk through, you’re gonna dismiss them, not give them the time of day. You’re the boss, remember? Just keep walking, don’t stop and talk, just—”
“Then they’re going to think something’s wrong. If I’m rude—”
“You talk to them, don’t you?” he smiled like it had just occurred to him.
It pissed her off, like he was laughing at her. Dumb Daniella is nice to the help. So?
He said, “That’s like you, isn’t it?”
“I am who I say I am, yeah.”
His face went firm again and he was back to business. “Whatever it takes, Daniella, we have to get to those elevators without getting stopped. Do whatever it takes...”
His hand fidgeted in that bulging pocket again. He was readying his weapon. She could be nice. Get them out of here. Try not to get these young guys killed. She nodded to him. “I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
“Of course I can, asshole.” She set her face mean and focused, and nudged her chin to open the stupid door already.
“Hey,” he said, catching her gaze. “If they make a move towards you I don’t like, I will kill them. Don’t get in the way.”
She rolled her eyes.
As his hand turned the lever, she pushed through ahead of him, marching briskly across the marble and around the bouquet set on the gleaming table. Wished she had her heels. The height gave her confidence and the sound they made on stone made men pay attention. She padded through in flats, saw them, the guards, one on either side of the wide doorway. Two young guys. Younger than her. One, Jimmy, shaved head and wearing a suit, acting like he looked good in it. He did, better than the dumb tracksuit he usually wore when he was on the street. The other one, Mickey, a big Irish kid with ginger hair. He was friendly looking but the word around was he had fists of steel and a temper that got them up and swinging pretty easy.
They both bristled as they saw her as she was feet away from passing between them. Their attention had been facing outward, watching for threats coming from the stairs or the elevators. Not that there had been any trouble she could ever remember. Her father had kept this city’s pot from boiling over. They both had themselves slumped against the metal door frames, the two of them shooting the shit and they jacked straight when they saw her in an attempt to appear aware.
Jimmy said, “Daniella,” surprise taking over and addressing her without recognizing her authority. She could see Mickey bristle, right away noticing his compatriots blunder. She nodded curtly and strut between them, fixing one with her gaze then the other before she was past. She heard Rocco on her heels and she felt strangely comforted by his big presence. If he was right, someone wanted to kill her and it could be one of these two.
Straight ahead, jostling in her vision shaken by her stomping flats was the elevator. But Jimmy stopped her, said, “Hey, whoa, Dani—Don Nero...”
Mickey put his arms out like he was corralling her, not touching her, just slowing her down. She could tell his eyes were over her shoulder, eyeballing Rocco.
“I’m just going down to the car, Jimmy,” she said, sounding weak when she didn’t mean to. “Gotta get something…”
“Don Nero,” he said, his eyes now looking Rocco up and down. “You want me to go? ...Let me go down for you, I’ll bring it up or whatever.”
Rocco’s hand reached over her shoulder, opened wide, his massive spread as big as Jimmy’s narrow chest. His voice grumbled, “That’s how you talk to your Don? ...She said where she’s going. Let her go and get the fuck out of her way.”
Mickey, on her left, went from friendly to fierce with a hair trigger. His face pinched and he spit, “Who the fuck are you?”
Daniella turned to halt Rocco, saw him smiling as he said, “You want to find out?”
“He’s my guard, Mickey...he’s with me.” Then, turning back she said, “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m your Don.”
Jimmy said, “Where’s Vito?”
Rocco’s finger poked her in the back, between her shoulder blades. A reminder to be decisive, keep it moving or he would kill these two. What if he couldn’t? What if they drew first, killed both of them, her and Rocco.
“Vito? Vito’s inside...what the fuck you care? ...You two dating? Go stand over there by the door and watch for people coming. You’re worse than the fucking TSA,” she said, and she brushed past them, waving them away with a flicking of her hands, conjuring every bit of disdain her father had bequeathed her.
She strutted, still waving them aside, wishing for those heels again, and she felt pretty good. Rocco whispered, “That’s it baby, that’s it,” as they were clear and it made her mad to hear him talk to her like that.
She grumbled through tense lips, “I told you...”
“Told me what?” he said as he got himself beside her and they were closer to the elevator banks.
“Don’t call me bab—”
She was wracked by another fierce cramp. It made her steps falter and she worried what Mickey and Jimmy would do, so she stumbled through the pain.
“What is it?” Rocco asked her, his eyes glancing down but his head kept on target.
“Nothing... Something... I don’t know. It’s bad...”
“It’s fine,” he said, “it’s a cramp. Walk it off. It’s not serious.”
“What do you know?” she hissed through another piercing stab of pain.
“It’s nothing to worry about. If it gets too bad I’ll carry you.”
They continued, their steps in the marble hall echoing around them, her ballerinas, his big boots. She watched his stony profile. She couldn’t trust him. Knew she couldn’t. But he comes here with this crazy story and she gets herself swept up with him again... Was she being stupid?
Four years ago they were in love. She’d never felt the way she did for anyone else in her whole life. Hadn’t since. Rocco took her heart effortlessly. Puppy love turned infatuation, turned tumbling, bed sheet ripping passion, screaming his name as he railed that thing of his between her legs... Infatuation becoming obsession, obsession becoming something she never knew before. It was true love. She was powerless against him. She’d never met a man like Rocco. He was cold and callous like many of the soldiers who orbited her father. In many ways Rocco was the worst of them. But in secret he was hot-blooded passionate and strong. Loving and caring and tender, then dominant, bold, taking her with force. He made her knees weak.
Their love had been a secret. Their affair made exciting by its secrecy. They were insulated. The outside world was a cold hard shell, a steely crust formed around their burning molten metal love. Every moment spent with Rocco was a clandestine rapture, the time apart from him consumed with the question of when she’d next fall into his arms. She cherished their times together—ravenous trysts in hotel rooms, motel rooms, getaways, alleys, back seats of black Cadillacs. They got good at keeping their love hidden. Always under the surface, discovery just a dangerous heartbeat away. Then, when they both couldn’t stand their time spent apart, they agreed to throw it all away. They would give it all up. Together.
She would have given up her life as she knew it for this man. This handsome long-lost swain of hers, striding in squeaky rubber-soled boots with his finger on the trigger of a gun in his pocket. With his thick, shining black hair, and his strong, angular profile. A sharp ridge of brow pushed down over a solid masculine nose. Piercing black eyes focused ahead on the target. His soft lips, pouting and berry-colored, feminine, but made strong and masculine set above that hard chiseled chin and wide jaw.
Zakynthos. That was their plan. Greece. Far away from cold old Chicago. A place where the sun shone, a symbiotic place in harmony with their passion and their love for one another.
Laying satiated and naked in a bed in a shitty Interstate hotel she’d spoken the words and he’d said they would make it happen. She’d stared at the cracks in the to
bacco-stained stucco ceiling and her soft scared voice finally drew the courage and asked him, Would you run away with me?
Two hot young things stuffed under stiff cotton sheets making plans to live a life they dreamed and doing it together. They worked it out in an afternoon. Greece. They would abandon all they had. Pool all the cash they could get their fingers on and they would elope. Disappear from the dark and tragic obligations of the Nero crime family.
That was an amazing month. A month filled with hope and love and this incredible feeling of dreams inexorably becoming manifest. Stolen glances that held a meaning so enormous but known only to them. They were giving it all up for each other. There was a countdown to their launch. Three days, two days... God, one more day and we’ll be together forever...
She waited for him at the airport where they were supposed to meet. He never showed. She waited and she cried and she worried. Watched out windows, searched over the heads of the crowds. Wandered the parking lot, the terminal... She went to his apartment. It was empty, cleared out. His phone went unanswered. Texts went unanswered. Did he change his mind? Did he not love her? Did someone come for him? Was he at the bottom of the Chicago River?
She went to Greece. Booked another flight the next day. Maybe there had been a mix up. She went to Zakynthos on her own and she wandered the streets, jostling against all the happy people, completely shredded inside. She went to the sea, touched her toes in the water like she’d dreamed. But alone, without her Rocco, its touch on her skin was like pain.
The loss was enormous. She swore Rocco was dead.
What did she really know about a man that would let her believe that? That would let her suffer like she did... Who was he really? What if this threat of death is a ploy and this is really a kidnapping. Of course he could have picked a better time. Fucking Sedona or something. Walked right into her private cottage at the ashram, no guards around, thrown her over his shoulder and knocked out any skinny sunburned hippy that tried to stop him. And he wouldn’t need to trick her, convince her, to kidnap her—he’d just knock her over the head. Or slip her something.
She stopped short of the elevator, her flats squeaking on the marble floor. She said, “Hey, did you...did you give me something to go to the bathroom?” But before he could answer she was stabbed again, as if her bladder knew she was talking about it. This time it came so fiercely she couldn’t stop herself from squawking loudly and folding over.
Rocco reacted at the same time she heard Jimmy down the hall. Rocco’s hand was on her back and he spoke her name with concern. So did Jimmy, shouted it from down the hall, his tinged with worry and the need for action. Jimmy and Mickey headed into the hall. She stood, the tension in her belly sharp still but easing. Her upper lip felt sweaty.
“Can you walk?” Rocco said low, “You need me to carry you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, pushing his hand away.
“Daniella,” Jimmy called again and now he was stepping their way.
“Not now, Jimmy,” she hollered, waving him away, but not showing him her face, knowing it would be twisted still from the pain.
They kept coming, and Rocco’s hand fidgeted in his pocket.
4
Klaxon
rocco
Jimmy was on his radio. This was trouble.
“The stairs, Daniella. Run,” he said with urgency but no panic, and his hand went to the space between her shoulder blades and he shoved her. Shoved her away from the elevator that would never arrive on time, aimed her down the hall, his eyes still on Jimmy and Mickey, then a third man exploding onto the scene behind them, frantic and mean-faced. Vito’s body had been discovered.
“Daniella, go,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and seeing her pick up her pace, the stumble from his rough handling becoming a trot. The metal doors that led to the stairwell were twenty steps away on the right side, a small square tab of a sign protruding from the marble wall with an emblem of stairs. He walked backwards, said, “Quickly, Daniella,” still facing the show that was playing out in front of him in the vestibule of the meeting rooms they’d just come from.
“Daniella!” Jimmy yelled out now. Not waiting for her to call back, the scrawny kid in the suit began to run their way and Mickey and the new arrival followed behind.
“Fuck,” he said, and he turned to catch up to Daniella, ending up at her heels as she made it to the door to the stairs. She hesitated there and glanced over his shoulder, saw the men coming for them and a look of panic scrabbled across her face. She’d never been in danger before. Her father was a good man and he’d always kept her safe. She’d never had to see what it looked like when they came for you. This was a lot for her all at one time. The man she loved—maybe had thought was dead—returned to her; her dad dead now, her former lover here to kill her... Someone paying an unbelievable sum for her death to be dastardly. She’d been dubious, regardless, til now... Now the look in those beautiful, wet and trembling eyes was fear. He never wanted to see that in her.
“Go,” he said, and the door she held, hesitant to open, frozen in fear—he ripped it wide and set her on her way. He said, “Go down two floors and into that hall, turn left...left, Daniella,” he repeated seeing her frightened gaze wandering, “then another left...you’ll see.”
He saw that hesitation in her again, like she wanted him to repeat himself, not getting it, not understanding, her systems overloaded. He blasted her, yelled, “Go!” Got those cobwebs cleared and those pretty feet moving. She ran.
He stood by the door, held it from closing with one hand and faced down the three storming men.
“Hey,” Jimmy called from twenty strides away, “where is she?”
The man in the midst of them, the newcomer, a soldier of one of Saturn Paradiso’s, though Rocco forgot his name, made a bad move. Hand went into his jacket and he pulled a pistol.
Rocco saw it clearly, saw the shape of his gripping hand, knew he held something black, saw it clear the lapel of his jacket, saw the butt of the gun at the curve of his grip. Hammerless, probably a Glock, saw the tab of the rear gunsight, all of it happening in slow motion. In one easy and steady practiced move his own gun hand cleared his jacket pocket, his hand came up and in one heartbeat he had the sight on the soldier and he pulled his trigger twice. Two shots, both center mass, not sure where, but it put him down like he had a heart attack, his momentum pitching him forward and he dashed face first onto Empire Crest marble. Mickey and Jimmy dove. One left, one right. Mickey into an open archway leading through glass-paneled walls of another meeting suite, this one abandoned for the day. Jimmy ended up in an alcove against a metal door that was locked. His polished shoes were visible, soles up in the air as he struggled with getting the locked door open.
Rocco turned and ran down the stairs after Daniella. He beat his boot soles triple time down the painted concrete steps, squeaks echoing around the narrow windowless space. He got down two flights of stairs, prayed Daniella had obeyed him, yanked the door open, let it close quietly behind him, his own ears tuned to hear any sounds of pursuit. The door shut and he heard nothing. For now they were safe, but they would be followed. They would come hard. Some would come to save Daniella, and some of them would be coming to kill her. All of them would be coming to kill Rocco.
This was a kidnapping to some, to others a botched hit. He would never know which was which, and it wouldn’t matter. Not if he wanted to stay alive. And he needed to stay alive if he wanted to protect the woman he loved. Protect her and put an end to the man who would order her death.
He found Daniella cowering against a wall, ten feet down the hall at his first left. This entire floor was comprised of offices. The 38th floor, on the south side of the building, was owned by Duffy and Ross, and Associates. Corporate law. Main offices above on the 39th, this floor was mostly juniors fresh out of college, reading through paperwork all day. The sound of two gunshots on one of the floors above them—what could possibly have been gunshots—was a perfect distraction to thei
r day. Young people in shirts and ties and blouses and skirts all filled doorways now, idle worried chatter murmuring through the halls.
“Let’s go,” he whispered to Daniella, and he walked, expecting her to follow.
She did, moving quickly alongside him. She was as curious as the workers, whispering to him, “Was that a gun? ...Did you shoot them?”
“This way,” he said, taking her by the wrist as they came to a four-way intersection of offices. The feel of her fine bones in his grip did something in his belly. Tightened him, put a swell through his heart and a surge between his legs. She was the finest woman he’d ever held. Graceful and sweet and—
“Rocco... Did you shoot Jimmy?” she said, a rising inflection in her voice.
“Shh,” he hissed, and tugged at her arm.
They went through a network of hallways formed by offices and cubicles, got themselves out of Duffy-Ross, back onto marble, and to a bank of different elevators, ones that didn’t line up with the skirmish they’d had on the fortieth.
He was only vaguely familiar with the layout in here. He’d studied blueprints when he was Papa Nero’s sgarrista, and they stayed with him, but these spaces changed with revolving tenants. The layouts of the units were always different depending on what the tenants plugged into them. But from here, from these elevators, he knew he could find another set of stairs. These ones wound down the western spine of the building. The unglamorous side that was away from Lake Michigan, faced out over the blank faces of the surrounding skyscrapers.
There was no commotion here, these offices too far from the sound of the gunshots to invoke any curiosity. Of course, one text could run its way through all these people’s devices and there would be a full scale panic on their hands. A good diversion under the right circumstances but they were too many floors above the streets to really help, and the level of force in their pursuit was unknown at the moment. It was premature to cause chaos.
Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1) Page 3