18. Retributions Edge

CHAPTER 18

RETRIBUTION'S EDGE

The penthouse suite of the Rossetti tower hummed with tension, a war room disguised in luxurious trappings. Rocco stood before a wall of screens, his eyes hard as he surveyed the web of connections and betrayals laid bare before him.

Victor lounged in a nearby chair, his wound still tender but healing. His gaze never left Rocco, a mixture of pride and hunger simmering beneath the surface.

"Run it by me again, baby boy," Victor growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I want to make sure we haven't missed anything."

Rocco nodded, squaring his shoulders. "Carmine was just the tip of the iceberg. We've uncovered a network of traitors spanning three families, all feeding information to Bianchi. But the real puppet master..." He paused, jaw clenching. "It's my uncle, Antonio. He's been playing both sides, positioning himself to take over once the dust settles."

Victor's eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam sharpening his features. "And your father?"

"In the dark," Rocco confirmed. "But not for much longer. We're meeting him in an hour to lay it all out."

A slow, vicious smile spread across Victor's face. "That's my good boy," he purred, beckoning Rocco closer. "So smart, so ruthless. You make Daddy very proud."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the praise. He sauntered over, a hint of that old bratty swagger in his step. "Yeah? Maybe you should show me just how proud you are, old man."

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's hip with bruising force. He yanked the younger man into his lap, growling as Rocco ground down against his rapidly hardening cock.

"Careful what you wish for, little one," Victor warned, teeth grazing Rocco's pulse point. "We don't have time for me to wreck you properly right now."

Rocco whined, frustration and need warring in his voice. "Please, Daddy. Need you. Need to feel you before we face them."

Victor's resolve crumbled. With a snarl, he flipped them, pinning Rocco to the plush carpet. Clothes were shed with frantic urgency, both men desperate for the connection, the grounding force of skin on skin.

Their coupling was fast and brutal, Victor pounding into Rocco with ruthless precision. Rocco keened, nails raking down Victor's back as he took everything his Daddy gave him.

"That's it," Victor growled, his hips snapping with punishing force. "Take it like the good little slut you are. Show Daddy how much you need his cock."

Rocco babbled incoherently, lost in the overwhelming sensations. When Victor's hand wrapped around his leaking cock, it only took a few strokes before he was coming with a broken cry.

Victor followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt as he filled Rocco with his release. They collapsed together, panting and trembling in the aftermath.

As they caught their breath, Victor peppered Rocco's face with surprisingly tender kisses. "My fierce little prince," he murmured. "Ready to bring down an empire?"

Rocco's grin was sharp and deadly. "Born ready, Daddy. Let's make these fuckers pay."

An hour later, they strode into Giovanni Rossetti's office, the picture of power and control. Rocco's father looked up, surprise flickering across his face at their united front.

"Rocco, Victor," he greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Rocco's eyes hardened, all trace of the playful brat gone. "We need to talk, Dad. About Uncle Antonio, about Bianchi... about the rot eating away at our family from the inside out."

Giovanni's face paled as Rocco laid out the evidence, systematically exposing every betrayal, every backroom deal. By the time he finished, the don's hands were shaking with barely contained fury.

"I want them all dead," Giovanni snarled, slamming his fist on the desk. "Every last one of these traitors."

Rocco shared a look with Victor, a silent conversation passing between them. "With all due respect, Dad," Rocco said carefully, "I have a better idea."

The Rossetti penthouse hummed with tension, a war room disguised in luxury. Rocco stood before a sprawling evidence board, his eyes hard as he surveyed the web of betrayal laid bare. Victor lounged nearby, radiating dangerous energy.

"Walk me through it again, baby boy," Victor growled. "I want to savor every detail of how we're going to crush these fuckers."

Rocco's lips curved into a predatory smile. "We start with the low-level players. The dirty cops, the crooked judges, the petty criminals who've been feeding information to Bianchi and my uncle Antonio. We hit them hard and fast, make examples of them."

"And how do we do that?" Victor purred, his eyes dark with anticipation.

"We use their own greed and fear against them," Rocco explained. "For the cops, we plant evidence of bribery, tip off Internal Affairs. Watch them tear each other apart trying to save their own skins."

Victor nodded approvingly. "And the judges?"

Rocco's grin turned vicious. "We expose their dirty little secrets. The one who likes underage hookers? Anonymous tip to the press. The gambling addict? His bookie gets a visit from the IRS."

"Mmm, clever boy," Victor murmured, pride evident in his voice. "And the bigger fish?"

"We go after what they value most," Rocco said coldly. "Their reputation, their families, their sense of safety. We don't just kill them—we destroy everything they've built."

Victor's eyes blazed with lust and approval. "Fuck, baby. You make Daddy so proud when you talk like that."

They set their plan in motion the next day. Their first target was a detective who'd been on Bianchi's payroll for years. Instead of a bullet to the brain, Rocco orchestrated an elaborate sting. He fed the cop false intel about a major drug shipment, knowing the greedy bastard would try to intercept it himself.

When Detective Morelli showed up at the docks, he found himself surrounded by both his fellow officers and members of the cartel he'd been planning to rip off. The resulting shootout made headlines, exposing the depth of corruption in the department and throwing Bianchi's entire information network into chaos.

"One down," Rocco said smugly as they watched the news coverage from their penthouse.

Victor pulled him close, nipping at his ear. "Good boy. Who's next on our hit list?"

The next few days were a whirlwind of calculated violence and precision strikes. They took down a city councilman with a penchant for embezzlement, a union boss who'd been skimming from pension funds, and a prominent defense attorney who'd been helping Bianchi's men walk free.

Each takedown was more elaborate than the last. For the union boss, they arranged for his mistress to "accidentally" upload their sex tape to the union's official social media accounts. The resulting scandal not only destroyed his career but also his marriage.

The attorney proved trickier. He was too smart to leave a paper trail, too cautious to be caught in a compromising position. So Rocco got creative.

"We can't prove he's dirty," he explained to Victor as they surveilled the man's office. "So we make everyone think he is, even if he isn't."

Over the next week, they orchestrated a series of events that made it look like the lawyer was cooperating with the feds. Mysterious meetings, coded phone calls, suspicious bank transfers—all fake, but convincing enough to make Bianchi paranoid.

It worked better than they could have hoped. Bianchi, spooked by the apparent betrayal, had the attorney taken out by his own men. Another piece off the board, without Rocco and Victor having to lift a finger.

As their campaign of destruction continued, word spread through the underworld. The Rossetti heir was cleaning house, and God help anyone who stood in his way. Informants started coming out of the woodwork, eager to save their own skins by selling out their co-conspirators.

But it wasn't all smooth sailing. On the fifth day of their crusade, Rocco found himself pinned down in an abandoned warehouse, exchanging gunfire with a group of Bianchi loyalists. He'd gotten cocky, pushed too hard too fast, and now he was paying the price.

"Fuck," Rocco hissed as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He checked his clip—two rounds left. Not nearly enough to take out the four men closing in on his position.

Just as he was beginning to think he'd finally bitten off more than he could chew, a familiar voice crackled through his earpiece.

"In a bit of trouble there, baby boy?" Victor's tone was amused, but Rocco could hear the underlying concern.

"Nothing I can't handle, old man," Rocco shot back, wincing as another bullet pinged off his cover. "But if you're in the neighborhood, I wouldn't say no to a little backup."

Victor's chuckle was low and dangerous. "Oh, I'm a lot closer than you think, little one. On my mark, run for the east exit. Three, two, one—now!"

Rocco didn't hesitate. He sprinted across the open floor, bullets kicking up dust at his heels. Just as he reached the door, an explosion rocked the building. He glanced back to see Victor standing amid the chaos, looking like an avenging angel with a grenade launcher in hand.

"Show-off," Rocco muttered, but he couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face.

As the dust settled, Victor strode towards Rocco, eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desire. He slammed Rocco against the wall, pinning him with his body.

"What did I tell you about taking unnecessary risks?" Victor growled, his face inches from Rocco's.

Instead of cowering, Rocco met his gaze defiantly. "Aw, were you worried about me, Daddy?" he purred, a hint of that old bratty spark in his eyes.

Victor's control snapped. He crushed his mouth to Rocco's in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and pent-up adrenaline. Rocco gave as good as he got, grinding shamelessly against Victor's thigh.

"Fuck," Victor panted when they finally broke apart. "You're going to be the death of me, you little brat."

Rocco grinned, breathless and flushed. "Yeah, but what a way to go."

They made it back to the penthouse in record time, barely waiting for the elevator doors to close before they were on each other again. Clothes were shed with frantic urgency, leaving a trail from the foyer to the bedroom.

Victor tossed Rocco onto the massive bed, crawling over him with predatory grace. "You've been such a good boy this week," he growled, nipping at Rocco's throat. "Taking out our enemies, making Daddy so proud. I think you deserve a reward."

What followed was a symphony of pleasure and pain, Victor taking Rocco apart piece by piece before putting him back together again. When they finally collapsed, sweaty and sated, the first light of dawn was peeking through the windows.

"We should get some rest," Victor murmured, pressing a kiss to Rocco's temple. "Big day tomorrow. We're going after your uncle."

Rocco nodded, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Good. It's time we dealt with that treacherous bastard once and for all."

The next evening found them outside Antonio Rossetti's opulent mansion, the setting sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. Rocco's heart raced with anticipation as they approached the front door, guns at the ready.

They encountered minimal resistance—most of Antonio's men had already jumped ship, sensing which way the wind was blowing. The few loyal guards were quickly and efficiently neutralized.

They found Antonio in his study, a glass of scotch trembling in his hand as he stared out the window. He turned as they entered, his face a mask of fear poorly disguised as bravado.

"Ah, Rocco," he said, forcing a smile. "And Victor. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Rocco's laugh was cold and cruel. "Cut the bullshit, Uncle. You know exactly why we're here."

Antonio's facade crumbled. He fell to his knees, hands outstretched in supplication. "Please," he begged. "Rocco, nephew, have mercy. We're family."

Rocco's eyes hardened, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Family? You lost the right to call me that when you sold us out to Bianchi."

He raised his gun, ready to end this once and for all. But before he could fire, Victor's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Wait, baby boy," Victor murmured, his eyes never leaving Antonio's sniveling form. "Death is too good for him. I have a better idea."

Rocco glanced at Victor, curiosity piqued. "What did you have in mind, Daddy?"

Victor's smile was razor-sharp as he outlined his plan, whispering in Rocco's ear. With each word, Rocco's eyes widened, a vicious grin spreading across his face.

"Oh, Daddy," he purred when Victor finished. "You always know just what I need."

Antonio, still on his knees, looked between them with growing terror. "What... what are you going to do to me?"

Rocco crouched down, meeting his uncle's gaze. "We're going to let you live, Uncle Tony," he said, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Isn't that generous of us?"

Relief flooded Antonio's face, quickly replaced by suspicion. "What's the catch?"

Victor stepped forward, his presence looming and dangerous. "The catch, you treacherous piece of shit, is that you're going to live with nothing. No money, no power, no family to call your own."

"We've already frozen all your accounts," Rocco continued, relishing the way the color drained from Antonio's face. "Your assets have been seized, your properties confiscated. As we speak, your wife is being informed of your... indiscretions with certain underage individuals."

Antonio spluttered, panic rising in his voice. "You can't do this! I'll go to the police, I'll?—"

"You'll what?" Victor cut him off, voice cold as ice. "Go to the cops with evidence of your own crimes? I'm sure they'd be very interested in hearing about your role in the Bianchi conspiracy."

Rocco stood, brushing imaginary dirt from his impeccable suit. "Face it, Uncle. You're done. By this time tomorrow, you'll be a pariah. No one will touch you, no one will help you. You'll be alone, with nothing but your miserable thoughts for company."

They left Antonio there, a broken shell of a man, sobbing on the floor of his soon-to-be-forfeit mansion. As they walked away, Victor pulled Rocco close, nipping at his ear.

"You did good, baby," he growled, pride evident in his voice. "Daddy's so fucking proud of you."

Rocco preened under the praise, arousal simmering low in his belly. "Take me home, Daddy," he breathed. "Want to celebrate properly."

Victor's eyes darkened with hunger. "Oh, we'll celebrate alright. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name, little one."

They barely made it through the penthouse door before clothes started flying. Victor pinned Rocco against the wall, devouring his mouth in a searing kiss.

"Fuck, baby boy," Victor growled, grinding his hard length against Rocco's thigh. "You were so fucking hot back there, taking charge, destroying that piece of shit."

Rocco moaned, arching into Victor's touch. "All for you, Daddy," he gasped. "Want to make you proud."

Victor's hand wrapped around Rocco's throat, applying just enough pressure to make his breath hitch. "Oh, you do, sweetheart. You make Daddy so fucking proud."

What followed was a frenzy of passion, Victor taking Rocco apart piece by piece before putting him back together again. They christened every surface of the penthouse, their cries of pleasure echoing off the floor-to-ceiling windows.

As they lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, basking in the afterglow, Rocco couldn't help but marvel at how far they'd come. From reluctant charge and frustrated bodyguard to this—partners in every sense of the word, united in love and power and delicious depravity.

Victor pressed a tender kiss to Rocco's forehead, a stark contrast to the bruising grip he'd had on Rocco's hips just moments ago. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours, baby?"

Rocco snuggled closer, relishing the solid warmth of Victor's chest. "Just thinking about everything that's happened. How different things are now."

Victor's arms tightened around him protectively. "Any regrets?"

Rocco lifted his head, meeting Victor's gaze with fierce determination. "Not a single one. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Daddy. I wouldn't change a thing."

A rare, soft smile spread across Victor's face. He cupped Rocco's cheek, thumb brushing over his swollen lips. "Good. Because you're stuck with me now, little one. No take-backs."

Rocco grinned, pressing a playful kiss to Victor's palm. "Wouldn't dream of it, old man."

As they drifted off to sleep, tangled in each other's arms, Rocco felt a sense of peace settle over him. The future stretched out before them, full of possibility and promise. Whatever challenges came next, he knew they'd face them together.

Two halves of a whole, forged in fire and blood. Unbreakable. Unstoppable.

And God help anyone who tried to come between them.