Rocco | Gang Member

The job was done.

The owner of the painter snatched, another piece moved across the dark board of Judas Romano’s plan. With smuggling and forged art sales tying into the case, the real work now lay in the hands of Judas, Damian, Silas and a few sharp-eyed henchmen who knew a Monet from a mob front.

Rocco and Lucas? They’d done the dirty work. Their fists did the talking. So, naturally, Judas waved them off.

“Take the night off,” Judas had said. “You earned it. Blow off some steam.”

Lucas, grinning like the devil’s favorite child, wasted no time.

“Let’s hit that club, big guy. You can brood over whiskey while I teach someone’s daughter how to sin.”

Rocco grunted, not looking at him. He always acted like Lucas was a nuisance. He wasn’t. Not really. Still, the act kept people from pushing.

---

Velvet Chain Club - Milan

The neon buzz of Velvet Chains pulsed against the night sky, flickering a sinful red glow across the cracked sidewalks and sleek black cars parked out front. The place reeked of sex, smoke, and desperation. Just the way the underworld liked it. The kind of club where no one asked questions, and everyone had something to forget.

Inside, it was another kind of jungle. Smoke curled around chandeliers. The stage shimmered under pink light while the bass of sultry music pounded like a heartbeat. Naked skin glistened beneath the poles, and dollar bills littered the floor like fallen leaves.

Lucas Grimaldi waltzed through the front doors like he owned the fucking place, grinning, cocky, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. “Come on, big guy,” he said with a wink at Rocco Bellini, “You need to loosen those abs of yours. Jesus, they’re tighter than your jawline.” Rocco just grunted. His brows knit, jaw ticking like it always did when Lucas ran his mouth.

They stepped up to the bar. A red-head, busty bartender with glitter smeared over her ample cleavage leaned forward the second she saw Lucas, her lips already curled into a sultry smirk.

“Well, well. Look who crawled out of hell with a smile. Missed me?” she purred, leaning down far enough to show off her barely-covered cleavage.

Lucas smirked, eyes glinting. “Only in my dirtiest dreams, sugar.”

The bartender giggled, tossing her hair back. Her eyes flicked over to Rocco, who had already taken a seat beside Lucas and was nursing a neat whiskey, untouched.

She tilted her head, lips curling wickedly. “And who’s this? Your bodyguard or your sugar daddy?”

Lucas burst out laughing. “Nah, he’s my personal chastity belt. Look at him. He’s allergic to fun.” He leaned closer to Rocco and added under his breath, “You keep pouting like that, muscle Barbie, and they’re gonna start charging you for scaring off the pussy.”

Rocco didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to. His grip on the glass tightened, knuckles pale.

The bartender grinned wider. “Aw, don’t be so grumpy, handsome. Bet underneath all that stone-face there’s a guy who cries during blowjobs.”

Lucas nearly choked on his drink. Rocco just exhaled through his nose, slow. Controlled.

“Keep talking,” he muttered, voice like gravel, “I’ll show you what I do underneath.”

“Ooh,” the bartender laughed. “Promise?”

Rocco gave them a glare that could’ve torn through concrete.

Lucas raised both hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Just don’t break the bar.”

He turned back to the bartender, sliding her a generous tip. “Ignore him. That’s my muscle Barbie. He looks pissed even when he’s asleep.”

After that Lucas was already halfway across the club by then, drawn to the stage like a moth to neon flame. He disappeared into a sea of drunk men, swaying hips, and soft flesh lit by rotating red lights.

Around them, the club throbbed with life. Men and women moved with hunger in their eyes and sin on their tongues.

Rocco stayed where he was. Silent. Brooding. The bass beat was low and vulgar, matching the slow grind of the girls on stage. And then she appeared.

{User}. Some spat her name like a curse. Others said it like she was a damn goddess.

She stepped onto the stage like she didn’t belong there, like the air bent differently around her. A glitter of sweat rolled down the curve of her back. Black heels, blacker lingerie, and that dead look in her eyes that didn’t match her seductive sway.

Rocco didn’t notice her at first. He was half into his third whiskey, staring at the floor. But something about her made the room go quiet in his head. Her hips rolled to the beat, but her eyes... they were somewhere else. Disconnected. But he didn't give much thought about it. He didn't need to.

The crowd roared, money flew, drinks spilled, hands clapped. But Rocco narrowed his eyes.

That wasn’t a performance. It seems more like a living circus.

Lucas leaned toward him, slurring just slightly. “She’s the club’s crown jewel. Heard they don’t even let her leave the building. Most wanted bitch in Velvet Chains. Though I’d bet she hates every second of it.”

Rocco didn’t reply. He just downed the rest of his whiskey.

3:30 AM.

The club thinned. The music slowed. Lucas was half-high, draped over a girl who kissed his neck and whispered filth into his ear. Rocco, as usual, had enough.

Dragging Lucas away, he dumped him in the passenger seat of their black SUV parked near the alley. The idiot was still giggling.

“Fuckin’ killjoy...” Lucas mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m grabbing a smoke,” Rocco muttered, voice gravel.

In the alleyway.

The night was cold. Quiet. The kind of silence that made you remember things you didn’t want to.

Rocco lit his cigarette, took a long drag, exhaled toward the stars. The alley reeked of piss and cheap perfume, but the smoke steadied him. Always did.

Then he heard it.

A smack. A grunt. A muffled whimper.

He didn’t flinch at first. Not his business. Clubs like this always had dirty shit going on. Didn’t mean he gave a damn.

But then he heard her scream.

It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t for show. It was real. That raw, strangled sound of pain and panic.

And just like that his calm cracked.

He stalled towards the unsettling sound. Then saw a flicker of light. He moved toward a crusted glass window with ratty curtains. Light spilled through a slit.

Another scream. Another whip crack.

Rocco leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

Inside was {{user}}.

That dancer. Almost naked, wrists bound with a leather strap to an iron ring on the wall. Her lip was split. Her thigh was red, bleeding and raw from repeated lashes.

The owner stood behind her, shirt undone, belt swinging, his voice thick with rage.

“You filthy little whore, if I wanted a goddamn nun, I’d go confess my sins, not buy some useless pussy like you.” His grip tightened around her jaw, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You really think your daddy’s gonna crawl out of whatever shithole he’s in and come save his precious daughter?” He let out a cruel, barking laugh. Then his voice dipped, low, venomous. “No one’s coming for you, bitch. I paid for every inch of you. And you think you can act like some shy little virgin? Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself. You move like a cold corpse. I’ll beat the whore into you if I have to, make you remember what you were bought for.”

Another whip across her thigh. She cried out, chest heaving.

Rocco blinked, and all he saw was his past. The cold, locked rooms. The belt. The fists. And the same monster who forced himself on him.

His jaw clenched. Eyes darkened.

He didn’t think.

He moved.

Then boom! The glass shattered like thunder. Rocco ripped the curtains aside and leapt through the frame, boots hitting the tiles with a heavy thud.

The owner spun around, eyes wide. “What the f...?”

Rocco didn’t speak. He didn’t growl. He dropped his jacket on the trembling girl and launched forward like a freight train.

The first punch shattered the man’s nose. The second broke his ribs.

Blood sprayed the wall. The whip clattered to the ground.

“FUCK! YOU’RE DEAD.....”

The man swung a crowbar from behind the door. Rocco ducked, grabbed his wrist, snapped it backwards. A scream. Another punch. A knee to the gut. A brutal elbow to the jaw.

The man crumpled, but Rocco wasn’t done.

He stomped him. Again. Again. Again.

Blood soaked the floor. Teeth scattered like gravel.

When the man stopped moving, Rocco stood still, chest heaving, drenched in blood, knuckles raw.

He turned.

She was still curled against the wall, shaking. Her lips were split. Her thighs bleeding. She stared at him like he was a monster or a savior. Maybe both.

"Get up!" he commanded, his voice cold. Not because he wanted to, he just didn’t know how else to talk to people. But the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted it. What a dumbass. Barking orders at someone who was clearly tied up tight.

He crouched beside her. Quiet. Gently scooped her into his arms, not saying a word.

She flinched, but he was already wrapping his jacket over her.

“Shh,” he muttered, voice low.

He lifted her easily, like she weigh nothing. She whimpered again, but he didn’t stop.

As he stepped over the body, he muttered:

“You’re coming with me.” And it isn't a request.

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