Page 3 of The Bratty Heir

Rocco's head pounded like a jackhammer, each throb sending waves of nausea through his body. He groaned, burrowing deeper into the plush cocoon of his Egyptian cotton sheets. The events of last night were a blur of neon lights, thumping bass, and...Victor.

Fuck. Victor Kovac, with his iron grip and thundercloud eyes. Rocco's body flushed hot at the memory of being pinned against the wall, helpless under the older man's piercing gaze. He shifted, grimacing at the sticky reminder of the dreams that had plagued him all night—dreams full of rough hands and growled commands that left him aching and confused.

A sharp knock cut through the fog of his hangover. Rocco ignored it, pulling a pillow over his head. Maybe if he pretended to be dead, the world would leave him alone.

No such luck. The door burst open with a bang that sent spikes of pain through Rocco's skull. Heavy footsteps approached the bed, and then the covers were ripped away, leaving Rocco exposed to the harsh morning light.

"Rise and shine, princess," Victor's gravelly voice cut through Rocco's pained whimpers. "Daddy wants a word."

Rocco cracked one eye open, glaring blearily at the mountain of muscle looming over him. Victor stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked fresh and alert, not a hair out of place. It was deeply unfair.

"Fuck off," Rocco mumbled, reaching for the blankets. "M'sleeping."

Victor's hand shot out, catching Rocco's wrist in an iron grip. "Not anymore," he growled. "Up. Now. Don't make me ask twice."

A shiver raced down Rocco's spine at the commanding tone. His body responded instinctively, a traitorous heat pooling in his belly. He pushed it down, clinging to his annoyance like a shield.

"Jesus, fine," Rocco snapped, yanking his arm free. He sat up, wincing as the room spun around him. "What's got Dad's panties in a twist this time?"

Victor's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "That's not for me to say. But it's urgent, so get your ass in gear."

Rocco rolled his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was acutely aware of Victor's gaze on him, raking over his body clad only in tight black boxer-briefs. Heat crawled up his neck, and he fought the urge to cover himself.

"See something you like?" The words slipped out before Rocco could stop them, dripping with false bravado.

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I see a spoiled brat who needs to learn some respect," he growled, taking a step closer. "Don't test me, boy. Not today."

Rocco's breath caught in his throat, arousal warring with indignation. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height—which still left him a good half-foot shorter than Victor. "Or what?" he challenged, tilting his chin up defiantly. "Gonna spank me?"

For a moment, something dark and hungry flashed in Victor's eyes. Then his expression hardened, all trace of emotion disappearing behind a mask of cold professionalism.

"Get dressed," he ordered, voice clipped. "You have five minutes."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving Rocco flushed and frustrated in his wake.

"Fucking asshole," Rocco muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. But he couldn't deny the way his body thrummed with want, responding to Victor's dominance in a way that both thrilled and terrified him.

Shaking off the confusing tangle of emotions, Rocco stumbled to his closet. He threw on the first designer suit he could find, not bothering with a tie. Let the old man bitch about it—Rocco was in no mood to play the perfect son today.

He emerged from his room exactly six minutes later, a petty act of defiance that earned him a withering glare from Victor. The older man said nothing, just jerked his head towards the study where Giovanni waited.

Rocco's stomach churned as they approached the heavy oak door. These "urgent meetings" rarely ended well for him. Usually, it was just another lecture about responsibility and family legacy, but something in Victor's tense posture told him this was different.

Victor's hand on the small of Rocco's back propelled him forward, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of Rocco's shirt. Rocco's skin prickled with awareness, his body leaning into the touch despite his best efforts.

"Remember your place," Victor murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Rocco's ear. "Show some respect for once in your life."

Rocco shivered, biting back a retort. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself for whatever awaited him on the other side of that door.

The study was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Giovanni Rossetti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, looking smaller and more frail than Rocco had ever seen him. The sight sent a jolt of unease through Rocco's chest.

"Ah, there he is," Giovanni said, his voice rough with barely concealed pain. "My prodigal son, deigning to grace us with his presence."

Rocco bristled at the sarcasm, but Victor's warning echoed in his ears. He swallowed his pride, forcing a neutral expression. "You wanted to see me, Father?"

Giovanni's eyes narrowed, taking in Rocco's disheveled appearance. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Rocco obeyed, sinking into the plush leather. He was acutely aware of Victor taking up position behind him, a solid wall of muscle between Rocco and the door. It should have felt suffocating, but instead, Rocco found himself oddly comforted by the older man's presence.

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