Page 10 of The Bratty Heir

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.

---