Rocco Page 10

  “You’d better shower.” His voice was thick and hoarse when he released her. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  And then he was gone.

  Feeling slightly less disoriented, Grace slipped off the rest of her clothes as soon as the door closed behind her. She turned on the shower and stepped into the scalding spray. Keeping her eyes shut tight so she didn’t see the blood, she scrubbed her skin with the body wash she found in the corner of the tub, wrapping herself in his familiar scent. The fog began to clear from her brain, but no matter how high she turned up the heat, the numbness wouldn’t go away.

  When she was done, she found an oversized T-shirt folded on the sink, as well as a large, fluffy towel. After drying off, she put on her bra and panties and tugged the T-shirt over her head. It fell to her upper thigh, just long enough to be decent, but too short to wear out.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Rocco was on the phone, looking down on the street from the living-room window. There was no uncertainty in his stance, no apology, no questions about where he fit in the grand scheme of things. He owned this world. Dominated it in a way he hadn’t before. The difference between a boy and a man.

  He turned and his gaze skimmed over her body, lingering on the bare expanse of her thighs. “Change of plans,” he said into the phone. “You’re gonna stand guard at the door outside the hallway. Call Paolo and tell him to watch the street. You do not come inside the apartment. You got that?”

  Grace found her purse on a table by the door and pulled out her phone.

  “You letting your man know where you are?” Rocco asked, brusquely.

  “I’m texting Ethan so he can bring me some clothes.”

  “Ethan.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  His jaw tightened. “Do you guys have someplace else you can go until I get this thing sorted?”

  “Can’t I stay here?”

  A pained expression crossed his face. “He wouldn’t have a problem with that?”

  “No. Why would he?”

  Rocco’s face creased in a scowl. “Because if our positions were reversed there would be no fucking way I’d let you stay with him or any other man for that matter. No. Fucking. Way.”

  Grace sat on the cold, black leather sofa and scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to clear away the last of the fog that was making it so difficult to process everything that was happening. “Ethan has his own bed.”

  “He’s a fucking idiot.”

  “He’s my friend.” She looked up, caught a flicker of hope in his eyes before his face smoothed to an expressionless mask.

  “You’re not fucking him?”

  Grace sighed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the answer to your crude question is no. That’s what I meant when I said he was a friend. I don’t sleep with my friends. I also don’t swear or hang around with a lot of people who use fuck in every other sentence, so how about expanding your vocabulary?”

  “Who do you fuck?” He folded his arms across his chest like he was bracing himself for bad news.

  “This week, the closest I’ve come is you. And don’t ask about last week or the week before that, because it’s been a while.”

  He gave a grunt of satisfaction. “No man?”

  “No. I don’t do relationships.” She swallowed hard. “Do you have a girlfriend? I don’t have to stay here if it will cause a problem.”

  Rocco snorted. “No. And even if I did, I’d kick her out for you.”

  “That’s nice in a cold-hearted, mean mobster kind of way.” A shiver ran threw her body, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to beat back the chill.

  Rocco’s face softened. “You still in shock?”

  Grace managed a ghost of a smile. “Not if I’m having a conversation with you about who I’m sleeping with.”

  “Never saw you like that before.” He shook his head. “Just standing there, staring at the wall … nothing I could do. Felt like a knife was going through my gut.”

  Her hands trembled and she curled her feet under her. Rocco’s apartment wasn’t cold but she felt like ice inside. Still, their conversation was keeping her mind off what happened in the restaurant, and she was grateful for the few moments of respite before she tried to find her dad.

  Rocco’s brow creased in a frown. “You cold?”

  “Inside.”

  “You need something warmer?”

  Yes. That’s exactly what she wanted. Warmth. An anchor. A safe haven. A port in a storm. “You.” She uncurled from the couch and walked right into his open arms. Rocco wrapped her in his embrace, holding her until the heat of his body melted her inside, and she felt like they were one person and not two.

  “I need to find Tom and my dad,” she said finally, pulling away.

  “I’ve got a guy coming to keep watch.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Then I’ll hit the road.”

  “I’m not staying here while you look for them. We can go together.”

  “No.” He walked across the room and grabbed his jacket.

  Grace lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not asking permission.”

  “And I’m not letting you go. You heard the shooters. They wanted you. It’s not safe for you to leave.”

  “I’m not your prisoner, Rocco.” She folded her arms, wondering how far he would go to stop her. The Rocco she knew would never have hurt her, but this man, this Rocco, was an entirely different beast.

  Mercifully, someone knocked at the door, breaking the stalemate. “Hey, Frankie! It’s me.”

  Rocco tore his gaze away and pulled open the door, stepping aside for his heavily muscled friend.

  “This is Mike. He’s gonna be out in the hall guarding the door.” His gaze slid to Mike, who wore a tight T-shirt that advertised a local gym and was cut to enhance his spectacular biceps. With his shaved head and tattooed forearms, he reminded her of a ruggedly handsome Popeye, minus the pipe.

  “This is Grace Mantini. The fucking New York underboss’s daughter.” Rocco waved vaguely in her direction. Mike smiled, his gaze dropping to her bare legs, before lifting again to her face. “Nice to meet you—”

  Rocco cut him off by slamming him against the wall, his hand at Mike’s throat. “Don’t fucking look at her.”

  “Sorry, Frankie.” Mike’s hands came up in a defensive gesture, although he was bigger and more muscular than Rocco and appeared to be more than capable of defending himself in a fight.

  “Don’t think about her. Don’t even fucking breathe the same air as her.”

  “Apologies, boss.”

  “Get out.” Rocco released him and shoved him out the door, his powerful muscles rippling with the effort. “Stay in the hall.”

  “I got it. I got it.” Mike nodded with his head down. “Miss Grace, I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  “Don’t talk to her either,” Rocco shouted.

  So this was the new Rocco. Grace wasn’t sure if she liked his hard-core attitude or the way he treated his friends, especially when only moments ago he’d given her a glimpse of the kind, caring man she knew from New York. “I think you were a little hard on him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He’s a man.” Rocco pulled on his leather jacket.

  “I picked that up.”

  “You. Looking how you look. Talking how you talk. Dressed how you’re dressed. I don’t trust anyone with a dick.”

  By habit, her hand went to her scar, but when she opened her mouth to protest, he held up a warning hand and shook his head. “Don’t say it. Don’t even fucking think it. Last time I’m going to say this, so listen good. You are more beautiful now, Grace Christina, than you were the last time I saw you in New York, and you were so beautiful then it took my fucking breath away.”

  And then he pulled open the door, and left her standing with her hand still warm against her cheek.

  EIGHT

  Mike didn’t know the protocol for consoling the beautiful, weeping d
aughter of the New York underboss through a closed door, especially when Frankie had looked at him like he wanted to put a bullet through his head last night. Was he even allowed to knock? The sound of her crying was ripping at his heart and he just wanted to give her a hug.

  A chaste hug.

  Although, given she’d only been wearing a T-shirt last night when Frankie left, maybe just a pat on the back.

  “You okay in there?” He opted for talking since that seemed to be the best way to keep all his limbs intact in the event Frankie returned unexpectedly this morning. Frankie was one bad-ass motherfucker. No one crossed Frankie. He’d as easily slit the throat of a man he called friend as he would slit the throat of an enemy. Mike was a big guy. Not much scared him. But Frankie … yeah the guy gave him the shivers.

  Still, it wasn’t right to leave Grace crying alone in a strange apartment. Only a cold bastard like Frankie wouldn’t understand the need to be with someone when shit went bad. Mike knew this because he’d been through more than his fair share, and the worst thing was being alone.

  Mike had had his fair share of lonely times, but Friday night with Tiffany had changed that. She had been everything he had imagined in bed and more. Not only that, she’d given him her number and told him to call the next time he was out with his friends. He thought it was cute that she was shy to go out alone with him on an actual date when they’d been naked together for most of the night, but his plan to call her up for another round of hot sex had been foiled when he got Frankie’s call.

  No one said no to Frankie. He had made his bones under his dad, Cesare, one of the most brutal, vicious enforcers in the entire Cosa Nostra. He had a reputation for savagery and a history of resolving issues by shedding blood. Frankie was feared and sometimes loathed, but he seemed to like it that way.

  Over the last year though, Mike had gotten to know Frankie a bit better. He’d been spending more time with Nico’s crew ever since Tony’s uncle, the former boss of the Toscani family, got himself whacked. He’d seen Frankie almost smile once or twice, heard him have a normal conversation, even had a drink with the dude at Luca’s and Gabrielle’s wedding. He’d begun to suspect that somewhere inside all the darkness, there was a regular guy. And last night, when he’d seen him with Grace, he’d realized it was true.

  He heard the rattle of the chain and the door swung open. Mike quickly dropped his gaze, but not before noticing she was—thank God—fully dressed in a black flowered dress and a pair of kick-ass boots. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Mike stared at her boots and wondered if Tiffany had a pair of boots like that. Damn. He’d liked to fuck Tiffany in nothing but a pair of sexy boots. “Are you sure, Miss Grace? You didn’t sound fine.”

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to stare at my boots,” she said. “I feel awkward talking to the top of your head.”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Frankie said…”

  “You’ve already broken the ‘breathing the same air as me’ rule, so why not go for broke and look up? I promise I won’t bite.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said, lifting his gaze.

  “I’ll take the blame.” She smiled, although her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she’d been crying only moments ago, so he figured she was probably still sad.

  “It’s okay, Miss Grace. I screwed up lots when I was an associate. I can take a punch.”

  “I’m sure you can, but if he punches you because of me, his life won’t be worth living.”

  Mike barked a laugh at the thought of Grace giving Frankie shit. Damn he’d love to see that. But then she was a Mafia princess, the daughter of the New York fucking underboss. She would be used to bossing people around, and from the scar on her face she was no stranger to violence. He figured not many people would notice the scar, but it wasn’t often he saw a woman with the kind of mark he usually saw on wiseguys. Not that it detracted from her beauty. Hell, it just made her look a little bad ass, and on a beautiful woman, badass was good.

  “So you okay?” He reached to wipe a rogue tear from her cheek, and caught himself just in time. Talking and breathing were bad. Touching would be infinitely worse.

  “Well, I was fine last night when I was calling hospitals and police stations trying to find my dad, while waiting for Rocco to come back so I could tell him off for leaving me when he knew I wanted to go with him.”

  She sounded so fierce Mike almost couldn’t believe this was the same woman he’d heard sobbing only moments ago. If he hadn’t known just what a cold-hearted ruthless bastard Frankie could be, he almost would have felt sorry for him having to come back and answer to Grace for leaving her at home.

  “I found him at St. John’s Hospital,” she continued. “He was in surgery all night and a nurse just called to tell me he’ll be out of recovery in an hour, but things aren’t looking so good so they’re going to move him to ICU. No one has seen my brother, and I’m here and not where I need to be.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Actually, to be honest, it’s been a really shitty night, so you’re right. At this moment, I’m not okay, but after we get out of here I will be.” She turned around. “Can you zip me up?”

  Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Mike’s head spun with too much information that he couldn’t process all at once, and the warning bells screaming DANGER in his mind.

  Too late, his brain registered the creamy skin of her bare back, the gentle curve of her neck, the sexy strap of her bra. No. No. No. He had not just seen Frankie’s woman beneath her clothes. He’d just found his dream girl, Tiffany. Life couldn’t be that cruel.

  Unsee it. Unsee it. He tried to scrub the image from his mind.

  “Maybe you could … uh … just use … a coat hanger,” he suggested.

  “Zip,” she commanded.

  So he said good-bye to the balls that had served him well when he’d brought Tiffany home to meet Ace, his pit bull, and Mitzy the mutt, and the heart that had thudded when she kissed him good-bye, and the muscles she had squeezed when they walked down the street, and the brain that couldn’t think of a way out of this situation.

  He zipped, trying not to touch her skin. And then he held his breath, waiting for the apocalypse to come.

  “My friend, Ethan, offered to come here with some clothes, but I think it will be faster if I just go home and change because our house is on the way to the hospital.” She pushed past him and walked down the hall. “Let’s go. We only have an hour before I can get in to see my dad. I suspect things will be infinitely worse for both of us if you let me walk out of here alone.”

  Out of here? She was leaving? Who was Ethan? Where was home? Why was the front of her dress wet? And more important, had Frankie said this was okay?

  He checked his phone. No texts. Christ. Frankie would freak the fuck out if she wasn’t in the apartment where he’d left her. Mike moved quickly to intercept and stood in front of the elevator. “Well, I dunno, Miss Grace. Frankie thinks it’s dangerous for you to be out right now. How about you just wait until he gets back—”

  “I waited all night,” she said, her voice wavering, and for the first time he registered the dark circles under her eyes. “My dad is on life support. He might not make it. I have to go. Now.”

  “Let me text Frankie and ask,” he begged, pulling out his phone. “Maybe he’ll get a few more guys to come with us.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital with a bunch of mobsters in tow,” she snapped, pulling herself up to her full height. And suddenly she looked every inch a Mafia princess, save for her tear-stained face and her sodden dress. “I want you. That’s all.”

  “Me?” His voice rose in pitch.

  “Yes. You. And you aren’t going to tell Rocco yet. He was always overprotective back in New York, but now he seems to have developed a very bossy streak and I can’t risk him getting in my way. We’ll go to my place so I can change out of these bloodstained clothes, then we’ll go to the hospital and check the situation ou
t. Once I know what’s going on, then we’ll let him know where we are.”

  Mike let out a shuddering breath. “You knew Frankie before Vegas?”

  “Yes. But I know him as Rocco, not Frankie. Why do you call him Frankie?”

  “It’s a nickname,” Mike said with a shrug. “You know like ‘Louie Lollipops’ or ‘Vinny Carwash.’ Guys call me ‘Mikey Muscles’ ’cause I own a chain of boxing gyms and spend a lot of time working out. My real name’s Louis, but it’s been so long since anyone called me that, I just go by Mike. I got off easy compared to some. There’s one guy called ‘Baby Dick.’

  “But why Frankie?” she asked.

  “Happened before my time, but apparently he got totally shit-faced one night, if you’ll pardon my French, and started singing Frank Sinatra songs in the restroom of a nightclub. After that everyone started calling him Frankie.”

  She stilled and her eyes watered. “Which song?”

  “Don’t know, Miss Grace. I wasn’t there. Mr. Toscani or Mr. Rizzoli would be able to tell you, though. I heard you met them already.” He gave her a half grin, hoping maybe she’d forget the crazy plan if he could keep the conversation going. “Is there a song special to him? Maybe I might spread it around…”

  Her eyes got a faraway look and she sighed. “No. Nothing I can share.” And then her faced tightened again. “Let’s get going. What are you driving?”

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to change her mind and sit quietly in the apartment waiting for Frankie to return. Grace had fire, and short of picking her up, which would require touching her, there was no way he could tell the daughter of the New York underboss what to do. He was a soldier, a faction soldier to be precise, and the only people lower than him in the Cosa Nostra hierarchy were the unmade associates like Paolo, and the De Lucchi crew. Of course, no member of the De Lucchi crew was treated like anything other than the equivalent of a capo—a dangerous capo who could slit your throat before you even knew he was there.

  “I’ve got a pick-up truck,” he said. “It’s useful for hauling equipment to the gym. I’ve got a young associate with me. He’s been watching outside all night. Name is Paolo. He’ll be coming, too.” No way was he going anywhere alone with Frankie’s woman. He needed a witness who could testify that he’d treated her well when it came time to pay the price for his failure.