“It’s about Sophie.” He says her name like he has any fucking right to even think about her. “And my job.”
I bark out a laugh. “Your job? You want me to make her rehire your sorry ass? That’s what this is?”
“Make her if you want to.” Rocco shrugs, standing and brushing dirt off his knees with exaggerated care. “My suggestion is to encourage her. Make it clear that it’s in her best interest.”
“Go fuck yourself.” I lunge forward despite the zip ties, and one of his goons slams me back against the dumpster hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Get another restaurant job, youpathetic fuck. Brooklyn’s full of kitchens that’ll take a mediocre sous chef like you.”
Irritation flickers across Rocco’s face. There’s something he’s not saying.
“Can’t do that,” he says flatly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Not your business.”
I study the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes dart to his men then back to me, the tightness around his mouth. He’s scared and not of me, though he fucking should be. The pieces start falling into place with sickening clarity.
“Who are you working for, Rocco?” My voice drops low. “Who? Is it Aurelio?”
Rocco’s jaw ticks.Bingo.
“That motherfucker has you planted at the Arsenal?” My mind races, connecting dots I should have seen this weeks ago. Sophie’s failing restaurant in a forgotten neighborhood. Rocco showing up out of nowhere, a favor to her father’s friend. Coming back over and over despite being terrible at his job, despite Sophie firing him multiple times. “How long?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“The fuck it doesn’t!” I strain against the zip ties again, plastic cutting into skin. Blood, warm and slick, starts lubricating the restraints. Good. “You’ve been watching her for him? Reporting back?”
Rocco’s silence is answer enough.
Ice floods my veins. Aurelio knows about Sophie, probably for months based on Rocco’s employment at the Arsenal. And I gave him a reason to fuck with her by staying at her place, by fucking her in her kitchen, by marking her with my cum and my teeth and my—
Fuck. FUCK.
“I just need my job back,” Rocco says. “You tell her to rehire me, and we’re done here. Simple.”
“Simple.” I spit out the word. “You think I’m going to help you spy on her for my father?”
“I think you’re going to do whatever keeps her safe.” Rocco leans in close, breath reeking. “Because if I don’t report back with good news by tonight, there will be consequences. And who do you think will get the first visit?”
My heart hammers against my ribs as images flash through my mind: Sophie kneeling on her coffee table, her ass in the air, her pussy exposed to anyone who walks through that door. The marker arrows I drew on her skin like a fucking roadmap. Her sweet voice sayingmy answer to you is always yes.
She’s alone, waiting for me, completely defenseless.
“I’m not helping you do shit,” I growl.
Rocco straightens, disappointment on his face. “Wrong answer, Demonio.”
He nods to his muscle men, and they haul me up, dragging me deeper into the alley. One of them produces a length of chain, threading it through a pipe overhead while the others hold me in place.
“Here’s what happens next,” Rocco says, tense, his eyes on the guys stringing me up. “You stay here and think about what you want to do. I go have a chat with Sophie. Now that hasn’t gone so great in the past, so it may take some work to convince her without your help.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “You go near her, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”
“Tough to do that from here.” He gestures to his men, and they pull on the chain, hauling my arms up until my shoulders scream. My feet barely touch the ground, all my weight suspended by the plastic cutting into my wrists.
The pain is immediate and fucking excruciating. I grind my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Think about it,” Rocco says, already walking away. “You’ve got maybe an hour before my boss starts asking questions. After that?” He shrugs.
