Page 5 of The Bratty Heir

Rocco glared up at him, refusing to be cowed by Victor's intimidating presence. "Respect? For what? For dumping an entire criminal empire in my lap and expecting me to just deal with it?"

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's chin and forcing him to meet that stormy gaze. "For giving you a purpose," he said, voice low and intense. "For trusting you with his life's work. Do you have any idea how many would kill to be in your position?"

Rocco's breath caught in his throat, arousal warring with indignation. He was acutely aware of every point of contact between them—Victor's hand on his face, the solid heat of his body pinning Rocco to the wall. It would be so easy to give in, to surrender to the older man's strength and authority.

But Rocco had never been good at taking the easy path.

"Fuck you," he spat, shoving ineffectually at Victor's broad chest. "You don't know anything about me or what I want."

Victor's eyes flashed dangerously, something dark and hungry flickering in their depths. For a moment, Rocco thought he might kiss him—or hit him. The tension between them was a living thing, crackling with potential energy.

Then Victor stepped back, releasing Rocco from his grip. "Get some rest," he said, voice clipped and professional once more. "We start your training tomorrow. 5 AM sharp."

With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Rocco sagging against the wall. His skin tingled where Victor had touched him, his body thrumming with unfulfilled need.

Rocco watched Victor's retreating back, a confusing tangle of emotions churning in his gut. Anger at his father for thrusting this responsibility on him. Fear of the unknown future that stretched out before him. And beneath it all, a molten core of desire that threatened to consume him whole.

As he stumbled back to his room, Rocco's mind raced with possibilities and pitfalls. He had no idea how to run a criminal empire, how to navigate the treacherous waters of New York's underworld. But with Victor by his side, guiding him with that iron will and unwavering strength...

Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this.

But as Rocco collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him, one thought echoed through his mind:

What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

CHAPTER 3

EARLY LESSONS

The insistent blare of an alarm jolted Rocco from his fitful sleep. He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. It couldn't possibly be?—

"Up and at 'em, princess," Victor's gravelly voice cut through the darkness. "Your training starts now."

Rocco cracked one eye open, glaring at the mountain of muscle looming over his bed. Victor stood there in tight workout clothes, arms crossed over his broad chest. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, Rocco could see the irritation etched into the older man's face.

"Fuck off," Rocco mumbled, reaching for the blankets. "It's the middle of the night."

In a blur of motion, Victor ripped the covers away, leaving Rocco exposed to the chilly air. He yelped, curling in on himself.

"What the hell, Kovac?"

Victor's eyes raked over Rocco's body, taking in the thin t-shirt and boxer briefs that left little to the imagination. "I told you 5 AM sharp. This is me being nice."

Rocco snorted, sitting up reluctantly. "If this is you being nice, I'd hate to see you being an asshole."

"Keep pushing me, boy," Victor growled, leaning in close. "And you just might."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the threat, his treacherous body responding to Victor's dominance. He pushed it down, clinging to his annoyance like a shield.

"Whatever," he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Give me five minutes to get dressed."

Victor's hand shot out, gripping Rocco's bicep. "No. You had your chance to be ready. You train in what you're wearing."

Rocco's eyes widened. "You can't be serious. I'm practically naked!"

A dangerous smirk played at the corners of Victor's mouth. "Should've thought of that before you decided to be a brat. Now move it. The gym's waiting."

With a grip like iron, Victor hauled Rocco to his feet. Rocco stumbled, catching himself against Victor's chest. For a moment, they stood frozen, bodies pressed together. Rocco could feel the heat radiating off Victor, could smell the intoxicating mix of cologne and clean sweat.

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