17. The Final Stand
CHAPTER 17
THE FINAL STAND
Rocco's head throbbed as consciousness crept back, the coppery taste of blood lingering on his tongue. He blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Cold concrete pressed against his back, the unmistakable weight of restraints binding his wrists.
"Well, well. Look who's finally awake."
The voice sent ice through Rocco's veins. He squinted, his vision slowly focusing on the figure looming before him. Marco Bianchi, the man they'd thought defeated, grinned down at him with shark-like malice.
"Fuck you," Rocco spat, channeling every ounce of defiance he could muster. "You won't get away with this."
Marco's laugh was cold and cruel. "Oh, but I already have, little prince. Your precious family is walking right into my trap, and you're the bait."
Fear clawed at Rocco's throat, but he pushed it down. He couldn't let Bianchi see his weakness. "You clearly don't know my family very well," he sneered. "They're not stupid enough to fall for your bullshit."
A sharp backhand snapped Rocco's head to the side, stars exploding behind his eyes. "Such a mouthy little brat," Marco growled. "I can see why Kovac keeps you around. I bet you're a real wildcat in the sack."
Bile rose in Rocco's throat at the implication. He glared up at Bianchi, pouring every ounce of hatred into his gaze. "You don't know shit about me and Victor."
Marco's grin widened, a predatory glint in his eye. "Oh, but I will. Once I've crushed your pathetic excuse for a family, I'll take great pleasure in breaking you. Maybe I'll even let Kovac watch."
Before Rocco could retort, the distant sound of gunfire erupted. Marco's head snapped up, triumph flashing across his face. "Right on schedule," he purred. "Showtime, pretty boy."
He hauled Rocco to his feet, shoving him roughly towards the door. As they emerged into what looked like an abandoned warehouse, chaos reigned. Rossetti soldiers clashed with Bianchi's men, the air thick with gunsmoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Rocco's eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of Victor. His heart leapt as he caught a glimpse of that familiar broad-shouldered form, cutting through the fray like an avenging angel.
"Victor!" he shouted, struggling against Marco's iron grip. "I'm here!"
Victor's head whipped around, his eyes locking onto Rocco with laser focus. The raw emotion in that gaze—relief, fury, desperation—took Rocco's breath away.
"Let him go, Bianchi," Victor snarled, his voice carrying even over the din of battle. "This is between you and me."
Marco's laugh was sharp and mocking. "Oh, I don't think so, Kovac. Your little boy toy is my insurance policy. One wrong move, and I paint the walls with his brains."
To emphasize his point, he pressed the cold muzzle of a gun to Rocco's temple. Rocco's breath hitched, but he forced himself to stay calm. He met Victor's eyes, trying to convey a silent message. Trust me.
Victor's jaw clenched, but Rocco saw the flicker of understanding in his gaze. "Alright," he said, lowering his weapon slightly. "Let's talk this out. No need for anyone else to get hurt."
As Victor inched closer, hands raised in a gesture of peace, Rocco steeled himself. He'd only get one shot at this.
In a move born of months of Victor's relentless training, Rocco threw his head back, feeling the satisfying crunch as his skull connected with Marco's nose. The gun went off, the bullet whizzing harmlessly past Rocco's ear.
He twisted out of Marco's grasp, adrenaline dulling the pain of his protesting muscles. Victor was there in an instant, putting himself between Rocco and danger.
"You okay, baby boy?" he growled, eyes never leaving the threat before them.
"Never better," Rocco panted, grabbing a fallen weapon. "Let's end this fucker."
What followed was a blur of violence and desperation. Rocco and Victor moved in perfect sync, covering each other's blind spots and taking down Bianchi's men with brutal efficiency.
Rocco lost himself in the rhythm of it, the world narrowing to the steady presence of Victor at his back and the next immediate threat. His body sang with the thrill of battle, every lesson Victor had drilled into him coming to fruition.
As the tide began to turn in their favor, Rocco caught sight of Marco trying to slink away. "Oh no you don't, you bastard," he snarled, giving chase.
He cornered Bianchi near a stack of rusty shipping containers, gun trained steadily on the older man's chest. "It's over," Rocco said, voice hard with triumph. "On your knees."
Marco's eyes darted around, searching for an escape. Finding none, he slowly sank to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "You've got me, kid," he said, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "Gotta admit, I underestimated you."
Rocco's lip curled in a sneer. "Yeah, well. That was your first mistake."
As Rocco zip-tied Marco's hands, Victor jogged up, slightly out of breath. "Nice work, baby," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Your father would be?—"
The crack of a gunshot cut him off. Victor's eyes went wide, a look of shock crossing his face as he stumbled forward.
"No!" Rocco screamed, lunging to catch Victor as he fell. He lowered the older man gently to the ground, panic clawing at his throat as he saw the spreading stain of red on Victor's shirt.
A cold laugh drew Rocco's attention. He looked up to see one of their own men—Carmine, an old-school soldier who'd always resented Rocco's position—standing there with a smoking gun.
"Sorry, kid," Carmine sneered, no remorse in his voice. "But the old guard's taking back control. Bianchi offered us a better deal."
White-hot rage flooded Rocco's system. Without conscious thought, he raised his weapon and fired. Carmine's head snapped back, a look of surprise frozen on his face as he crumpled to the ground.
Rocco turned back to Victor, hands shaking as he applied pressure to the wound. "Stay with me," he pleaded, voice cracking. "Come on, Daddy, don't you dare leave me."
Victor's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain but still alert. "Not... going anywhere, baby boy," he ground out. "Takes more than that to keep me down."
Relief washed over Rocco, but it was short-lived. They weren't out of danger yet. He could hear shouts approaching—whether friend or foe, he couldn't be sure.
"We need to move," he said, helping Victor struggle to his feet. "Can you walk?"
Victor nodded grimly, leaning heavily on Rocco. "Lead the way, little one. I've got your back."
As they made their way through the warehouse, Rocco's mind raced. The betrayal of Carmine and who knew how many others changed everything. They couldn't trust anyone, not even their own people.
They emerged into the cool night air, the sounds of battle fading behind them. Rocco scanned the area, looking for a means of escape. His eyes landed on a beat-up sedan, probably belonging to one of Bianchi's lower-level goons.
"There," he said, guiding Victor towards the car. "We can hotwire it, get the hell out of here."
Victor chuckled weakly, wincing as the movement jostled his wound. "Look at you, all grown up and stealing cars. I've taught you well."
Rocco managed a shaky smile as he helped Victor into the passenger seat. "Yeah, well. I had a good teacher."
As Rocco worked on starting the car, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Victor reached out to cup his cheek. "I'm proud of you, baby," he murmured, voice rough with pain and emotion. "You handled yourself like a true don back there."
Rocco leaned into the touch, his heart swelling with a complicated mix of love, fear, and fierce protectiveness.
The engine roared to life, and Rocco peeled out of the warehouse district, tires squealing on the asphalt. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he navigated the dark streets, constantly checking the rearview mirror for any signs of pursuit.
"We need to get you to a doctor," Rocco said, glancing worriedly at Victor. The older man's face was pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Victor shook his head, grimacing. "Too risky. We don't know who we can trust. Head for the safe house on Staten Island."
Rocco wanted to argue, but he knew Victor was right. With Carmine's betrayal, they had no way of knowing how deep the corruption in their ranks went. They were on their own.
As they crossed the Verrazzano Bridge, leaving the chaos of Brooklyn behind, Rocco felt the first tendrils of exhaustion creeping in. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him shaky and sore.
"Stay with me, Daddy," he murmured, reaching out to squeeze Victor's hand. "We're almost there."
Victor's grip was weak but present. "Not going anywhere, baby boy," he rasped. "You're stuck with me."
The safe house was a nondescript brownstone in a quiet neighborhood. Rocco pulled into the garage, his heart racing as he helped Victor out of the car. The older man leaned heavily on him, his breathing labored.
Once inside, Rocco eased Victor onto the couch and rushed to grab the first aid kit. His hands trembled as he cut away Victor's blood-soaked shirt, revealing the angry wound beneath.
"Fuck," Rocco hissed, panic rising in his throat. "Victor, I don't know if I can?—"
"Yes, you can," Victor said firmly, his hand coming up to cup Rocco's cheek. "I trust you, baby. You've got this."
Drawing strength from Victor's unwavering faith, Rocco set to work. He cleaned and dressed the wound as best he could, grateful for the extensive medical training Victor had insisted on.
"There," he said finally, sitting back on his heels. "It's not pretty, but it should hold until we can get you proper medical attention."
Victor managed a weak smile. "My hero," he murmured, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and pain.
Rocco's heart clenched. He'd never seen Victor so vulnerable, so human. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
"Rest now," he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Victor's forehead. "I'll keep watch."
As Victor drifted into a fitful sleep, Rocco paced the small living room. His mind raced, trying to piece together the events of the night. Carmine's betrayal, Bianchi's resurgence, the chaos at the warehouse—it all pointed to a larger conspiracy.
But who was behind it all? And more importantly, who could they still trust?
Rocco's eyes landed on his phone, sitting innocuously on the coffee table. He knew he should call his father, let the family know what had happened. But something held him back. A nagging doubt, a seed of suspicion he couldn't quite shake.
What if the rot went all the way to the top?
The thought sent a chill down Rocco's spine. He'd always known his father was capable of ruthlessness, but this? Selling out his own son, his most trusted lieutenant?
Rocco shook his head, trying to banish the traitorous thoughts. He was letting paranoia get the best of him. His father might be a lot of things, but he wouldn't betray family. Would he?
A soft groan from the couch pulled Rocco from his spiraling thoughts. He was at Victor's side in an instant, worry creasing his brow.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, checking Victor's forehead for signs of fever.
Victor's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain but alert. "Like I've been shot," he deadpanned. "But I'll live. Thanks to you, baby boy."
Rocco managed a weak smile. "Don't thank me yet. We're not out of the woods."
Victor's hand came up to cup Rocco's cheek, his touch achingly tender. "We will be," he said softly. "Together."
The simple declaration, filled with such unwavering faith, nearly broke Rocco. He leaned into Victor's touch, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.
"I was so scared," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "When I saw you go down, I thought... I thought I'd lost you."
Victor's eyes softened, a vulnerability there that Rocco had rarely seen. "Never," he growled, pulling Rocco down for a gentle kiss. "You're stuck with me, remember? No matter what happens, I'll always find my way back to you."
Rocco melted into the kiss, pouring all his fear and relief and desperate love into it. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against Victor's.
"What do we do now?" he asked, hating how small his voice sounded.
Victor's jaw set, determination hardening his features. "We fight back," he said grimly. "We find out who's behind this, and we make them pay. For everything they've done, everything they've taken from us."
Rocco nodded, feeling a spark of that familiar fire igniting in his chest. This was the Victor he knew—strong, unyielding, a force of nature in a tailored suit.
"Together?" he asked, needing the reassurance.
Victor's smile was fierce and proud. "Always, baby boy. You and me against the world."
As the first rays of dawn began to creep through the windows, Rocco felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and betrayal. But with Victor by his side, he knew they could face anything.
They were more than lovers, more than partners. They were two halves of a whole, forged in fire and blood. And anyone who dared come between them would learn just how deadly that bond could be.
The game had changed. The stakes were higher than ever. But Rocco was ready. Ready to fight, ready to lead, ready to become the man—the don—he was always meant to be.
With one last lingering kiss, Rocco stood, squaring his shoulders. It was time to take back what was theirs. Time to show the world exactly what happened when you crossed a Rossetti.
And God help anyone who got in their way.