Page 4 of The Bratty Heir

"Do you know why I built all this?" Giovanni asked, waving a hand to encompass the opulent room, the sprawling penthouse beyond. "Why I've spent my life clawing my way to the top of this city's underworld?"

Rocco bit back a sigh. Here we go again. Another lecture about family legacy and the importance of power. "To provide for your family," he recited dutifully. "To secure our place in this world."

Giovanni's laugh was a harsh, bitter thing. "That's what I told myself, yes. But the truth is, I did it for you, Rocco. Everything I've built, every life I've taken, every deal I've made—it was all for you."

Rocco's brow furrowed, confusion cutting through his hangover haze. This wasn't the usual script. "What are you talking about?"

Giovanni leaned forward, his face etched with lines of pain and exhaustion. "I'm dying, son," he said bluntly. "Cancer. The doctors give me six months, maybe a year if I'm lucky."

The words hit Rocco like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at his father, searching for some sign that this was a cruel joke, another manipulation to get him in line. But the grim set of Giovanni's mouth, the sorrow in his eyes—it was all too real.

"I..." Rocco's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "I don't understand. Why are you telling me this now?"

Giovanni's eyes hardened, a flash of the ruthless don beneath the sickly exterior. "Because it's time for you to step up, Rocco. To take your rightful place as head of this family."

Panic clawed at Rocco's throat, threatening to choke him. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I can't. I'm not ready, I don't want?—"

"It doesn't matter what you want!" Giovanni roared, slamming his fist on the desk. The burst of anger seemed to drain him, and he sagged back in his chair. "This isn't a choice, Rocco. It's your duty. Your birthright."

Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way out. He couldn't do this. He wasn't cut out for the brutal world of organized crime, for the weight of an empire built on blood and fear. He was just a spoiled rich kid who liked to party, for fuck's sake.

"What about Lucia?" he asked desperately. "She's always been better at the business side of things. Let her take over, I'll?—"

Giovanni's eyes flashed with anger. "Your mother is not equipped to lead this family. It has to be you, Rocco. You're my son, my heir. The Rossetti name and legacy rest on your shoulders now."

Rocco felt the walls closing in, his breath coming in short gasps. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't ready for this kind of responsibility, this kind of power. He was barely keeping his own life together, let alone an entire criminal empire.

"I can't," he whispered, hating how weak he sounded. "Dad, please. I'm not cut out for this. I'll just fuck it all up."

Giovanni's expression softened slightly, a flicker of sympathy in his tired eyes. "You're stronger than you think, son. And you won't be alone. Victor will guide you, teach you everything you need to know."

At the mention of Victor's name, Rocco stiffened. He was acutely aware of the older man's presence behind him, a solid wall of heat and muscle. The thought of working closely with Victor, of submitting to his guidance and authority, sent a confusing mix of arousal and rebellion coursing through Rocco's veins.

"And if I refuse?" Rocco asked, a last desperate attempt at defiance.

Giovanni's face hardened, all trace of sympathy vanishing. "Then you'll be cut off. Completely. No money, no protection, nothing. You'll be on your own in a world that's all too eager to tear you apart."

The threat hung heavy in the air between them. Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way out, an alternative he hadn't considered. But the grim set of his father's jaw told him there would be no negotiation, no compromise.

He was trapped.

"Fine," Rocco spat, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. "I'll do it. But don't expect me to be happy about it."

Giovanni nodded, satisfaction and relief warring on his face. "That's all I ask. Victor will start your training immediately. You have a lot to learn, and not much time to learn it."

As if summoned by his name, Victor stepped forward. His large hand came to rest on Rocco's shoulder, a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. Rocco's skin prickled at the contact, heat spreading from that single point of connection.

"Don't worry, sir," Victor said, his deep voice rumbling through Rocco's body. "I'll whip him into shape."

The words sent a shiver down Rocco's spine, images of just how Victor might "whip him into shape" flashing unbidden through his mind. He squirmed in his seat, grateful for the desk hiding his body's traitorous response.

"See that you do," Giovanni replied, weariness creeping back into his voice. "You're dismissed. Both of you."

Rocco stood on shaky legs, his mind still reeling from the bombshell that had just been dropped on him. He felt Victor's hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the door. The heat of that touch seared through the thin fabric of his shirt, grounding him even as it set his nerves on fire.

As soon as they were in the hallway, Rocco spun to face Victor. "This is bullshit," he hissed, keeping his voice low. "I can't do this. I'm not cut out to be some fucking mafia don."

Victor's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. "Watch your tone," he growled, crowding Rocco against the wall. "Your father just laid a heavy burden on you. The least you can do is show some respect."

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