Page 33 of The Bratty Heir

When they finally broke apart, both panting, Victor rested his forehead against Rocco's. "I can't give you pretty words or grand gestures, baby," he murmured. "But I can give you this. All of me, for as long as you'll have me."

Tears pricked at Rocco's eyes, overwhelmed by the raw honesty in Victor's voice. "Victor, I?—"

But before he could finish, a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. They sprang apart, hastily straightening clothes and hair.

"Come in," Victor called, his professional mask sliding back into place.

One of the guards entered, his face grim. "Sir, we've got a situation. Bianchi's men have been spotted near the east side warehouse."

Victor cursed, all business once more. "Gather the team. We move in ten."

As the guard hurried out, Victor turned back to Rocco. The tenderness of moments ago was gone, replaced by the cold efficiency of a trained killer.

"Stay here," he ordered, voice brooking no argument. "I mean it, Rocco. No heroics this time."

Rocco wanted to protest, to insist on coming along. But the memory of his recent failures held him back. "Be careful," he said instead, hating how small his voice sounded.

Something softened in Victor's eyes. He cupped Rocco's face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Always am, baby. We'll finish this conversation when I get back."

With one last, bruising kiss, Victor was gone. Rocco sagged against the desk, his mind whirling with everything that had just transpired.

Victor's confession had soothed some of his fears, but new ones rose to take their place. What did this mean for their future? For Rocco's place in the family? And could they really build something real in the midst of all this chaos and violence?

As the sound of engines roaring to life reached his ears, Rocco made a decision. He couldn't sit idly by while Victor and the others risked their lives. He was a Rossetti, dammit. It was time he started acting like one.

Slipping out of the office, Rocco made his way to the garage. He'd follow at a safe distance, ready to provide backup if needed. And maybe, just maybe, he'd finally prove to everyone—including himself—that he was more than just the boss's spoiled son.

As he gunned the engine of his sleek sports car, Rocco's mother's warning echoed in his mind. But he pushed it aside, focusing on the road ahead.

Whatever came next, he and Victor would face it together. Of that, at least, Rocco was certain.

CHAPTER 13

THE INFERNO'S BLAZE

The neon sign of The Inferno nightclub pulsed like a heartbeat in the darkness, casting sickly red shadows across the rain-slicked street. Rocco's hands trembled on the steering wheel as he pulled up a block away, his eyes scanning for any sign of Victor or Bianchi's men.

He shouldn't be here. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to listen to Victor's orders for once in his goddamn life. But the memory of Victor's face—fierce and tender all at once—spurred him forward.

As Rocco slipped out of the car, the muffled thump of bass vibrated through the soles of his shoes. The club was still operational, oblivious patrons dancing and drinking while danger lurked in the shadows.

Keeping to the darkened edges of the street, Rocco made his way towards the club's rear entrance. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the music as he neared the alley.

The crack of gunfire shattered the night.

Rocco's blood ran cold as he pressed himself against the rough brick wall. Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle echoed from around the corner. He recognized Victor's voice, barking orders to their men.

Taking a deep breath, Rocco steeled himself and peered around the edge of the building.

The scene before him was chaos incarnate. Victor and a handful of Rossetti soldiers were pinned down behind a dumpster, exchanging fire with Bianchi's crew. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the stench of garbage and spilled alcohol.

And there, in the center of it all, stood Marco Bianchi himself. The rival boss grinned like a shark, his gold teeth glinting in the harsh glow of the security lights.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Bianchi called, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Don't you want to play, Kovac? Or are you too busy babysitting the Rossetti brat?"

Rocco's fists clenched at his sides, anger flaring hot in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to storm out there and wipe that smug smile off Bianchi's face.

But Victor's lessons hadn't been entirely in vain. Rocco forced himself to think, to analyze the situation. Their men were outnumbered, but not hopelessly so. If he could create a distraction...

---