Page 2 of The Taker

He thanks me, then hustles off toward the broiler. I change into a fresh white coat and apron and add a cook’s hat over my curly hair so I look somewhat presentable. As I walk onto the floor, the diners’ eyes follow me. Some smile, while others nod. An older woman with leathery, loose skin grabs the salt shaker with her grown out manicure and shakes it violently over her Pasta alla Norma, and I inwardly cringe behind my fake smile.Disgusting. The food is seasoned to perfection and that heathen obviously has no palate.

As I make my way to the table, I notice a very familiar face sitting at the table next to it. His bright green eyes, Roman nose, dark wavy hair, and stubble covered sharp jawline are hard tomiss, especially since they’re featured in my dreams on rotation. He’s the Don’s nephew, the prince of the docks. And one of the most dangerous men in the city—Rocco Vettore.

My father told me stories about the gruesome way he and his cousins deal with people who crossedla famiglia. Rumor has it that Rocco has a penchant for using knives to remove body parts and carve his victims’ sins into their skin. A shiver runs down my spine as the image of a blade slicing through skin and muscle flashes through my mind. How can such a handsome man be so brutally savage?

I shut that line of thought down because even if he is handsome, he’s the kind of man I promised myself I’d never be with. Rocco may be the perfect male specimen in a bespoke suit and a ridiculously expensive watch I’ll never be able to afford in my lifetime—but he’s dangerous. I’ve seen him come into this restaurant with hardened criminals to work out business deals in his ownuniqueway. Last week, he pulled a knife on a man because he pointed a finger at him to make a point. Then he fileted that finger along the bone…and aside from a few people gasping, nothing happened to him. He’s untouchable. That's the life he leads.

I saw how themafia life wore my father down day by day, how he’d come home broken and bruised after a night of working for the Vettores. Then one night, he never came home… We lowered him into the ground five days later. Some families aren’t lucky enough to have a funeral. They never get the closure of finding a body.

Shaking memories of my father away, I finally address the customers Enzo told me about. They seem to be in their late forties, early fifties. Maybe out on a date night.

“Hello! My name is Leo. I hope you’re enjoying your meals?” I ask them.

I exhale a sigh of relief as I realize the couple just wants to compliment the chef.Nothing is wrong, thank fuck.The only thing I hate more than oversalting food is customer conflict. As the woman drones on about how delicious her lamb chops are, I take another glance at Rocco. He leans back in his chair, with a mile-wide smirk, like a big cat at the zoo lounging on a sun rock.

He pops a stuffed olive into his mouth, and I notice how sinful his lips truly are. They’re perfectly plump, with the bottom one slightly fuller than the top. He pushes the remaining pieces of meat and cheese on his charcuterie plate around as he laughs at something the man across from him said.

Is he on a date? Does he even like men?

If he does, the man across from him is a catch. I never saw him before, but I can tell he’s probably a mobster too, if his tattoos and expensive as fuck ring on his middle finger are any indication. The man looks like he strolled off one of those high fashion magazine ads, the kind you see for men’s cologne. And Rocco looks like a big, jacked wall of muscle. The way he fills out a three piece suit should becriminal.

Before I can mentally laugh at my own pun, the man at the table reaches out to shake my hand, and I hesitantly accept it. His fingers glisten with food bits and sauce, as if he ate his tomahawk steak with his hands, and I want to dry heave. Understatement of the year, butewww.

Giving the couple a final smile, I take one last look at Rocco before returning to the kitchen. He went from relaxed without a care in the world, to flustered. His stiff shoulders and tense jaw are a whole different vibe than when I came out here. Not a good one either.

Cologne-model man suddenly pulls a gun from his suit coat, pointing it directly at Rocco. An actual fucking gun in the middle of the dining room. Lambchop lady screeches, and before I can even think of how stupid it is, I jump across him.

Like a lust-drunk fool, I let my dick think for me and leap in front of a deadly bullet to save a mobster who likes to flay people open for fun.What the fuck is wrong with me?

A sharp, stinging pain slicing into my biceps distracts me from the answer. I fall right into Rocco’s food amid screams of chaos sounding throughout the dining room. Tears fall from my eyes because this hurts so damn bad. As I stare up at the ceiling, I realize how fucked I truly am. If I survive this, I’ll be injured, and who knows if I’ll ever be able to use my arm again. How am I going to support my sisters? Feed them, clothe them, buy their school supplies, afford dance lessons?

My heart hammers in my chest as my vision dims. I can feel the blood leaking from my arm and wetting my chef’s whites. I dare to lift my head and look, and instantly regret it. It’s soaked. Oh my god, oh fuck.

What the fuck did I just do?!

A strangled groan is the only sound I can manage.

“Shhh, don’t cry,” a deep voice whispers. It sounds menacing and insincere, as if he finds this whole thing amusing.

I turn my head and see Rocco Vettore staring at me, an expression of curiosity on his face as he tilts his head. He takes a white linen napkin and applies pressure to my wound. Within seconds, bright red blood blooms through the weave of the fabric.

I guess this is how my life ends, bleeding out in the restaurant in front of a scary mobster.

“Don’t worry, your life isn’t over quite yet,” he promises me with a chuckle, as if he can read my mind. Good to know my bloody death amuses you.

Rocco’s empty green eyes are the last thing I see before I pass out.

2

ROCCO

As 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. Thefamigliais 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 withNueva 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 thatdoes 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, buthe’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.

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