Page 48 of The Bratty Heir

But it wasn't all smooth sailing. On the fifth day of their crusade, Rocco found himself pinned down in an abandoned warehouse, exchanging gunfire with a group of Bianchi loyalists. He'd gotten cocky, pushed too hard too fast, and now he was paying the price.

"Fuck," Rocco hissed as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He checked his clip—two rounds left. Not nearly enough to take out the four men closing in on his position.

Just as he was beginning to think he'd finally bitten off more than he could chew, a familiar voice crackled through his earpiece.

"In a bit of trouble there, baby boy?" Victor's tone was amused, but Rocco could hear the underlying concern.

"Nothing I can't handle, old man," Rocco shot back, wincing as another bullet pinged off his cover. "But if you're in the neighborhood, I wouldn't say no to a little backup."

Victor's chuckle was low and dangerous. "Oh, I'm a lot closer than you think, little one. On my mark, run for the east exit. Three, two, one—now!"

Rocco didn't hesitate. He sprinted across the open floor, bullets kicking up dust at his heels. Just as he reached the door, an explosion rocked the building. He glanced back to see Victor standing amid the chaos, looking like an avenging angel with a grenade launcher in hand.

"Show-off," Rocco muttered, but he couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face.

As the dust settled, Victor strode towards Rocco, eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desire. He slammed Rocco against the wall, pinning him with his body.

"What did I tell you about taking unnecessary risks?" Victor growled, his face inches from Rocco's.

Instead of cowering, Rocco met his gaze defiantly. "Aw, were you worried about me, Daddy?" he purred, a hint of that old bratty spark in his eyes.

Victor's control snapped. He crushed his mouth to Rocco's in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and pent-up adrenaline. Rocco gave as good as he got, grinding shamelessly against Victor's thigh.

"Fuck," Victor panted when they finally broke apart. "You're going to be the death of me, you little brat."

Rocco grinned, breathless and flushed. "Yeah, but what a way to go."

They made it back to the penthouse in record time, barely waiting for the elevator doors to close before they were on each other again. Clothes were shed with frantic urgency, leaving a trail from the foyer to the bedroom.

Victor tossed Rocco onto the massive bed, crawling over him with predatory grace. "You've been such a good boy this week," he growled, nipping at Rocco's throat. "Taking out our enemies, making Daddy so proud. I think you deserve a reward."

What followed was a symphony of pleasure and pain, Victor taking Rocco apart piece by piece before putting him back together again. When they finally collapsed, sweaty and sated, the first light of dawn was peeking through the windows.

"We should get some rest," Victor murmured, pressing a kiss to Rocco's temple. "Big day tomorrow. We're going after your uncle."

Rocco nodded, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Good. It's time we dealt with that treacherous bastard once and for all."

The next evening found them outside Antonio Rossetti's opulent mansion, the setting sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. Rocco's heart raced with anticipation as they approached the front door, guns at the ready.

They encountered minimal resistance—most of Antonio's men had already jumped ship, sensing which way the wind was blowing. The few loyal guards were quickly and efficiently neutralized.

They found Antonio in his study, a glass of scotch trembling in his hand as he stared out the window. He turned as they entered, his face a mask of fear poorly disguised as bravado.

"Ah, Rocco," he said, forcing a smile. "And Victor. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Rocco's laugh was cold and cruel. "Cut the bullshit, Uncle. You know exactly why we're here."

Antonio's facade crumbled. He fell to his knees, hands outstretched in supplication. "Please," he begged. "Rocco, nephew, have mercy. We're family."

Rocco's eyes hardened, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Family? You lost the right to call me that when you sold us out to Bianchi."

He raised his gun, ready to end this once and for all. But before he could fire, Victor's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Wait, baby boy," Victor murmured, his eyes never leaving Antonio's sniveling form. "Death is too good for him. I have a better idea."

Rocco glanced at Victor, curiosity piqued. "What did you have in mind, Daddy?"

Victor's smile was razor-sharp as he outlined his plan, whispering in Rocco's ear. With each word, Rocco's eyes widened, a vicious grin spreading across his face.

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