Page 1 of The Bratty Heir

CHAPTER 1

MIDNIGHT MISSTEPS

The harsh glare of neon signs cut through the misty New York night as Rocco Rossetti stumbled out of a taxi, the world spinning around him in a dizzying kaleidoscope of light and shadow. The cool air hit his flushed skin, a sharp contrast to the stuffy heat of the club he'd just left behind. He swayed on his feet, struggling to find his balance on the rain-slicked sidewalk.

"Fuck," he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. His fingers, clumsy with alcohol, couldn't seem to grasp the smooth leather. "Where the hell..."

The taxi driver leaned out the window, impatience clear in his voice. "Hey buddy, you gonna pay or what?"

Rocco's temper flared, a spark of Rossetti fire cutting through the haze of booze. "Watch your fucking tone," he slurred, drawing himself up to his full height. It wasn't much, but the name carried weight. "Do you know who I am?"

The driver's eyes narrowed, recognition dawning. "Shit, you're Giovanni's kid, aren't you? Look, I don't want any trouble?—"

"Then get the fuck out of here," Rocco snapped, turning his back on the cab. He heard the squeal of tires as the driver peeled away, no doubt eager to put distance between himself and a drunken mafia prince.

Rocco staggered towards the towering penthouse that loomed over Central Park, a fortress of glass and steel that housed the Rossetti family's private residence. His vision swam, the building's sleek lines blurring into a dizzying mess of angles and reflections. He cursed under his breath, fumbling for his keys.

"Come on, you piece of shit," he growled, struggling to fit the key into the lock. His frustration mounted with each failed attempt, until he was ready to put his fist through the reinforced glass door.

A large, calloused hand closed over his, steadying his trembling fingers. Rocco's breath caught in his throat, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill night air racing down his spine.

"Allow me, Mr. Rossetti."

Victor Kovac's voice was a low rumble, dark and dangerous as thunder on the horizon. Rocco's body reacted instinctively, melting into the solid warmth at his back even as his pride reared its stubborn head.

"I don't need your help," Rocco snapped, trying to wrench his hand away. But Victor's grip was iron, unyielding as he guided the key into the lock with practiced ease.

"Clearly," Victor said dryly, pushing the door open. His other hand came to rest on the small of Rocco's back, a firm pressure propelling him into the lobby. "Inside. Now."

Rocco's skin burned where Victor touched him, arousal warring with indignation. He stumbled forward, his traitorous body responding to the older man's commanding presence even as his mind rebelled.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Rocco snarled, whirling to face Victor. The sudden movement sent the world tilting on its axis, and he would have fallen if not for Victor's steadying grip on his arms. "I'm not some fucking child you can order around."

Victor's stormy eyes raked over Rocco's disheveled form, taking in the rumpled designer clothes, the lipstick smeared across one sharp cheekbone, the glassy sheen of too much alcohol. His lip curled in a sneer that made Rocco's stomach clench with a confusing mixture of shame and desire.

"No," Victor agreed, his voice a low growl that sent heat pooling in Rocco's gut. "You're not a child. You're the heir to one of the most powerful families in New York. And yet here you are, stumbling home at three in the morning, reeking of cheap booze and even cheaper company."

Rocco bristled, shoving ineffectually at Victor's broad chest. "Fuck you," he spat. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." Victor's grip tightened, just shy of painful. "I know you're throwing away everything your father has built, pissing it all away on drugs and meaningless fucks."

The words hit Rocco like a physical blow, cutting through the pleasant haze of alcohol. He sagged in Victor's grip, suddenly exhausted. "What do you care?" he muttered, unable to meet those piercing eyes. "It's not like I asked for any of this."

Something flickered in Victor's expression, too quick for Rocco's alcohol-addled brain to decipher. Then his face hardened, all trace of softness vanishing behind a mask of stern disapproval.

"What I care about," Victor said, steering Rocco towards the elevator with firm hands, "is keeping you alive long enough to take your rightful place as head of this family. Even if that means dragging your ass home every night and locking you in your room like a misbehaving teenager."

Rocco's breath hitched at the threat, arousal flaring hot and unexpected in his veins. He imagined Victor manhandling him into bed, those big hands pinning him down, that gravelly voice growling filthy commands in his ear...

He shook his head, trying to banish the image. This was Victor fucking Kovac, his father's most trusted enforcer. The man was old enough to be his father, for Christ's sake. Not to mention straight as an arrow, if the trail of broken-hearted secretaries was anything to go by.

"I'd like to see you try," Rocco muttered, aiming for defiant but landing somewhere closer to petulant.

Victor's chuckle was a dark, dangerous thing that sent shivers racing down Rocco's spine. "Careful what you wish for, little prince."

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the opulent foyer of the Rossetti penthouse. Victor guided Rocco inside with a firm hand on his lower back, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of Rocco's designer shirt.

Rocco stumbled as they crossed the threshold, his unsteady legs betraying him. Victor caught him easily, one strong arm banding around Rocco's waist to hold him upright. Rocco found himself pressed against the solid wall of Victor's chest, breathing in the intoxicating scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder.

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