Page 44 of The Bratty Heir

Marco's laugh was sharp and mocking. "Oh, I don't think so, Kovac. Your little boy toy is my insurance policy. One wrong move, and I paint the walls with his brains."

To emphasize his point, he pressed the cold muzzle of a gun to Rocco's temple. Rocco's breath hitched, but he forced himself to stay calm. He met Victor's eyes, trying to convey a silent message. Trust me.

Victor's jaw clenched, but Rocco saw the flicker of understanding in his gaze. "Alright," he said, lowering his weapon slightly. "Let's talk this out. No need for anyone else to get hurt."

As Victor inched closer, hands raised in a gesture of peace, Rocco steeled himself. He'd only get one shot at this.

In a move born of months of Victor's relentless training, Rocco threw his head back, feeling the satisfying crunch as his skull connected with Marco's nose. The gun went off, the bullet whizzing harmlessly past Rocco's ear.

He twisted out of Marco's grasp, adrenaline dulling the pain of his protesting muscles. Victor was there in an instant, putting himself between Rocco and danger.

"You okay, baby boy?" he growled, eyes never leaving the threat before them.

"Never better," Rocco panted, grabbing a fallen weapon. "Let's end this fucker."

What followed was a blur of violence and desperation. Rocco and Victor moved in perfect sync, covering each other's blind spots and taking down Bianchi's men with brutal efficiency.

Rocco lost himself in the rhythm of it, the world narrowing to the steady presence of Victor at his back and the next immediate threat. His body sang with the thrill of battle, every lesson Victor had drilled into him coming to fruition.

As the tide began to turn in their favor, Rocco caught sight of Marco trying to slink away. "Oh no you don't, you bastard," he snarled, giving chase.

He cornered Bianchi near a stack of rusty shipping containers, gun trained steadily on the older man's chest. "It's over," Rocco said, voice hard with triumph. "On your knees."

Marco's eyes darted around, searching for an escape. Finding none, he slowly sank to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "You've got me, kid," he said, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "Gotta admit, I underestimated you."

Rocco's lip curled in a sneer. "Yeah, well. That was your first mistake."

As Rocco zip-tied Marco's hands, Victor jogged up, slightly out of breath. "Nice work, baby," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Your father would be?—"

The crack of a gunshot cut him off. Victor's eyes went wide, a look of shock crossing his face as he stumbled forward.

"No!" Rocco screamed, lunging to catch Victor as he fell. He lowered the older man gently to the ground, panic clawing at his throat as he saw the spreading stain of red on Victor's shirt.

A cold laugh drew Rocco's attention. He looked up to see one of their own men—Carmine, an old-school soldier who'd always resented Rocco's position—standing there with a smoking gun.

"Sorry, kid," Carmine sneered, no remorse in his voice. "But the old guard's taking back control. Bianchi offered us a better deal."

White-hot rage flooded Rocco's system. Without conscious thought, he raised his weapon and fired. Carmine's head snapped back, a look of surprise frozen on his face as he crumpled to the ground.

Rocco turned back to Victor, hands shaking as he applied pressure to the wound. "Stay with me," he pleaded, voice cracking. "Come on, Daddy, don't you dare leave me."

Victor's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain but still alert. "Not... going anywhere, baby boy," he ground out. "Takes more than that to keep me down."

Relief washed over Rocco, but it was short-lived. They weren't out of danger yet. He could hear shouts approaching—whether friend or foe, he couldn't be sure.

"We need to move," he said, helping Victor struggle to his feet. "Can you walk?"

Victor nodded grimly, leaning heavily on Rocco. "Lead the way, little one. I've got your back."

As they made their way through the warehouse, Rocco's mind raced. The betrayal of Carmine and who knew how many others changed everything. They couldn't trust anyone, not even their own people.

They emerged into the cool night air, the sounds of battle fading behind them. Rocco scanned the area, looking for a means of escape. His eyes landed on a beat-up sedan, probably belonging to one of Bianchi's lower-level goons.

"There," he said, guiding Victor towards the car. "We can hotwire it, get the hell out of here."

Victor chuckled weakly, wincing as the movement jostled his wound. "Look at you, all grown up and stealing cars. I've taught you well."

Rocco managed a shaky smile as he helped Victor into the passenger seat. "Yeah, well. I had a good teacher."

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