4. Crash Course

CHAPTER 4

CRASH COURSE

The leather chair creaked as Rocco shifted restlessly, eyes glazing over at the mountain of ledgers and files spread across his father's mahogany desk. Victor loomed behind him, a wall of muscle and menace, his presence both comforting and suffocating.

"Pay attention," Victor growled, his hand coming down heavy on Rocco's shoulder. "This isn't some game. Your life depends on understanding every detail of these operations."

Rocco rolled his eyes, shrugging off Victor's touch. "Spare me the dramatics, old man. It's just numbers on a page."

In a flash, Victor spun the chair around, gripping the armrests and leaning in close. His face was inches from Rocco's, eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

"Just numbers?" he snarled. "Those numbers represent lives, you spoiled little shit. Every dollar, every transaction—it's built on blood and broken bones."

Rocco's breath caught in his throat, arousal warring with fear. He could smell Victor's cologne, a heady mix of sandalwood and gunpowder that made his head spin.

"I-I didn't mean..." Rocco stammered, hating how small his voice sounded.

Victor's grip tightened on the chair, the leather creaking ominously. "No, you didn't think. That's your problem, isn't it? You never think about the consequences of your actions."

He straightened, releasing the chair with a disgusted snort. "Maybe it's time I taught you a lesson about consequences."

Rocco's heart raced, excitement and trepidation coursing through his veins. "What are you going to do?" he challenged, unable to help himself. "Spank me?"

Something dark and hungry flashed in Victor's eyes. "Don't tempt me, boy. You might not like what you get."

The threat sent a jolt of heat straight to Rocco's cock. He shifted in his seat, grateful for the desk hiding his growing arousal.

"Now," Victor continued, his voice clipped and professional once more. "Walk me through the cash flow for our construction fronts. And this time, try to use that pretty little head of yours for something other than hair gel."

Rocco bristled at the insult, but bit back a retort. He turned his attention to the ledgers, forcing himself to focus on the columns of numbers and coded entries.

As he walked Victor through the intricate web of shell companies and money laundering schemes, Rocco found himself reluctantly impressed. The complexity of the operation was staggering, a testament to his father's criminal genius.

"Not bad," Victor grudgingly admitted when Rocco finished his explanation. "You might actually have a brain under all that product."

Rocco preened at the praise, then caught himself. He shouldn't care what this thug thought of him. But he couldn't deny the warm glow of satisfaction in his chest.

"Alright, smartass," Victor said, tossing a thick file onto the desk. "Let's see how you handle something a little more... hands-on."

Rocco opened the file, his eyes widening as he scanned its contents. "This is... holy shit. Is this for real?"

Victor's lips curled in a predatory smile. "Welcome to the big leagues, princess. Time to get your hands dirty."

The file detailed an upcoming shipment of weapons, set to arrive at the docks in three days. It was Rocco's job to oversee the operation, ensuring the merchandise was received and distributed without a hitch.

"You can't be serious," Rocco said, looking up at Victor with disbelief. "I don't know the first thing about running an operation like this."

Victor's hand came to rest on the back of Rocco's neck, his grip firm and possessive. "That's where I come in. I'll be with you every step of the way, making sure you don't fuck it up."

The touch sent shivers down Rocco's spine, heat pooling in his belly. He leaned into it instinctively, then caught himself and jerked away.

"I don't need a babysitter," he snapped, standing abruptly. "I can handle this on my own."

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Sit. Down."

The command in his voice was unmistakable. Rocco's knees nearly buckled, his body responding to that tone before his brain could catch up. He sank back into the chair, hating himself for how easily he submitted.

"Good boy," Victor purred, the praise sending a thrill through Rocco's body. "Now listen carefully. This isn't a game. One wrong move, and you could end up dead—or worse."

Rocco swallowed hard, fear and excitement warring in his gut. "Worse than dead? What could be worse than that?"

Victor's smile was cold and dangerous. "Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea the kinds of things that can happen to pretty boys like you in our world."

The implication sent a shudder through Rocco's body. He should be terrified, should be running as far and fast as he could from this life. But instead, he found himself leaning forward, drawn in by the dark promise in Victor's eyes.

"Show me," he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Victor's eyes blazed with heat, his hand coming up to cup Rocco's jaw. For a heart-stopping moment, Rocco thought the older man might actually kiss him.

Then Victor stepped back, the mask of cold professionalism sliding back into place. "You don't know what you're asking for, little prince," he growled. "You're not ready for that kind of heat."

He turned away, moving towards the door. "We leave for the docks at midnight. Be ready."

As the door clicked shut behind Victor, Rocco sagged in his chair, his body thrumming with unfulfilled need. What the fuck was wrong with him? He shouldn't be lusting after his father's enforcer, shouldn't be craving the older man's touch and approval.

But as he gathered the files, preparing for the night ahead, Rocco couldn't shake the feeling that he was in way over his head. And the scariest part? He wasn't sure he wanted to get out.

The docks loomed before them, a maze of shipping containers and rusted machinery shrouded in mist. Rocco's heart pounded as he followed Victor through the labyrinth, every shadow seeming to hide potential danger.

"Eyes sharp," Victor murmured, his voice low and intense. "Trust no one but me. Got it?"

Rocco nodded, resisting the urge to press closer to Victor's solid bulk. He was acutely aware of the gun tucked into his waistband, the weight of it both comforting and terrifying.

They approached a nondescript container, indistinguishable from the hundreds surrounding it. Victor rapped out a complex pattern on the metal surface, the sound echoing ominously in the night air.

After a moment, the container door creaked open. A burly man with a face like a bulldog peered out, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Rocco.

"Who's the pretty boy?" he grunted, hand moving to the gun at his hip.

Victor's arm shot out, blocking Rocco from view. "He's with me," he growled, voice dripping with menace. "That's all you need to know."

The man hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Then he stepped back, gesturing them inside with a jerk of his head.

The interior of the container was a hive of activity. Men moved with practiced efficiency, unpacking crates and checking weapons with the ease of long experience.

Rocco's eyes widened as he took in the arsenal spread before him. Sleek pistols, menacing assault rifles, even a few honest-to-god rocket launchers. It was enough firepower to start a small war.

"Holy shit," he breathed, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

Victor's hand came to rest on the small of Rocco's back, the touch both steadying and possessive. "Focus," he murmured, lips brushing Rocco's ear. "You're here to work, not gawk."

Rocco shivered at the contact, heat blooming across his skin. He nodded, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

For the next hour, Rocco threw himself into the work. He checked manifests, supervised loading, and even got his hands dirty helping to move some of the heavier crates. By the time they finished, he was sweating and sore, but filled with a sense of accomplishment he'd never experienced before.

"Not bad, princess," Victor said as they made their way back to the car. "You might actually have some potential after all."

Rocco preened at the praise, a warm glow spreading through his chest. "Thanks," he said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "I told you I could handle it."

Victor's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flickering in their depths. "Don't get cocky, boy. This was just a taste. The real work is yet to come."

As they reached the car, a commotion behind them caught their attention. Shouts echoed across the docks, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire.

"Fuck," Victor snarled, shoving Rocco towards the vehicle. "Get in. Now."

Rocco scrambled into the passenger seat as Victor slid behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, tires squealing as they peeled away from the docks.

"What the hell was that?" Rocco demanded, his heart racing. "Who was shooting?"

Victor's jaw clenched, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Rival family," he growled. "Looks like our operation wasn't as secret as we thought."

Adrenaline surged through Rocco's veins, a heady mix of fear and excitement. "Should we go back? Help our guys?"

Victor shot him a withering glare. "And do what, exactly? Get yourself killed playing hero? No. Our job is to secure the shipment and get out. The men know how to handle themselves."

Rocco bristled at the dismissal. "I'm not some helpless kid, you know. I can hold my own in a fight."

"Is that so?" Victor's voice was dangerously low. "And where exactly did you learn these fighting skills, rich boy? The country club boxing ring?"

"Fuck you," Rocco spat, anger overriding his common sense. "You don't know anything about me or what I'm capable of."

The car screeched to a halt, Victor's arm shooting out to brace Rocco against the sudden stop. Before Rocco could react, Victor had him pinned against the seat, one large hand wrapped around his throat.

"Listen closely, you spoiled little brat," Victor growled, his face inches from Rocco's. "This isn't a game. Those men back there? They'd put a bullet in your pretty head without a second thought. The only reason you're still breathing is because of me."

Rocco's pulse raced, arousal warring with fear. He should be terrified, should be fighting against Victor's grip. But all he could focus on was the heat of Victor's body, the intoxicating scent of gunpowder and sweat filling his lungs.

"Maybe I don't need your protection," Rocco challenged, voice breathy despite his best efforts. "Maybe I can take care of myself."

Victor's eyes darkened, something hungry and primal flashing in their depths. "Is that what you want?" he purred, his grip tightening just shy of painful. "To be on your own? To fend for yourself in a world that would eat you alive?"

Rocco swallowed hard, his body betraying him as he pressed closer to Victor's solid warmth. "I... I don't know," he admitted, hating how small his voice sounded.

Victor's free hand came up to cup Rocco's jaw, his thumb brushing over Rocco's lower lip. "Yes, you do," he murmured. "You crave structure. Discipline. Someone to take control and show you your place."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the words, his cock hardening in his tailored slacks. He knew Victor could feel it, could smell the musk of his arousal.

"And what if I do?" Rocco breathed, throwing caution to the wind. "What are you going to do about it... Daddy?"

The word hung in the air between them, charged with electricity. For a heart-stopping moment, Rocco thought Victor might actually kiss him—or kill him.

Then Victor released him abruptly, pulling back to his side of the car. "Don't," he growled, voice rough with barely contained desire. "Don't play games you're not ready to finish, boy."

Rocco sagged against the seat, frustration and arousal warring in his veins. "Who says I'm not ready?" he challenged, unable to help himself.

Victor's laugh was cold and humorless. "Trust me, little prince. You have no idea what you're asking for."

He started the car again, pulling back onto the road. The rest of the drive passed in tense silence, the air thick with unresolved sexual tension.

As they pulled up to the Rossetti penthouse, Victor killed the engine but made no move to get out. He turned to Rocco, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"You did well tonight," he said gruffly. "But don't let it go to your head. This life... it's not for the faint of heart. You need to decide if you're really ready for what it entails."

Rocco met Victor's gaze, chin lifted in defiance. "I can handle it," he insisted. "I'm not some delicate flower that needs protecting."

Victor's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "We'll see about that," he growled. "Training continues tomorrow. 5 AM sharp. Don't be late."

With that, he was gone, leaving Rocco alone in the car with his racing thoughts and aching body.

As Rocco made his way up to his room, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of a precipice. One wrong move, and he'd fall into an abyss from which there was no return.

But as he remembered the heat in Victor's eyes, the possessive grip of those large hands... Rocco wasn't sure he wanted to step back from that edge.

He collapsed onto his bed, mind reeling with the events of the night. As sleep claimed him, one thought echoed through his mind:

What the fuck had he gotten himself into?