2. Morning Shadows

CHAPTER 2

MORNING SHADOWS

Rocco's head pounded like a jackhammer, each throb sending waves of nausea through his body. He groaned, burrowing deeper into the plush cocoon of his Egyptian cotton sheets. The events of last night were a blur of neon lights, thumping bass, and...Victor.

Fuck. Victor Kovac, with his iron grip and thundercloud eyes. Rocco's body flushed hot at the memory of being pinned against the wall, helpless under the older man's piercing gaze. He shifted, grimacing at the sticky reminder of the dreams that had plagued him all night—dreams full of rough hands and growled commands that left him aching and confused.

A sharp knock cut through the fog of his hangover. Rocco ignored it, pulling a pillow over his head. Maybe if he pretended to be dead, the world would leave him alone.

No such luck. The door burst open with a bang that sent spikes of pain through Rocco's skull. Heavy footsteps approached the bed, and then the covers were ripped away, leaving Rocco exposed to the harsh morning light.

"Rise and shine, princess," Victor's gravelly voice cut through Rocco's pained whimpers. "Daddy wants a word."

Rocco cracked one eye open, glaring blearily at the mountain of muscle looming over him. Victor stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked fresh and alert, not a hair out of place. It was deeply unfair.

"Fuck off," Rocco mumbled, reaching for the blankets. "M'sleeping."

Victor's hand shot out, catching Rocco's wrist in an iron grip. "Not anymore," he growled. "Up. Now. Don't make me ask twice."

A shiver raced down Rocco's spine at the commanding tone. His body responded instinctively, a traitorous heat pooling in his belly. He pushed it down, clinging to his annoyance like a shield.

"Jesus, fine," Rocco snapped, yanking his arm free. He sat up, wincing as the room spun around him. "What's got Dad's panties in a twist this time?"

Victor's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "That's not for me to say. But it's urgent, so get your ass in gear."

Rocco rolled his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was acutely aware of Victor's gaze on him, raking over his body clad only in tight black boxer-briefs. Heat crawled up his neck, and he fought the urge to cover himself.

"See something you like?" The words slipped out before Rocco could stop them, dripping with false bravado.

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I see a spoiled brat who needs to learn some respect," he growled, taking a step closer. "Don't test me, boy. Not today."

Rocco's breath caught in his throat, arousal warring with indignation. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height—which still left him a good half-foot shorter than Victor. "Or what?" he challenged, tilting his chin up defiantly. "Gonna spank me?"

For a moment, something dark and hungry flashed in Victor's eyes. Then his expression hardened, all trace of emotion disappearing behind a mask of cold professionalism.

"Get dressed," he ordered, voice clipped. "You have five minutes."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving Rocco flushed and frustrated in his wake.

"Fucking asshole," Rocco muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. But he couldn't deny the way his body thrummed with want, responding to Victor's dominance in a way that both thrilled and terrified him.

Shaking off the confusing tangle of emotions, Rocco stumbled to his closet. He threw on the first designer suit he could find, not bothering with a tie. Let the old man bitch about it—Rocco was in no mood to play the perfect son today.

He emerged from his room exactly six minutes later, a petty act of defiance that earned him a withering glare from Victor. The older man said nothing, just jerked his head towards the study where Giovanni waited.

Rocco's stomach churned as they approached the heavy oak door. These "urgent meetings" rarely ended well for him. Usually, it was just another lecture about responsibility and family legacy, but something in Victor's tense posture told him this was different.

Victor's hand on the small of Rocco's back propelled him forward, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of Rocco's shirt. Rocco's skin prickled with awareness, his body leaning into the touch despite his best efforts.

"Remember your place," Victor murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Rocco's ear. "Show some respect for once in your life."

Rocco shivered, biting back a retort. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself for whatever awaited him on the other side of that door.

The study was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Giovanni Rossetti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, looking smaller and more frail than Rocco had ever seen him. The sight sent a jolt of unease through Rocco's chest.

"Ah, there he is," Giovanni said, his voice rough with barely concealed pain. "My prodigal son, deigning to grace us with his presence."

Rocco bristled at the sarcasm, but Victor's warning echoed in his ears. He swallowed his pride, forcing a neutral expression. "You wanted to see me, Father?"

Giovanni's eyes narrowed, taking in Rocco's disheveled appearance. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Rocco obeyed, sinking into the plush leather. He was acutely aware of Victor taking up position behind him, a solid wall of muscle between Rocco and the door. It should have felt suffocating, but instead, Rocco found himself oddly comforted by the older man's presence.

"Do you know why I built all this?" Giovanni asked, waving a hand to encompass the opulent room, the sprawling penthouse beyond. "Why I've spent my life clawing my way to the top of this city's underworld?"

Rocco bit back a sigh. Here we go again. Another lecture about family legacy and the importance of power. "To provide for your family," he recited dutifully. "To secure our place in this world."

Giovanni's laugh was a harsh, bitter thing. "That's what I told myself, yes. But the truth is, I did it for you, Rocco. Everything I've built, every life I've taken, every deal I've made—it was all for you."

Rocco's brow furrowed, confusion cutting through his hangover haze. This wasn't the usual script. "What are you talking about?"

Giovanni leaned forward, his face etched with lines of pain and exhaustion. "I'm dying, son," he said bluntly. "Cancer. The doctors give me six months, maybe a year if I'm lucky."

The words hit Rocco like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at his father, searching for some sign that this was a cruel joke, another manipulation to get him in line. But the grim set of Giovanni's mouth, the sorrow in his eyes—it was all too real.

"I..." Rocco's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "I don't understand. Why are you telling me this now?"

Giovanni's eyes hardened, a flash of the ruthless don beneath the sickly exterior. "Because it's time for you to step up, Rocco. To take your rightful place as head of this family."

Panic clawed at Rocco's throat, threatening to choke him. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I can't. I'm not ready, I don't want?—"

"It doesn't matter what you want!" Giovanni roared, slamming his fist on the desk. The burst of anger seemed to drain him, and he sagged back in his chair. "This isn't a choice, Rocco. It's your duty. Your birthright."

Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way out. He couldn't do this. He wasn't cut out for the brutal world of organized crime, for the weight of an empire built on blood and fear. He was just a spoiled rich kid who liked to party, for fuck's sake.

"What about Lucia?" he asked desperately. "She's always been better at the business side of things. Let her take over, I'll?—"

Giovanni's eyes flashed with anger. "Your mother is not equipped to lead this family. It has to be you, Rocco. You're my son, my heir. The Rossetti name and legacy rest on your shoulders now."

Rocco felt the walls closing in, his breath coming in short gasps. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't ready for this kind of responsibility, this kind of power. He was barely keeping his own life together, let alone an entire criminal empire.

"I can't," he whispered, hating how weak he sounded. "Dad, please. I'm not cut out for this. I'll just fuck it all up."

Giovanni's expression softened slightly, a flicker of sympathy in his tired eyes. "You're stronger than you think, son. And you won't be alone. Victor will guide you, teach you everything you need to know."

At the mention of Victor's name, Rocco stiffened. He was acutely aware of the older man's presence behind him, a solid wall of heat and muscle. The thought of working closely with Victor, of submitting to his guidance and authority, sent a confusing mix of arousal and rebellion coursing through Rocco's veins.

"And if I refuse?" Rocco asked, a last desperate attempt at defiance.

Giovanni's face hardened, all trace of sympathy vanishing. "Then you'll be cut off. Completely. No money, no protection, nothing. You'll be on your own in a world that's all too eager to tear you apart."

The threat hung heavy in the air between them. Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way out, an alternative he hadn't considered. But the grim set of his father's jaw told him there would be no negotiation, no compromise.

He was trapped.

"Fine," Rocco spat, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. "I'll do it. But don't expect me to be happy about it."

Giovanni nodded, satisfaction and relief warring on his face. "That's all I ask. Victor will start your training immediately. You have a lot to learn, and not much time to learn it."

As if summoned by his name, Victor stepped forward. His large hand came to rest on Rocco's shoulder, a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. Rocco's skin prickled at the contact, heat spreading from that single point of connection.

"Don't worry, sir," Victor said, his deep voice rumbling through Rocco's body. "I'll whip him into shape."

The words sent a shiver down Rocco's spine, images of just how Victor might "whip him into shape" flashing unbidden through his mind. He squirmed in his seat, grateful for the desk hiding his body's traitorous response.

"See that you do," Giovanni replied, weariness creeping back into his voice. "You're dismissed. Both of you."

Rocco stood on shaky legs, his mind still reeling from the bombshell that had just been dropped on him. He felt Victor's hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the door. The heat of that touch seared through the thin fabric of his shirt, grounding him even as it set his nerves on fire.

As soon as they were in the hallway, Rocco spun to face Victor. "This is bullshit," he hissed, keeping his voice low. "I can't do this. I'm not cut out to be some fucking mafia don."

Victor's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. "Watch your tone," he growled, crowding Rocco against the wall. "Your father just laid a heavy burden on you. The least you can do is show some respect."

Rocco glared up at him, refusing to be cowed by Victor's intimidating presence. "Respect? For what? For dumping an entire criminal empire in my lap and expecting me to just deal with it?"

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's chin and forcing him to meet that stormy gaze. "For giving you a purpose," he said, voice low and intense. "For trusting you with his life's work. Do you have any idea how many would kill to be in your position?"

Rocco's breath caught in his throat, arousal warring with indignation. He was acutely aware of every point of contact between them—Victor's hand on his face, the solid heat of his body pinning Rocco to the wall. It would be so easy to give in, to surrender to the older man's strength and authority.

But Rocco had never been good at taking the easy path.

"Fuck you," he spat, shoving ineffectually at Victor's broad chest. "You don't know anything about me or what I want."

Victor's eyes flashed dangerously, something dark and hungry flickering in their depths. For a moment, Rocco thought he might kiss him—or hit him. The tension between them was a living thing, crackling with potential energy.

Then Victor stepped back, releasing Rocco from his grip. "Get some rest," he said, voice clipped and professional once more. "We start your training tomorrow. 5 AM sharp."

With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Rocco sagging against the wall. His skin tingled where Victor had touched him, his body thrumming with unfulfilled need.

Rocco watched Victor's retreating back, a confusing tangle of emotions churning in his gut. Anger at his father for thrusting this responsibility on him. Fear of the unknown future that stretched out before him. And beneath it all, a molten core of desire that threatened to consume him whole.

As he stumbled back to his room, Rocco's mind raced with possibilities and pitfalls. He had no idea how to run a criminal empire, how to navigate the treacherous waters of New York's underworld. But with Victor by his side, guiding him with that iron will and unwavering strength...

Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this.

But as Rocco collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him, one thought echoed through his mind:

What the fuck had he gotten himself into?