2. Rocco
2
ROCCO
A s soon as Ronan pulled the trigger, he realized his epic fuck up and fled the scene, as if he has a chance of surviving the night. The famiglia is already canvasing the entire city for him. We’ll find him, unless his own gang gives him up first. There’s been infighting in the Brass Bruisers, and some people want to see him gone.
Everyone, from the Russians to the Chinese, all the way down to the peanut gangs that are delusional enough to think they take up space in this city know not to fuck with Nueva Notte . As the largest Italian mafia on the east coast, we run this city. Every deal gets our stamp of approval and no slight goes unpunished.
And apparently, no good deed goes unpunished either. Some poor curly-haired angel felt brave and jumped in front of a bullet for a man like me. He obviously either has zero regard for his personal safety, a death wish, or is one of those rare innocents that does the right thing . He probably has an inner consciousness with a peppy, uplifting voice who guides him to do good.
I can’t relate. My inner voice sure as fuck isn’t a conscience. He’s a vile, depraved monster who never steers me right, but he’ll steer me straight to a massive pay day, tight holes to get my dick wet in, some strong whiskey, or a really good time. And I thank him for it. Being good is overrated and I rather live a short life that’s fun than waste the limited time I have on this earth giving a fuck.
Give no fucks, want no fucks.
Now I’m sitting in the restaurant’s business office, and I have to suffer through Officer Sunshine asking me questions because some moron called the cops. The cops are on our payroll, so interacting with her is just an annoying, waste-of-my-time formality…
“Um… Mr. Vettore, can you p-p-please tell us what happened?” the female detective stutters, breaking me from my thoughts.
They sent this newb to question me about the incident because I wouldn’t be caught dead inside a precinct. She can’t meet my eyes and stares at the tile floor. Her whole body shrinks in on itself as she trembles. Which is a shame, she’s cute in that plastic bimbo kind of way. She obviously knows who she’s talking to, and she’s scared shitless. How did she make it on the force, let alone become a detective?
“Of course,” I reply. “I was at dinner with a business associate, trying to hammer out a real estate deal. He didn’t like the terms Vettore Enterprises had to offer and had a few too many glasses of wine, so he pulled a gun on me. The young man jumped in front of me and was shot. I put pressure on his wound until the medics came.”
While that was mostly true, it left out anything incriminating. The business associate is a leader from a rival gang. Real estate is really code for a dock warehouse to hold all of our cocaine, designer drugs, and counterfeit botulinum. The recent divorcees from the Upper East Side go bananas for that injectable crap. And the terms were me reminding him that he was lucky to get the deal I offered. It was a formality—because the cold, hard truth is that I run the fucking docks, and Nueva Notte runs this city.
If we want something, we take it. We only offered to buy the Brass Bruisers’ warehouses because it’s a cleaner, legal way to go about it. Ever since my uncle gave Nueva Notte a legal face, we keep up the pretense of being a respectable business.
“Oh, okay.” She fidgets, glancing around the room. Her eyes land on the open door next to her, where one of my guards stands, watching her like a hawk. I don’t care that the local precincts are on our payroll and they sent someone who seems to be the most non-threatening, incompetent airhead in existence to question me—I don’t trust anyone.
“Is that all?” I snap. It’s my thinly veiled way of saying get the fuck away from me, you dumb bitch.
“Um, can I have the name of your associate and any contact information you may have?” she squeaks.
“No.” I gesture toward the door. “You can leave now. I’m sure you’ll handle the incident from here.” I catch a glimpse of her defeated frown before she leaves.
My mind wanders back to the young man who took a bullet for me, Leo Costa. His boss said he works as a cook in the kitchen. That explains why I’ve never seen him before, because if I did, I would have remembered his face.
When he looked up at me with those big blue eyes—all hope draining from them as fear flooded them—it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The utterly pathetic, desperation on his angelic face was a work of art, and I regretted not capturing a picture of him to keep for eternity. I want to see that look on his face again while he’s kneeling before me, tied up, gagged, and so precariously on the edge of pleasure that he’s unable to move, let alone think for himself.
He needs to be mine.
I readjust myself in my pants, aware that getting hard in the middle of a restaurant after an attempt on my life isn’t appropriate. I don’t give a fuck but I did promise Zio Alessandro I’d try to rein myself in. When the Don asks you to do something, you do it.
Despite my proclivities, he’s always loved me and treated me like one of his own sons. His fatherly advice from the day I was initiated into Nueva Notte filters through my mind.
“You’re just like your father, Rocco. His darkness lives inside you, itching to crawl out and make its mark on the world,” he says fondly, despite the downturn of his lips. I can see how much he misses Dad from the melancholy in his eyes. “You were made for this life…but you need to keep that chaos in check. Control it so it doesn’t control you.”
He hands me a dish towel to wipe the blood off my hands and face, then a paper bag for my clothes.
“Do you have it too?” I ask as I wipe dried blood from my cheek, genuinely curious. My Zio is the Don . I can’t imagine someone so put together and calm carrying this inside him.
“Of course I do. Every Vettore does, even Max and Maddie.”
For fuck’s sake, they’re six . My Zio is raising twin murderous mafiosos.
“The sooner you control it, the sooner you can wield it for your own gain.” He claps me on the shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “The body should be dismembered and on its way to the farm by the time you’re done cleaning up. There’s a suit hanging on the door for the celebration. Welcome to Nueva Notte son.”
My phone rings, breaking me from my memory. My tech-genius cousin Maximo’s name flashes across the screen and I answer his call.
“You’re on speaker, Roc. It’s me and Maddie. Heard you almost got shot,” he quips.
“You’re like a feral alley cat that never actually dies. What life are you on now?” she teases me.
“Five, I think? Shit happens. Did you two dig up the information I asked for?”
“Sent you encrypted files, the email will delete itself in twenty four hours,” Max informs me.
“Thank you.”
“Please be careful. Dying on us would be really inconvenient. You’re the only person who challenges me at the shooting range these days,” Maddie awkwardly laughs. She acts tough—because she is tough—but I know she’s affected by this.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess I can try, but we all end up in the ground sometime.” I’m not one for goodbyes or pleasantries, even with my family, so I hang up and open their email.
It has everything they could dig up about Leo Costa. His address, known family, place of employment, school records, bank accounts, and health history. Everything down to a jaywalking ticket he got last year. I peruse the file and spot a familiar name—Riccardo Costa—one of my Zio’s made men who died in an attack on one of our warehouses upstate five years ago. I wasn’t aware he even had a son. Turns out he and Bea Costa had three kids, Leo, Julia, and Lucy. The girls are sixteen and ten.
How adorable.
I read on, and see a separate address for his mother in Vermont. Google maps shows the location as a run down cabin off a backroad that is in serious need of repairs. The cabin belongs to John Campbell. Maddalena confirmed her presence there as recently as a week ago.
Hm, if mom is in Vermont, who’s taking care of the two girls?
Raising two other people must make him busy. I dig deeper into the file, realizing that Leo’s apartment is in one of our buildings, where we only rent out to the soldiers. Makes sense, we often pay the rent for the families of our fallen men. That also explains why he’s working in one of our most renowned restaurants when he didn’t even finish culinary school.
An unbidden image of his angelic, tear-stained face peering up at me as he bleeds for me flashes through my mind. I wanted to grab his hair and pull it so he was pinned in place. My own heinous thoughts spur me to continue reading through the file. The urge to know everything about him is all-consuming. I can’t ignore that vile monster in my brain that screams, Take him. Mine!
This poor man has no clue what he got himself into when he saved me.
I check Leo’s social media accounts, and surprisingly they’re not the window into his life I thought they’d be. Unlike most people his age, he barely posts, and the few times he does are all observational shots. Strawberry Fields in Central Park. Sunrises and sunsets. Street performers. Random dogs he sees on the streets. He has a keen eye, despite how boring the subjects of his photos are.
Leo’s financial information gives me a deeper perspective of him. He doesn’t make a ton working at the restaurant, barely enough to afford all the things he pays for. There are debits on his checking account for dance lessons, music lessons, and groceries. His savings account is dismal—he’s one catastrophe away from everything falling apart. Seems like Leo has a cash flow issue. Something I can use to my advantage if need be.
The more I learn about him, the more I want to see, touch, and taste the brave little lion who was stupid enough to jump in front of a bullet for me—putting himself directly in the path of a predator. The memory flitting through my mind will never be enough.
I need to have him, and I’ll stop at nothing to get what I want.
Exiting through the back, I avoid the manager and other employees and slip into my car. Gio, my guard, nods, but once he sees me tapping away on my phone he gives me silence. He’s amazing at his job, always knowing exactly what I need.
I spend the entire trip to the hospital updating my crew on a change of strategy. Our original plan with Ronan flopped, and now I have to go back to the drawing board on how to get the Brass Bruisers’ warehouses.
I stroll into the emergency room after visiting hours, winking at the old hag at the visitor’s desk as I walk right by it without signing in. Being a Vettore in this city has privileges, my favorite being anonymity when I want it. Everyone knows who I am, what family I come from, and that I’ve sent my fair share of patients to this emergency room. But no one is stupid enough to flap their gums about my whereabouts.
No, you didn’t see me, thank you very much.
Leo is fast asleep in his room, hooked up to a bunch of machines with a bandaged arm. The soft beeping noise fades into the background as I stand by his bedside to take a good look at him. His clean-shaven face is relaxed in slumber, features smoothed out. He has an upturned nose and high cheekbones that give structure to his youthful face. My brave little lion looks so…innocent. So ready to be corrupted.
It’s always fun to fuck up the good ones. The pure ones who never see it coming.
I cup his cheek, his cool skin sending waves of unbidden possessiveness through me. I don’t want anyone touching his soft, pure skin. It’s mine to mar.
Shifting in bed, he nuzzles his face into my touch and opens his eyes slightly, gracing me with a small smile.
“Rocco?” he rasps the word, his throat parched and gravelly.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Go to sleep. You’ll need your strength.” And boy, will he. I have plans for my brave little lionheart.
Leo’s smile widens before his pain meds pull him back into slumber. He has no right feeling this comfortable around a monster like me. What a fool. Soon, he’ll realize exactly what he got himself into.
A short, stocky man in a lab coat walks in, nose deep in a clipboard clutched between swollen fingers. When he looks up and sees me, he’s caught off guard.
“Mr. Vettore,” he nods, glancing at the clock, then averting his gaze to the ground.
“No worries, I was on my way out. Have a good evening doctor—” I eye his name tag, taking note of his name to make him nervous, “Ploski.”
It’s good to know his name, in case anything goes less than perfect in Leo’s recovery.
My little hero doesn’t know it yet, but his life just got a lot more interesting…