Page 9 of The Bratty Heir

As he walked Victor through the intricate web of shell companies and money laundering schemes, Rocco found himself reluctantly impressed. The complexity of the operation was staggering, a testament to his father's criminal genius.

"Not bad," Victor grudgingly admitted when Rocco finished his explanation. "You might actually have a brain under all that product."

Rocco preened at the praise, then caught himself. He shouldn't care what this thug thought of him. But he couldn't deny the warm glow of satisfaction in his chest.

"Alright, smartass," Victor said, tossing a thick file onto the desk. "Let's see how you handle something a little more... hands-on."

Rocco opened the file, his eyes widening as he scanned its contents. "This is... holy shit. Is this for real?"

Victor's lips curled in a predatory smile. "Welcome to the big leagues, princess. Time to get your hands dirty."

The file detailed an upcoming shipment of weapons, set to arrive at the docks in three days. It was Rocco's job to oversee the operation, ensuring the merchandise was received and distributed without a hitch.

"You can't be serious," Rocco said, looking up at Victor with disbelief. "I don't know the first thing about running an operation like this."

Victor's hand came to rest on the back of Rocco's neck, his grip firm and possessive. "That's where I come in. I'll be with you every step of the way, making sure you don't fuck it up."

The touch sent shivers down Rocco's spine, heat pooling in his belly. He leaned into it instinctively, then caught himself and jerked away.

"I don't need a babysitter," he snapped, standing abruptly. "I can handle this on my own."

Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Sit. Down."

The command in his voice was unmistakable. Rocco's knees nearly buckled, his body responding to that tone before his brain could catch up. He sank back into the chair, hating himself for how easily he submitted.

"Good boy," Victor purred, the praise sending a thrill through Rocco's body. "Now listen carefully. This isn't a game. One wrong move, and you could end up dead—or worse."

Rocco swallowed hard, fear and excitement warring in his gut. "Worse than dead? What could be worse than that?"

Victor's smile was cold and dangerous. "Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea the kinds of things that can happen to pretty boys like you in our world."

The implication sent a shudder through Rocco's body. He should be terrified, should be running as far and fast as he could from this life. But instead, he found himself leaning forward, drawn in by the dark promise in Victor's eyes.

"Show me," he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Victor's eyes blazed with heat, his hand coming up to cup Rocco's jaw. For a heart-stopping moment, Rocco thought the older man might actually kiss him.

Then Victor stepped back, the mask of cold professionalism sliding back into place. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, little prince," he growled. "You’re not ready for that kind of heat.”

He turned away, moving towards the door. "We leave for the docks at midnight. Be ready."

As the door clicked shut behind Victor, Rocco sagged in his chair, his body thrumming with unfulfilled need. What the fuck was wrong with him? He shouldn't be lusting after his father's enforcer, shouldn't be craving the older man's touch and approval.

But as he gathered the files, preparing for the night ahead, Rocco couldn't shake the feeling that he was in way over his head. And the scariest part? He wasn't sure he wanted to get out.

The docks loomed before them, a maze of shipping containers and rusted machinery shrouded in mist. Rocco's heart pounded as he followed Victor through the labyrinth, every shadow seeming to hide potential danger.

"Eyes sharp," Victor murmured, his voice low and intense. "Trust no one but me. Got it?"

Rocco nodded, resisting the urge to press closer to Victor's solid bulk. He was acutely aware of the gun tucked into his waistband, the weight of it both comforting and terrifying.

They approached a nondescript container, indistinguishable from the hundreds surrounding it. Victor rapped out a complex pattern on the metal surface, the sound echoing ominously in the night air.

After a moment, the container door creaked open. A burly man with a face like a bulldog peered out, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Rocco.

"Who's the pretty boy?" he grunted, hand moving to the gun at his hip.

Victor's arm shot out, blocking Rocco from view. "He's with me," he growled, voice dripping with menace. "That's all you need to know."

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