Taken by the Italian Mafia(10)By: Sadie Black
Whitney screamed. But no one except a man pointing a gun at her head was there to hear it.
* * *
The rules about witnesses were very clear: never leave one. The bartender had seen him blow Tyrone's brains out. There was only one way he could take care of his problem, and Rocco knew that it was to end it before it started.
Shoes digging into the freshly fallen powder dusted over the alley, Rocco ran for her. With a shot already fired, he knew he couldn't afford to shoot again without dead accuracy. He wouldn't put a bullet through her skull until he knew for damn sure he wouldn't miss the shot. At the elevation she stood at, and his distance from the platform, Rocco didn't want to risk it.
He gripped the bottom rung of the railing, and in a display of tremendous upper body strength, hoisted himself up. From there it was a simple matter of hopping over the railing, and once he found his footing, he'd do her in and be done with it.
If only life were that simple.
The bartender wrenched a garbage bag from between the door frame and the door to cower behind, then screamed at the top of her lungs. The sound echoed just as loudly through the alley as the gunshot had, but its origins made it that much worse. A silenced gun shot could be explained away by passersby not looking for any trouble, but there was no mistaking the shrill panic of a woman's scream. Rocco knew he was in trouble. People would come running now that a woman was involved. He needed to get out, and he needed to get out now.
With a disgusted scowl, Rocco grabbed her wrist and started to fly down the stairs, dragging her along.
"If you don't shut the fuck up and keep quiet, I'll blow your face off," he warned her as he dragged her towards the sidewalk. "Same goes for if you don't fuckin' follow me and make this good 'n easy. Got it?"
The pathetic whimper that followed was a good enough yes. Her dead weight lightened, and the pretty girl who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time followed. If she hadn't screamed, she'd already have been dead. What a disaster.
Cursing his luck, Rocco ran the rest of the distance between the alley and the sidewalk, where his driver waited. Although she was in dressy flats and shaking like a leaf, the bartender kept stride. Long legs like hers matched his pace easily. Rocco got his first good view of them as they arrived at the car and he shoved her into the backseat.
The bartender went in face first, legs dangling across the seat, feet hanging out through the door. With a scowl Rocco pushed her legs up and jumped into the back. As he slammed the door closed, his driver pulled off from the curb and merged with New York's non-stop traffic.
"What in the ever loving fuck is she doing here? This ain't supposed to be no hostage situation," the driver, Piero, said. The man was older than Rocco by a decade, but he was much lower down in the ranks. Decades of service as a getaway driver for his family translated to a reasonably safe career with little opportunity for advancement. Still, the man had a mouth on him. Piero knew as well as anyone else how witnesses were to be dealt with.
"Do you think I don't know that?" Rocco bit back. The bartender had curled up into a little ball on the seat beside him and was whimpering, too shocked to deal with what was happening to be a nuisance. Rocco was glad for it. If she started mouthing him off in front of Piero, he'd have to make an example out of her. As the Don's oldest son, he wasn't going to let any member, no matter how low ranking, think he was going soft.
"You were suppose 'ta deliver a message, Rocco. A message. And now there's a chick in the back seat quaking like a leaf threat'ning everything we set out to do."
Piero's criticisms weren't making matters any better. Rocco sat back heavily, gun still in his right hand and tucked on his lap, left arm draped over the back of the seat. There was blood splatter and brain matter speckled into the front of his suit. Against the black suit it was barely noticeable, but on his white shirt the bloody chunks were obvious like flashing lights.
"And I'm gonna take care of it, okay? This isn't my first time out on the job, and it's not gonna be my last. Cool your jets and do your fucking job."
From the way Piero's jaw set, Rocco knew he'd pressed his buttons. The getaway driver wasn't impressed, but it wasn't his job to pass judgment on Rocco's performance. The only opinion that mattered was that of the Don, and if Rocco had his way, the Don would never find out. A matter like this would be dealt with quickly and then forgotten about, just as it should be.