8. Rocco
8
ROCCO
W atching Leo on my phone surveillance app is nothing compared to being with him in person. The moonlight streams in through his uncovered window as he lay in bed. His torso is bare, the top of the blanket just skimming the bottom of his navel and showing off his lithe, compact frame. He’s reading his new e-reader I left for him in the library. I logged into his account on it and stocked it with all of his ebooks, audiobooks, and some new ones I thought he’d like based on what he’s currently reading.
I may be a deviant bastard who stole him from his quaint little life, but I treat my toy well.
He’s been flicking through the pages steadily, absorbed in the same book as yesterday, something about a vampire who falls in love with a mortal and the whole debacle that follows them. The hobby suits him, something quiet and imaginative for my little lion. Somewhere he can temporarily escape after a long day of me pulling his tail.
His bedroom is the only place I have monitored, and I already regret it. When he got up to get a glass of water, I had to sit here in suspense the whole time, wondering where he went. Tomorrow, I’ll have someone from Max’s crew come by and install cameras in the kitchen, living room, and library.
“Sir? Do you want me to bring him in now?” Piero Romano, one of my soldiers, asks me. He’s only a few years older than Leo, but double his size. His straight black hair falls into his eyes, and he shakes it away with a flick of his head.
Sighing, I motion for Piero to bring in one of Ronan’s street rats he and his brothers found earlier today into the warehouse. As much as I’d love to sit and watch Leo all day, work still exists. I’m still a capo for Nueva Notte and I have a lot of loose ends to tie up—mainly finding and disposing of the Brass Bruisers before they can cause me any more trouble.
Easier said than done, apparently.
Piero’s younger brothers, Elio and Milo, drag a bloody, beaten up body into the center of my warehouse, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The Romano brothers are affectionately known as Le Mannaie del Vettore— The Vettore’s Cleavers. They love butchering up the poor, unfortunate morons who try to cross us. They’ve become a valuable asset in procuring information for me these past few years…but they may have overdone it this time.
“Did you bring me a rat to interrogate or a corpse?” I ask them.
“Sorry, Mr. Vettore,” Elio says. I’ve never heard him speak before, because Piero usually talks for the three of them. His voice is softer than I’d expect from a man who easily weighs forty pounds more than his brothers and towers over them.
Piero touches his brother’s arm, probably to stop him from saying something stupid, but he continues. “He said something that was uncalled for, and I got carried away. He’s alive and still has a tongue and jaw, so he can talk. It won’t happen again.”
I appreciate his integrity. “See that it doesn’t. You three feel free to stick around and watch the show if you want.”
They eagerly agree, throwing the body on the cold, hard cement before taking seats on crates lining the room. They may be the infamous Vettore Cleavers, but they learned their savagery from me. And by the looks of how beat up this almost-corpse looks, they can still stand to learn something about long-term torture methods.
I step up to the man bleeding all over my floor and hoist him up by his thinning hair, until he’s kneeling. The overhead fluorescent lighting highlights every bruise, cut, and poorly done tattoo on his bare torso. He starts sputtering for air, choking on the globs of blood spewing from his mouth.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, even though I already know from the files Piero sent me earlier. I always start with a few softball questions to ease them into it before I strike.
“My n-n-name is Greg,” he wheezes as he holds his midsection. On closer inspection, it seems one of the brothers broke several of his ribs. Those hurt like a mother fucker.
That’s the least you get when you fuck with the Vettore famiglia .
Crouching down, I ask, “Do you know why you’re here, Greg?”
“No, please! Help me!” he whines, his voice sounding like nails on a damn chalkboard. For fuck’s sake, how does he think lying will help his circumstances at this point?
I know you know why you’re here, Greg. Just admit it so we can all move on with our evenings. I have a toy to play with.
I hold his jaw in my hand and dig my fingers into his eyes, trying to hold back my laughter when he squeals like a piglet. He’s too weak to wrench his head away and takes it like the scum he is.
“Greg, I’m going to save you a lot of time. Your bloody, battered future corpse ended up in my warehouse because my soldiers already scoped you out and did their homework. For reasons unapparent to me, Ronan made you part of his inner circle.”
I let go of his face, and his squealing turns into loud, hopeless cries that echo and bounce off the walls of the warehouse. I backhand him so hard he almost falls over onto his side. “We already know you know where Ronan is. Do us all a favor, and tell us what we need to know. That way I can kill you quickly and go back home to my little lion cub.”
“ Aww ,” Elio coos, a big, goofy smile on his face. Piero smacks him upside the head, mumbling something to him while Milo snickers at them both. “Ow! What! It’s nice the boss has someone at home waiting for him. That’s the best reason to wrap this up. Can I help Mr. Vettore? My friend Vinny showed me something last week I wanna try.”
I give him a blank, dead look, undecided on whether or not I should discipline him for interrupting me, or admire the courage it took for him to speak his truth. There’s no shame in believing in love.
“No! NO! Keep that fucking freak away from me!” Greg screams, his already hoarse voice crackling in distress.
Well that settles it.
“Vinny from my cousin Maddie’s crew?” He nods. “He always has a trick up his sleeve. Come here, kid.”
He pops up from his seat and bounds over to me like a puppy, a wide grin on his face. “Thank you Mr. Vettore.” He pulls a long, thick stretch of rope from the pocket of his ripped up, black jeans. Not what my soldiers typically wear, but I made an exception because they transported my rat straight from their father’s butcher shop.
Elio ties Greg’s feet together, using an intricate knot around his ankles that screams Shibari Enthusiast . Rope play isn’t my kink, but I know how to admire solid knots when I see them. It seems like everyone in the mafia is a sexual deviant in their spare time. Is there a correlation between organized crime and having fun between the sheets?
He heaves Greg over his shoulder, grabbing the hook hanging from the ceiling. He secures it with a loop on the knot and leaves our rat to hang upside down from the ceiling. Then he runs outside for a few seconds, coming back in with a textured baseball bat.
He sees me eying his weapon. “Milo made this for me. It’s like a meat tenderizer, but the little spikes sticking out actually puncture flesh if you swing it hard enough.”
He takes a solid left-handed batting stance and swings, hitting our rat square in his chest. He swings around from the velocity of the hit, screaming bloody murder. A little too much considering Elio didn’t even hit his broken ribs.
“This knot tightens under strain, so when he struggles, the tension crushes his ankles. If you make him spin around enough, he’ll eventually puke!” he says with excitement, handing me his bat. It’s made of steel, and feels hefty enough in my grip to bust a skull wide open.
“Swing batter batter!” I shout as I clobber Greg right on his broken ribs. He swings round and round like a bloody tetherball as his agonizing screams pierce the cool night air.
He tries to yell the usual, Stop, help me. Please. I don’t know anything . But it’s hard to hear some of it because the sound is distorted from him swinging upside down and crying a fucking ocean. I keep hitting him, because aside from being effective, this method of torture is fun. And good cardio. Vinny shouldn’t be keeping this to himself–the entire famiglia needs to know about this magical trick.
He does puke a foul smelling bile that splatters all over the warehouse. I let him come to a stop on his own, marveling at how green his face is.
“I played little league back in the day, so I can keep going. Tell me what you know about Ronan’s whereabouts, and I’ll make this torture stop.”
“Okay! Please let me down!” he cries.
Elio looks at me for the go-ahead, but I shake my head. “Tell me something good, and maybe I will.”
“Ronan is hiding out until things die down. He isn’t at his place, but he has a side piece in Queens he fucks on the regular. He may be at her place.”
I hit Greg in the shoulder, and he grunts. “Her name?”
“I don’t know! She’s a stripper he picked up at Bottoms Up, one of the Irish’s strip joints.”
“The Magpies actually own Bottoms Up, you dipshit.” That’s the issue with these low-level wannabe crime syndicates like the Brass Bruisers. They don’t know the city’s criminal underbelly or do their homework. “They’re actually from Ireland, not part of the American Irish mob. Not that it matters to you, because you have about a minute of your life left,” I scoff while texting Giuseppe our new information.
I pull out my glock and a hunting knife I always keep on me. “Okay my violent little proteges. Time to vote. How do we want to kill our rat?”
“Gun,” Piero answers decisively.
“Knife,” Milo shouts.
“Ummm…knife,” Elio says after thinking about it for a minute.
“I am partial to a good slice and dice,” I fondly say, remembering that knives are something Leo and I have in common. I slice up lesser criminals, and he dices vegetables. Tomorrow I’ll ask him to cook something with a lot of knife work like the pervert I am, because it’s hot as fuck to watch.
“No! Please! I can go back and find out more, become a secret agent for you!” Greg frantically bargains as I bring the knife to his throat.
“Ronan isn’t that stupid. You’re as good as dead if he runs into you. Enjoy whatever afterlife you get, Greg. Arrivederci ,” I sing-song while slitting his throat.
I text the clean up service my cousins swear by and transfer their fee promptly with a twenty percent tip.
“Let the cleaners in, make sure they do their jobs, then lock up when they leave. Work with Giuseppe on finding Ronan’s girl and bring her to me ASAP, unharmed.” I don’t like to rough up civilians unless absolutely necessary. “I can’t believe you were sitting on that for a whole week, Elio. I want you to do a demo at the next crew meeting. Good work.”
I stride out without so much as a backward glance. When I get into my car, I tell my driver to take me home and pull out my phone, immediately opening my surveillance app.
Leo is pacing around his room in just his briefs, the phone held up to his face like he’s on a video call. Who the fuck is he video calling at ten at night practically naked? He knows he’s mine, and that means no one else.
I turn the volume up, and Leo’s laughing at something this mystery man said. His laughter is husky and musical, luring out the monster inside me with its carnal melody. A provocative tune only I should hear.
I text my cousin Max so I can plan how I want to murder this asshole on the phone.
Me: Pull up Leo’s phone tap. Who is he talking to right now?
Max: ***Hello, my favorite cousin who’s more like a baby brother to my old, crusty ass. How are you? Are you able to do me a favor, oh tech savvy one?
Me: Fuck off before I tell Le Mannaie to break into your favorite bakery and burn the place to the ground. You won’t eat another bear claw for months, you processed sugar addicted fucker. Tell me, NOW.
Max: Nothing is sacred to you. You’re an unhinged psychopath. Hold on.
Me: ***I’m a Vettore. Trust me, you’re like this deep down too.
A minute passes before he tells me who.
Max: Samuel Mead, aka Sammy. A coworker of Leo’s and friend.
Max sends over a few pictures of the two of them he probably took from Sammy’s social media accounts. He doesn’t look like a threat—he’s too sweet and innocent looking to be someone Leo would be attracted to. My little lion likes his men big, bad, and depraved.
Regardless, he’s talking to someone shirtless, showing them what’s mine. He has to be punished for this.
Me: Get dressed, meet me at my apartment now. Leave your phone behind.
Leo rolls his eyes, sighing while he walks to his closet.
“One of my sisters is awake and roaming around the apartment, I gotta go,” he says to his little friend.
“Okay, I’ll tell you how the date goes tomorrow. Wish me luck!” Sammy ends the call.
Leo responds to my text with a thumbs up emoji, then pulls a shirt and pajama pants. He toes his feet into slippers and leaves the room.
I don’t care if Sammy is just a friend who’s obviously dating someone else. I’m still jealous as fuck the entire ride to my apartment. I talk myself in and out of murdering the guy in cold blood at least a dozen times, finally settling on letting him live…for now.
He still saw my toy shirtless. Heard his laughter. Enjoyed his smile. A smile I’ve yet to see directed at me. Those transgressions won’t go unpunished.
I text Max to ask him to find out who Samuel is going out to dinner with tomorrow and where they’re going. When I arrive at my apartment, I find Leo sitting on the couch like I instructed him to with Gio, one of my guards, in tow.
“You can wait here. We’ll be in my quarters. I’ll shout if I need you,” I tell him.
Leo follows me to my bedroom, standing in front of me while I sit to take my shoes off. I leave the door to my walk-in closet open as I change into a pair of joggers, but he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his gaze focused on the painting on the far wall instead.
His avoidance shouldn’t piss me off as much as it does. He’s a toy, someone to use as I see fit. I shouldn’t care that he isn’t as obsessed with me as I am him. But I more than care.
I want him to be as addicted to me as I am to him—for me to be his faith and the air he breathes.
I sit down on the couch and put my bare feet up, scrolling through my messages for a few minutes before opening my reply from Max.
Max: Hmmm, turns out the man Sammy is seeing is known by multiple aliases. Everything but the past few years of information on him is wiped clean…I’ll get back to you on this.
Me: Please do. If that little shit is in danger, it’s not good for Leo.
I put the thought out of my mind for now. Max is like a dog with a bone–he won’t stop until he finds out everything there is to know about Sammy’s date.
A throat clearing diverts my attention from my cousin’s text.
“Is there a reason you summoned me here?” Leo sasses.
“Is there a reason you summoned me here, sir ,” I scoff. “I am technically your Capo. You may not have been initiated traditionally, but you are part of Nueva Notte.”
“Sorry. Is there a reason you summoned me here and made me leave my sisters alone in the apartment late at night, sir ?”
Hearing that word fall from his lips, in that irreverent, bratty tone of his, goes straight to my cock. I love when he pushes my buttons.
“There’s always guards on your floor watching your apartment and on the street outside your side of the building, whether you realize they’re there or not. Your sisters are perfectly safe.” I rake my gaze from his bedhead, down his white tee shirt and pajama bottoms, all the way down to his slippers. “You looked better lying in bed in your briefs. Take your shirt and pants off.”
I wait for the pieces to click together, then revel in the pure outrage on his face. The way his brows dip and his cheeks turn red when he’s emotional is priceless.
“Did you put cameras in my apartment? You creep!” he shouts.
Gio thunders down the hall, blocking the doorway. “Are you okay, Mr. Vettore?”
“Yes. I’ll shout for you if I need you, thanks.”
He nods before walking away.
“Yes, I have cameras in my apartment, just in your bedroom.” For now . “I own the whole fucking building, toy. I can do whatever I want, including watching you video call someone shirtless. I told you, don’t show anyone what’s mine.”
“I was video calling my friend!” he says as he stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Doesn’t matter. You keep your clothes on while you’re around others, toy. Strip, I’m not asking you again.”
He runs his hands through his curly blond hair as he paces back and forth in frustration. He stops, turns to me, and with the most defiant scowl on his face says, “No.”
“No?” I lean back, curious about his logic. I know he’ll eventually do it. But I am interested in his thought process.
“I’m so fucking done with this. With you. I should have run the minute you sent me that note under the door.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Wherever you go, I’ll find you, lionheart. Because you’re mine.”
“I should have let you get shot,” he snarls. It’s so cute he thinks that would have mattered.
“Maybe, but you didn’t. Because deep down you knew this was meant to be,” I remind him as I take his hand and pull him onto my lap. He struggles, but I collar his throat and squeeze enough to remind him who’s in charge…who has the power to give him the very air he breathes.
“Settle down before I hurt you,” I say before letting him go. He takes a deep breath but sits in place on my lap like a good, obedient toy.
I take my hunting knife out of my back pocket and fist the soft, cotton material of his shirt with my other hand before slicing the pristine white fabric down the middle. I peel the ripped fabric from his torso, then drag the blade along his perfect skin to his pajama pants. His loud, panting breaths hitch.
“No, I can take them off,” he blurts out, but not fast enough. His hard length brushes against my hand as I grab his waistband. He’s so responsive to everything I do.
“Does your arousal embarrass you?” His face turns tomato red as he silently sits on my lap. “You’re such a perfect fucking slut for me,” I coo as I run the blade slowly down the side seam of his pants. The fibers of the fabric give way, leaving frayed edges in their wake. They’re stark against the goosebumps on his skin. “Who’s my filthy toy?”
He peers up at me, his angelic face placid despite the sharp knife inches away from him. So courageous when he’s about to get eaten alive. “I am… Sir .”
The innocence and trepidation in his voice are a siren call for the vile, hungry monster inside me. He’s pulling on a fraying rope, impatient to sink his teeth in and consume every last bite of my lionheart until there’s nothing less.
His eyes eat up the blade, the glint of the metal reflecting in his huge black pupils. When I brush the fabric away, he takes my hand as leverage, throwing his leg over my lap so we’re facing each other. I wrap my hand around his throat again, and his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip.
“Do you know what happens when you bang on the bars of the monster’s cage, toy?”
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His eyes go wide, and I can feel the anticipation crackling through him like electricity.
“ What? ” he hesitantly asks.
“He breaks free.”