The Price of Vengeance

Rocco's POV

The second our eyes locked through the haze of cigar smoke, the contract was written in blood.

She stood on the raised platform beneath the harsh glare of the spotlights. Alessia Marchetti. The prize. The only piece of leverage left on the board, and the living debt her dead father owed me. Silvano Marchetti had butchered my wife in cold blood. He had stolen my seat at the head of the syndicate and shattered my world until nothing remained except ashes and the drive to rip his legacy apart. Silvano was dead, but death was too quick, too clean a punishment for what he took from me. The debt had passed to his bloodline.

My scouts had tracked her across three state lines before Marcello snatched her up to settle Silvano’s gambling markers. Seeing her paraded on stage in that flimsy scrap of silk had set a match to something dark in my gut. Her skin looked pale and untouched under the spotlights, curved at the hips, narrow at the waist, with long legs that drew the stare of every degenerate in the hall.

These pigs in their expensive suits were throwing out bids like they were trading livestock. Greco sat two tables down, his heavy jowls glistening with sweat as he licked his lips. Every time his wet eyes tracked down the curve of her body, my fingers tightened around the armrest until the wood groaned under the pressure.

I stood up.

The chatter in the hall died instantly. Glasses clinked onto tables, and silence rolled through the room like a cold front.

Alessia froze on the platform. Her wide hazel eyes locked onto mine. The breath caught in her throat, her lips parting in unmistakable shock. She knew who I was. Even through the panic, I saw the raw defiance sparking beneath her terror. She remembered the sound of breaking wood, the smell of gunpowder, and the man who had put a bullet through her father’s chest.

She took a clumsy step backward, her shoulder blades pressing against the velvet curtain behind her.

I walked toward the stage. The crowd parted without a word, men pulling their chairs back to give me a wide berth. She was too delicate for this room, too clean for the filth surrounding her, but that didn't matter. She belonged to me.

Marcello stood at the podium with a ledger clutched in his hands, flashing an uneasy smile. "Looks like Silvano’s little girl is yours, Don Rocco."

I stopped at the base of the platform. "My men will wire the funds before the hour is up. I am taking her now."

I reached up to grab her wrist.

"Hold on a second."

A raspy voice broke through the silence. Greco pushed his heavy frame away from the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stepped into the aisle between me and the stairs.

"If the rest of these cowards are too scared to speak up, I will," Greco sneered, his breath reeking of stale whiskey. "You know the tradition of Marcello’s house, De Santis. You do not just pay the fee and walk out the back door."

I turned my head slowly, fixing him with a stare that made the men behind him step back. "Step aside, Greco."

Greco puffed his chest, trying to stand tall beneath his tailored jacket. "Rules are rules. The buyer takes the girl to the glass viewing room in the back. You fuck her on the table so the room gets to watch you break the virgin. We all put money down tonight. Just because you claim the top territory does not mean you rob the rest of us of the show."

A low murmur rolled through the room, swelling into shouts of agreement from the back tables. The animals smelled blood and flesh. They leaned forward in their seats, banging their glasses against the wood, chanting for the display.

Alessia drew her knees together on the platform, trembling so hard the hem of her slip shook against her thighs.

A sharp, possessive burn ripped through my chest. I planned to break her. I planned to strip away every shred of Marchetti pride until she had nothing left, but that was between her and me. She was my retribution, not cheap entertainment for a room full of sycophants.

I looked up at Marcello. "Tell your dog to sit down."

Marcello held his hands up in a half-hearted apology, his eyes darting between me and the crowd. "He is not wrong about the house rules, Rocco. Customers pay for the spectacle as much as the auction. It is tradition."

"Everything in this room has a price, Marcello," I said, my voice cutting through the noise. "Name it."

Marcello shrugged, his thin lips twitching with greed. "Tradition is difficult to break, Don Rocco."

"Ten million dollars," I stated clearly. "Right now. Cash transfer."

The entire room went dead. Marcello’s jaw dropped, his eyes going wide as the ledger slipped an inch in his grip. Ten million was enough to buy the entire building three times over. For a vulture like Marcello, sacred customs did not stand a chance against that kind of payout.

Marcello slammed his wooden gavel onto the brass plate with a loud strike. "Sold. The girl leaves with Don Rocco. Show is over, clear the floor."

The crowd erupted into frustrated shouts. Greco’s face flushed deep crimson, his fists clenching at his sides.

"This is bullshit, De Santis," Greco barked, stepping toward the stairs. "You cannot just buy your way past—"

I drew my pistol from beneath my coat and leveled the muzzle between his eyes before he could finish the sentence. The hammer clicked back with a clean, metallic snap.

Greco froze mid-step, the color draining from his bloated face.

"Take one more breath toward this stage," I said, "and your men will scrape your brains off the floorboards."

Nobody moved. Nobody made a sound.

I lowered the weapon, slid it back into my leather holster, and walked up the three wooden steps to the platform.

Alessia shrank back against the curtain, her chest heaving as she sucked in short, panicked breaths. I grabbed her upper arm. Her skin was soft, burning hot against my calloused palm, and she flinched as if I had burned her with an open flame.

Before she could pull away, I hauled her forward, ducked my shoulder into her midsection, and hoisted her up.

She let out a piercing shriek that cut through the silence of the hall. "Let me go! Put me down!"

I turned on my heel and carried her off the stage toward the heavy steel exit doors, ignoring the hostile stares of the men lining the hall. My men fell in behind us, forming a moving wall that shut down any thought of pursuit.

The moment we hit the concrete corridor leading to the alley, Alessia went wild. Her small fists began hammering against my shoulder blades, the impacts sharp but meaningless against the heavy wool of my coat. She thrashed her legs, trying to kick her heels into my groin, but I clamped my free forearm across the back of her thighs, pinning her lower half tight against my ribs.

"Put me down, you bastard!" she screamed, her voice bouncing violently off the cold brick walls. "Somebody help me! Let me go!"

Her nails clawed at the fabric of my suit, tearing at my collar as she twisted frantically over my shoulder.

I stopped walking and tightened my grip on her thighs until she gasped from the pressure. "Shut your mouth. I just kept thirty men from tearing you apart on a concrete slab."

Her voice cracked with sheer venom as she drove a fist into my spine. "You did not save me, you animal! You bought me! You are just like the rest of them!"

"Keep swinging and I will tie you to the bumper," I warned, moving through the final set of double doors.

"I know who you are!" she yelled, her breath ragged against the back of my neck. "I saw your face that night. You murdered my father in his own house, and now you dragged me out of there to finish what you started!"

We broke out into the biting winter air of the back alley. A black sedan idle near the curb, exhaust pluming white against the darkness. One of my soldiers held the rear passenger door open, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

I reached the vehicle and shoved her inside without ceremony. She tumbled across the black leather seats, her hair spilling across her face. I climbed in directly after her and slammed the door shut, locking the mechanism with a flick of my thumb.

Alessia scrambled across the seat until her back hit the opposite door. She pressed herself flat against the panel, drawing her knees up to her chest like a shield. Tears tracked through the dust and makeup on her cheeks, her chest rising and falling in violent spasms.

"Do not touch me," she sobbed, staring at me as if I were the devil himself. "Do not come near me. Please, do not kill me."

I sat back against the leather, straightening the lapels of my coat. "Be quiet."

"You shot him," she choked out, her fingers digging desperately into the door handle, trying to pull the lock that was already overridden from the driver's console. "You walked into our home and you killed him. I know what you do to people. Please, God, just let me out."

"Stop talking, Alessia," I said, leaning toward her. "I have no patience for hysterics."

Panic took complete control of her. She abandoned the handle, turned around on her knees, and began hammering both fists against the heavy reinforced glass of the window.

"Help!" she shrieked, her voice echoing painfully inside the enclosed cab of the car. "Someone help me! Please!"

She struck the glass again and again, the dull thuds vibrating through the frame. The sheer noise grated against my skull, chipping away the last shred of my control.

I surged across the bench seat and grabbed both of her wrists in one hand, yanking her hands away from the window. She screamed, twisting violently to sink her teeth into my forearm, but I threw my weight forward, pinning her back against the seat cushions.

Before another sound could tear from her throat, I brought my other hand up and clamped it over her mouth, cutting her off mid-scream.

Her muffled cries vibrated against my palm. She writhed beneath me, kicking her bare legs against the floorboards, her eyes wide, dark, and full of terror. The warmth of her breath washed hot over my fingers.

I shifted my weight, leaned down close to her ear, and slid two fingers of my left hand up beneath the hinge of her jaw, finding the pressure point over her carotid artery.

"Sleep," I commanded quietly against her cheek.

I pressed down firmly, cutting off the blood flow to her brain.

Her body gave one violent jolt. Her fingers clawed desperately at my wrist for two seconds, her nails biting into my skin, and then the fight evaporated. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Her head fell backward, and her limbs went entirely slack against the leather.

I released the pressure and drew my hand away from her face.

Silence flooded the interior of the car, broken only by the low rumble of the engine as the driver pulled away from the curb.

Alessia slumped forward, her head coming to rest heavily against my chest. Her soft lips were slightly parted, her lashes casting dark shadows over her pale cheeks. Without the defiance and the screaming, she looked fragile, almost innocent, like something that did not belong in my world.

She was a Marchetti. The daughter of the man who had burned my life to the ground.

I looked down at her still face, my hand resting on the nape of her neck. The soft heat of her pulse beat steadily beneath my fingertips. She thought her father's death was the end of the nightmare. She had no idea what was waiting for her behind the gates of my estate.

I leaned back against the headrest, keeping her weight secured against my torso as the car sped through the dark city streets. She was going to fight me with everything she had, but in the end, it would not matter. She was mine now, and she would learn the hard way what it meant to yield.