16. Alliances Forged

CHAPTER 16

ALLIANCES FORGED

The sleek black Bentley purred to a stop outside the Moretti compound, its tinted windows reflecting the opulent mansion before them. Rocco's heart raced, a heady mix of adrenaline and nerves coursing through his veins. This was it—his first solo negotiation, a chance to prove himself without Victor's looming presence.

"You've got this, baby boy," Victor's voice crackled through the earpiece, a lifeline of reassurance. "Remember what I taught you. Don't let them see you sweat."

Rocco took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "I know, Daddy," he murmured, adjusting his tie one last time. "I won't let you down."

As he stepped out of the car, Rocco felt the weight of expectation settle heavy on his shoulders. The Moretti family had been neutral for years, a delicate balance in the ever-shifting landscape of New York's underworld. Winning their allegiance could tip the scales decisively in the Rossetti's favor.

The mansion's grand doors swung open, revealing Salvatore Moretti himself—a bear of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes like chips of obsidian. His gaze raked over Rocco, assessing and dismissive all at once.

"So," Salvatore rumbled, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer. "Giovanni sends his pretty boy to do a man's job. I expected better from the Rossettis."

Rocco's chin lifted, defiance flaring hot in his chest. "With all due respect, Mr. Moretti," he said, voice steady despite the rapid tattoo of his pulse, "I think you'll find I'm more than capable of handling this negotiation. Unless, of course, you're afraid of a little friendly competition?"

Salvatore's eyebrows shot up, surprise flickering across his craggy features. Then, to Rocco's shock, he threw back his head and laughed—a booming sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

"You've got balls, kid," Salvatore chuckled, clapping Rocco on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "I like that. Come on in. Let's see what you're made of."

As Rocco followed Salvatore into a lavishly appointed study, he couldn't help but feel a spark of triumph. First hurdle cleared. Now came the real test.

The negotiations stretched on for hours, a delicate dance of offers and counteroffers. Rocco held his own, drawing on every lesson Victor had drilled into him over the past months. He was polite but firm, charming yet unyielding on key points.

"You drive a hard bargain, young Rossetti," Salvatore mused, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. "But I'm still not convinced. What makes your family's protection worth more than our neutrality?"

Rocco leaned forward, his eyes glinting with determination. "Because, Mr. Moretti, the world is changing. The old ways of doing business are crumbling. You need allies who understand that, who are willing to adapt and evolve."

He spread his hands, a gesture of openness. "The Rossetti family is positioning itself for the future. We have connections in tech, in clean energy. Imagine the possibilities if we combined our strengths."

Salvatore's brow furrowed, interest sparking in those flinty eyes. "Go on," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Rocco's heart soared. He had him hooked. Now to reel him in.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold, Rocco emerged from the Moretti compound victorious. The alliance was forged, sealed with handshakes and the promise of shared prosperity.

"You did it, baby," Victor's voice was warm with pride in Rocco's ear. "I knew you could."

Rocco's chest swelled at the praise, a giddy smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, Daddy," he murmured, sliding into the waiting car. "Couldn't have done it without your training."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Victor purred, his voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down Rocco's spine. "I think you deserve a reward for being such a good boy. What do you say we celebrate when you get home?"

Heat pooled in Rocco's groin, his cock twitching with interest. "Yes, please," he breathed, already aching for Victor's touch.

But as the car pulled away from the Moretti estate, a prickle of unease crawled up Rocco's neck. The hairs on his arms stood on end, a sixth sense honed by months in the underworld screaming danger.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, his blood running cold as he spotted a nondescript black sedan tailing them. "Fuck," he hissed, adrenaline surging through his system. "Victor, we've got company."

Victor's voice sharpened instantly. "How many?"

"One car, at least two men inside," Rocco reported, his mind racing. "They're keeping their distance, but they're definitely following us."

"Alright, stay calm," Victor instructed, his tone brooking no argument. "Take the next right, then the second left. We've got a safe house in the area."

Rocco relayed the instructions to the driver, his hand inching towards the gun holstered beneath his jacket. As they wove through the streets, the tension in the car ratcheted up with each passing moment.

Just as they thought they'd lost their tail, a spray of gunfire shattered the rear windshield. Rocco ducked instinctively, glass raining down around him.

"Fuck!" he swore, his heart pounding like a jackhammer. "Victor, they're shooting at us!"

"I'm on my way," Victor growled, the sound of screeching tires audible in the background. "Just hold on, baby. I'm coming for you."

The car swerved violently, tires squealing as the driver tried to evade their attackers. Rocco clung to the seat, his knuckles white with the effort.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as they careened through the city streets. Rocco's mind raced, trying to piece together who could be behind this. The remnants of Bianchi's crew? A new player making a move?

A sharp turn sent Rocco slamming into the car door, pain lancing through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. He couldn't fall apart now. Victor was coming. He just had to hold on.

The safe house loomed ahead, a nondescript brownstone that blended seamlessly with its neighbors. But as they screeched to a stop, Rocco's heart sank. Their pursuers were right on their tail, boxing them in.

"Victor," Rocco's voice cracked, fear clawing at his throat. "They've got us cornered. I don't know if?—"

"Listen to me," Victor cut him off, his voice fierce and determined. "You are strong, baby boy. You are a Rossetti. You can handle this. I believe in you."

Rocco took a shuddering breath, drawing strength from Victor's words. He was right. He could do this. He had to.

As the attackers closed in, guns drawn and faces twisted with malice, Rocco steeled himself for the fight of his life. He might be cornered, but he was far from helpless.

With a feral grin that would have made Victor proud, Rocco threw open the car door and launched himself into the fray. If these bastards wanted a piece of him, they'd have to work for it.

The first attacker went down with a satisfying crunch, Rocco's fist connecting solidly with his jaw. But there were more coming, closing in from all sides.

Rocco fought like a man possessed, every dirty trick Victor had taught him coming into play. He was a whirlwind of fists and elbows, lashing out with controlled fury.

But he was outnumbered, and his opponents were skilled. A lucky punch caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. As he staggered, another blow connected with his temple, sending him crashing to the ground.

Stars exploded behind Rocco's eyes, the world tilting sickeningly. He could taste blood in his mouth, copper and salt on his tongue.

As darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, Rocco's last coherent thought was of Victor. He hoped his Daddy would be proud of how he'd fought.

Then, mercifully, everything went black.