10. Lines Drawn

CHAPTER 10

LINES DRAWN

The Casino Royale loomed before them, its once-glittering facade now marred by shattered windows and bullet holes. Rocco's stomach churned as he took in the scene, the flashing lights of police cruisers casting eerie shadows across the chaos.

"Stay close," Victor growled, his hand a possessive weight on the small of Rocco's back. "And for fuck's sake, try not to do anything stupid."

Rocco bristled at the condescension in Victor's tone. "I'm not a child, Victor. I can handle myself."

Victor's laugh was low and dangerous. "Sure you can, princess. That's why Daddy's here to hold your hand."

Before Rocco could fire back a retort, a harried-looking lieutenant approached. "Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Kovac. Thank God you're here. It's a shit show inside."

Rocco straightened his spine, channeling every ounce of Rossetti authority. "Give me the rundown, Frankie. How many hostages? What are Bianchi's demands?"

As Frankie rattled off the grim details, Rocco felt Victor tense beside him. He could practically hear the gears turning in the older man's head, no doubt concocting some hyper-protective plan to keep Rocco out of harm's way.

Not this time.

"Alright," Rocco said, cutting off Frankie's report. "Here's what we're going to do. I want snipers on the roof of the building across the street. Get me a direct line to Bianchi. And prepare a small strike team to infiltrate through the service entrance."

Victor's grip on Rocco's arm tightened painfully. "Like hell you're going in there," he snarled. "It's too dangerous."

Rocco wrenched free, anger flaring hot in his chest. "This is my family's business, Victor. My responsibility. You don't get to dictate how I handle it."

For a moment, the chaos around them faded away. Victor's eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and something darker, more primal. He crowded Rocco against a nearby police cruiser, one large hand wrapping around the younger man's throat.

"Listen to me very carefully, you spoiled little brat," Victor growled, his lips a hairsbreadth from Rocco's. "Your father put me in charge of keeping you alive. That means when I give you an order, you fucking follow it. Understood?"

Rocco's pulse thundered in his ears, arousal warring with indignation. He wanted to spit in Victor's face, to rage against the older man's dominance. But a larger part of him craved Victor's approval, ached to submit to that iron will.

"Fuck you," Rocco spat, channeling every ounce of bratty defiance he possessed. "You're not my father, Victor. And you're sure as hell not my keeper."

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "No," he purred, voice low and lethal. "I'm much worse than that, baby boy. I'm the man who knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the threat, his cock twitching traitorously in his tailored slacks. But he pushed the arousal aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"We don't have time for this," Rocco said, shoving Victor away with more force than necessary. "There are people counting on us. On me."

Victor's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Fine," he bit out. "But you stay behind me at all times. And if things go sideways, you get the fuck out. No heroics."

Rocco nodded curtly, already moving towards the casino's entrance. As they approached, he could hear the muffled sounds of panic from within—terrified whimpers and harsh commands.

"Last chance to back out, princess," Victor murmured, his breath hot against Rocco's ear. "Once we're in there, all bets are off."

Rocco turned, meeting Victor's stormy gaze head-on. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly. "We do this together, or not at all."

Something softened in Victor's eyes, a flicker of pride breaking through the worry. He nodded once, all business once more. "Alright. On my signal."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of controlled chaos. Victor moved with lethal grace, neutralizing threats with brutal efficiency. Rocco stayed close, his own gun a comforting weight in his hands.

As they neared the main gaming floor, the sounds of a scuffle reached their ears. Rocco's blood ran cold as he recognized one of the voices—Marco Bianchi himself.

"I want to talk to him," Rocco whispered urgently. "If I can negotiate?—"

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's arm hard enough to bruise. "Absolutely fucking not," he snarled. "You're not getting anywhere near that psychopath."

Rocco wrenched free, frustration bubbling over. "This is our chance to end this, Victor. To protect our people and send a message."

"And what message would that be?" Victor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That the Rossetti heir is a reckless idiot with a death wish?"

"That we're not afraid," Rocco shot back. "That we'll face our enemies head-on instead of cowering behind hired muscle."

The barb hit its mark. Victor's eyes flashed dangerously, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You ungrateful little shit," he growled. "After everything I've done for you, everything I've sacrificed?—"

"I never asked for your sacrifice!" Rocco interrupted, his voice rising despite the need for stealth. "I never asked for your protection or your... whatever the fuck this is between us."

Hurt flickered across Victor's face, quickly masked by cold fury. "Is that so?" he said, voice low and deadly. "Then by all means, go get yourself killed. See if I give a fuck."

The words hit Rocco like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He opened his mouth to respond, to take it all back, but Victor was already moving away.

"Victor, wait—" Rocco reached for him, desperation clawing at his throat.

But before he could make contact, a new voice cut through the tension.

"Well, well," Marco Bianchi drawled, emerging from the shadows with a gun trained on Rocco's head. "Trouble in paradise?"

Rocco froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could see Victor tense out of the corner of his eye, ready to spring into action.

"Now, now," Bianchi tutted, gesturing with his weapon. "Let's not do anything hasty. Why don't we all take a nice, civilized walk to the VIP lounge? I think it's time the young Rossetti and I had a little chat."

Victor's growl was pure animal, his eyes blazing with protective fury. "Over my dead body."

Bianchi's smile was cold and sharp as a blade. "That can be arranged, Mr. Kovac. But I'd hate to deprive our boy here of his faithful guard dog. So why don't you play nice, and maybe I'll let you both walk out of here alive."

Rocco's mind raced, weighing their options. He could see the wheels turning in Victor's head, no doubt calculating the odds of taking out Bianchi before he could pull the trigger.

But the risk was too great. There were still hostages to consider, innocent people caught in the crossfire of their family's war.

"Alright," Rocco said, lifting his chin in defiance. "Let's talk, Bianchi. But my people walk free. All of them."

Bianchi's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "My, my. The pup has teeth after all. Very well, Rossetti. Your wish is my command."

As they were herded towards the VIP lounge, Rocco could feel the heat of Victor's glare boring into his back. He knew they'd have hell to pay when this was over—if they survived at all.

But for now, he had to focus on the task at hand. On protecting his family's interests and proving himself worthy of the Rossetti name.

Even if it meant sacrificing the fragile connection he'd built with Victor in the process.

The VIP lounge was a study in opulence, all plush velvet and glittering crystal. But the beauty was marred by the tableau before them—terrified hostages huddled in corners, watched over by Bianchi's stone-faced goons.

Bianchi lounged in a high-backed chair, every inch the conquering king. "Please, have a seat," he gestured magnanimously. "Let's discuss business like civilized men."

Rocco moved to sit, but Victor's hand on his arm held him back. "We stand," Victor growled, positioning himself slightly in front of Rocco.

Bianchi's eyes glittered with amusement. "Suit yourself. Now, young Rossetti, I believe we have some matters to settle."

Rocco lifted his chin, channeling every ounce of authority he possessed. "The only thing we have to settle is how quickly you and your men will be leaving my family's property."

A chorus of nervous titters rippled through the hostages. Bianchi's smile sharpened, predatory and cold.

"Brave words from a boy playing at being a man," he purred. "Tell me, does Daddy know you're out past your bedtime?"

Anger flared hot in Rocco's chest. He opened his mouth to retort, but Victor's grip tightened in warning.

"Enough games, Bianchi," Victor snarled. "What do you want?"

Bianchi's gaze slid to Victor, a hint of grudging respect in his eyes. "Ah, the loyal attack dog. Always so quick to bare his teeth." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "What I want is simple. The Rossetti family's complete withdrawal from the east side. All your operations, all your territory—handed over to me."

Rocco's blood ran cold. The east side was the heart of their empire, generations of hard work and sacrifice. To give it up would be tantamount to surrender.

"Never," Rocco spat. "You'll have to kill me first."

Victor tensed beside him, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Bianchi's eyes lit up with malicious glee.

"Oh, I do hope it comes to that," he purred. "I so enjoy breaking in new toys."

The implication sent a shiver of revulsion down Rocco's spine. But before he could respond, Victor surged forward, his massive frame coiled with barely leashed violence.

"Touch him and I'll rip you apart with my bare hands," Victor snarled, voice thick with protective fury.

Bianchi tsked, signaling his men to raise their weapons. "Now, now, Mr. Kovac. Let's not do anything rash. We wouldn't want any unfortunate accidents, would we?"

Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way out of this nightmare. He could see the wheels turning in Victor's head, no doubt calculating the odds of taking out Bianchi and his men before they could harm the hostages.

But the risk was too great. They needed a different approach.

"Wait," Rocco said, stepping out from behind Victor's protective bulk. "I have a counter-offer."

Victor's head whipped around, eyes wide with alarm. "Rocco, don't?—"

But Rocco pressed on, meeting Bianchi's curious gaze. "A game. Winner takes all."

Bianchi's eyebrows rose, intrigue sparking in his eyes. "Go on."

"One hand of poker," Rocco said, his heart thundering in his chest. "If I win, you and your men leave. No repercussions, no retaliation. If you win..." He swallowed hard, steeling himself. "If you win, I'll sign over the east side. All of it."

A hush fell over the room, broken only by Victor's sharp intake of breath. Bianchi leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"My, my," he drawled. "The boy has balls after all. Very well, Rossetti. I accept your terms."

Victor's hand clamped down on Rocco's shoulder, spinning him around. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" he hissed, eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and fear. "This isn't a game, Rocco. This is your family's livelihood, your future?—"

"I know what I'm doing," Rocco snapped, shrugging off Victor's grip. "Trust me for once in your goddamn life."

Hurt flashed across Victor's face, quickly masked by cold anger. "Fine," he bit out. "But when this all goes to shit, don't come crying to me."

The words stung, but Rocco pushed the pain aside. He had to focus, had to channel every ounce of skill and luck he possessed.

As they moved to the poker table, Bianchi's men clearing a space, Rocco caught Victor's eye one last time. The older man's face was a mask of carefully controlled rage, but beneath it, Rocco could see the fear. The desperation.

For a moment, Rocco wanted nothing more than to call the whole thing off. To throw himself into Victor's arms and beg forgiveness for his recklessness.

But it was too late for that now. He'd made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.

The cards were dealt, the stakes set. As Rocco lifted his hand, he sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening.

Everything rode on this one hand. His family's future, his own life... and whatever fragile connection he'd built with Victor.

Rocco took a deep breath, schooling his features into a mask of confidence he didn't quite feel. This was it. The moment of truth.

As he laid down his cards, the weight of a thousand unspoken words hung heavy between him and Victor. Whatever happened next, Rocco knew one thing for certain:

Nothing would ever be the same again.