Page 43 of The Bratty Heir

A sharp turn sent Rocco slamming into the car door, pain lancing through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. He couldn't fall apart now. Victor was coming. He just had to hold on.

The safe house loomed ahead, a nondescript brownstone that blended seamlessly with its neighbors. But as they screeched to a stop, Rocco's heart sank. Their pursuers were right on their tail, boxing them in.

"Victor," Rocco's voice cracked, fear clawing at his throat. "They've got us cornered. I don't know if?—"

"Listen to me," Victor cut him off, his voice fierce and determined. "You are strong, baby boy. You are a Rossetti. You can handle this. I believe in you."

Rocco took a shuddering breath, drawing strength from Victor's words. He was right. He could do this. He had to.

As the attackers closed in, guns drawn and faces twisted with malice, Rocco steeled himself for the fight of his life. He might be cornered, but he was far from helpless.

With a feral grin that would have made Victor proud, Rocco threw open the car door and launched himself into the fray. If these bastards wanted a piece of him, they'd have to work for it.

The first attacker went down with a satisfying crunch, Rocco's fist connecting solidly with his jaw. But there were more coming, closing in from all sides.

Rocco fought like a man possessed, every dirty trick Victor had taught him coming into play. He was a whirlwind of fists and elbows, lashing out with controlled fury.

But he was outnumbered, and his opponents were skilled. A lucky punch caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. As he staggered, another blow connected with his temple, sending him crashing to the ground.

Stars exploded behind Rocco's eyes, the world tilting sickeningly. He could taste blood in his mouth, copper and salt on his tongue.

As darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, Rocco's last coherent thought was of Victor. He hoped his Daddy would be proud of how he'd fought.

Then, mercifully, everything went black.

CHAPTER 17

THE FINAL STAND

Rocco's head throbbed as consciousness crept back, the coppery taste of blood lingering on his tongue. He blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Cold concrete pressed against his back, the unmistakable weight of restraints binding his wrists.

"Well, well. Look who's finally awake."

The voice sent ice through Rocco's veins. He squinted, his vision slowly focusing on the figure looming before him. Marco Bianchi, the man they'd thought defeated, grinned down at him with shark-like malice.

"Fuck you," Rocco spat, channeling every ounce of defiance he could muster. "You won't get away with this."

Marco's laugh was cold and cruel. "Oh, but I already have, little prince. Your precious family is walking right into my trap, and you're the bait."

Fear clawed at Rocco's throat, but he pushed it down. He couldn't let Bianchi see his weakness. "You clearly don't know my family very well," he sneered. "They're not stupid enough to fall for your bullshit."

A sharp backhand snapped Rocco's head to the side, stars exploding behind his eyes. "Such a mouthy little brat," Marco growled. "I can see why Kovac keeps you around. I bet you're a real wildcat in the sack."

Bile rose in Rocco's throat at the implication. He glared up at Bianchi, pouring every ounce of hatred into his gaze. "You don't know shit about me and Victor."

Marco's grin widened, a predatory glint in his eye. "Oh, but I will. Once I've crushed your pathetic excuse for a family, I'll take great pleasure in breaking you. Maybe I'll even let Kovac watch."

Before Rocco could retort, the distant sound of gunfire erupted. Marco's head snapped up, triumph flashing across his face. "Right on schedule," he purred. "Showtime, pretty boy."

He hauled Rocco to his feet, shoving him roughly towards the door. As they emerged into what looked like an abandoned warehouse, chaos reigned. Rossetti soldiers clashed with Bianchi's men, the air thick with gunsmoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Rocco's eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of Victor. His heart leapt as he caught a glimpse of that familiar broad-shouldered form, cutting through the fray like an avenging angel.

"Victor!" he shouted, struggling against Marco's iron grip. "I'm here!"

Victor's head whipped around, his eyes locking onto Rocco with laser focus. The raw emotion in that gaze—relief, fury, desperation—took Rocco's breath away.

"Let him go, Bianchi," Victor snarled, his voice carrying even over the din of battle. "This is between you and me."

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