Page 25 of The Bratty Heir

"Stay close," Victor growled, his hand a possessive weight on the small of Rocco's back. "And for fuck's sake, try not to do anything stupid."

Rocco bristled at the condescension in Victor's tone. "I'm not a child, Victor. I can handle myself."

Victor's laugh was low and dangerous. "Sure you can, princess. That's why Daddy's here to hold your hand."

Before Rocco could fire back a retort, a harried-looking lieutenant approached. "Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Kovac. Thank God you're here. It's a shit show inside."

Rocco straightened his spine, channeling every ounce of Rossetti authority. "Give me the rundown, Frankie. How many hostages? What are Bianchi's demands?"

As Frankie rattled off the grim details, Rocco felt Victor tense beside him. He could practically hear the gears turning in the older man's head, no doubt concocting some hyper-protective plan to keep Rocco out of harm's way.

Not this time.

"Alright," Rocco said, cutting off Frankie's report. "Here's what we're going to do. I want snipers on the roof of the building across the street. Get me a direct line to Bianchi. And prepare a small strike team to infiltrate through the service entrance."

Victor's grip on Rocco's arm tightened painfully. "Like hell you're going in there," he snarled. "It's too dangerous."

Rocco wrenched free, anger flaring hot in his chest. "This is my family's business, Victor. My responsibility. You don't get to dictate how I handle it."

For a moment, the chaos around them faded away. Victor's eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and something darker, more primal. He crowded Rocco against a nearby police cruiser, one large hand wrapping around the younger man's throat.

"Listen to me very carefully, you spoiled little brat," Victor growled, his lips a hairsbreadth from Rocco's. "Your father put me in charge of keeping you alive. That means when I give you an order, you fucking follow it. Understood?"

Rocco's pulse thundered in his ears, arousal warring with indignation. He wanted to spit in Victor's face, to rage against the older man's dominance. But a larger part of him craved Victor's approval, ached to submit to that iron will.

"Fuck you," Rocco spat, channeling every ounce of bratty defiance he possessed. "You're not my father, Victor. And you're sure as hell not my keeper."

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "No," he purred, voice low and lethal. "I'm much worse than that, baby boy. I'm the man who knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the threat, his cock twitching traitorously in his tailored slacks. But he pushed the arousal aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"We don't have time for this," Rocco said, shoving Victor away with more force than necessary. "There are people counting on us. On me."

Victor's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Fine," he bit out. "But you stay behind me at all times. And if things go sideways, you get the fuck out. No heroics."

Rocco nodded curtly, already moving towards the casino's entrance. As they approached, he could hear the muffled sounds of panic from within—terrified whimpers and harsh commands.

"Last chance to back out, princess," Victor murmured, his breath hot against Rocco's ear. "Once we're in there, all bets are off."

Rocco turned, meeting Victor's stormy gaze head-on. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly. "We do this together, or not at all."

Something softened in Victor's eyes, a flicker of pride breaking through the worry. He nodded once, all business once more. "Alright. On my signal."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of controlled chaos. Victor moved with lethal grace, neutralizing threats with brutal efficiency. Rocco stayed close, his own gun a comforting weight in his hands.

As they neared the main gaming floor, the sounds of a scuffle reached their ears. Rocco's blood ran cold as he recognized one of the voices—Marco Bianchi himself.

"I want to talk to him," Rocco whispered urgently. "If I can negotiate?—"

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's arm hard enough to bruise. "Absolutely fucking not," he snarled. "You're not getting anywhere near that psychopath."

Rocco wrenched free, frustration bubbling over. "This is our chance to end this, Victor. To protect our people and send a message."

"And what message would that be?" Victor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That the Rossetti heir is a reckless idiot with a death wish?"

"That we're not afraid," Rocco shot back. "That we'll face our enemies head-on instead of cowering behind hired muscle."

The barb hit its mark. Victor's eyes flashed dangerously, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You ungrateful little shit," he growled. "After everything I've done for you, everything I've sacrificed?—"

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