Page 10 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

WHEN TO BLEED

R ory

Feckin’ hell, how did I just lose control of the situation in there? I drag a hand through my wild locks, freed from the hairpin dagger maybe a little too soon this evening. A tangle of anger and irritation floods my body as I march to the enormous walk-in closet in search of my pajamas.

I never let my patients get the upper hand, not even cranky Paddy Flaherty. Especially not on day one. It sets the tone for the entire rehabilitation period. Now, Alessandro thinks he’s in charge of his recovery when I should be.

The worst part is the reason I gave in.

It wasn’t because his threats frightened me. No, it was the complete opposite. It had been the flash of fear and desperation in his eyes that had forced me to surrender. He was terrified to allow me to see him, and in that moment, I broke.

Never again.

I make the vow as I dig through the drawer in search of the sleep tank and shorts.

Beside it sit an assortment of scrubs along with a week’s worth of panties and bras.

If I survive the introductory period, I’ll have to go back to Shelly’s to grab the rest of my meager belongings before she moves out.

As grueling as the day has been, I really want this job. Not just because of the cushy penthouse I’ll get to live in but because based on everything Isabella and Serena told me, their cousin really needs this, and I never back away from a challenge.

Something tells me Alessandro Rossi will be my biggest one yet.

As I peel off my clothes, a flood of unexpected heat fills my chest, then travels across my cheeks as memories of that stupid slip of the tongue from earlier rises to the surface. We’ll see how fine you are when I get you naked in the tub .

You’re such a fecking eejit, Rory .

No wonder he was terrified for the bath.

Oh God, I hope he doesn’t think… he couldn’t think I wanted to see him naked, right?

A man like him probably has a huge ego with women throwing themselves at him left and right.

I would never be one of those women. I need to clarify this immediately.

Putting it off could ruin this whole thing for me.

After slipping on my pajamas, I march straight for Alessandro’s bedroom.

Closing my fingers around the handle, I twist. I’ll simply reiterate how important it is to keep a professional relationship and that I’ve seen dozens of naked men, and it won’t mean a thing.

Swinging the door open, ragged breaths fill the dark room.

My gaze jumps across the chamber to the massive bed and the familiar form stretched across it. As my eyes adjust to the dim space, a gasp builds in my throat when realization slams into me.

Alessandro is splayed across the bed, his cock in his hand. His eyes meet mine through the shadows, and that damned heat blossoms across my cheeks again.

Oh, shite .

“Fuck, Rory, get out!” he howls as I stand there rooted to the spot like a complete eejit.

“I—I didn’t see anything.” Closing my eyes while whirling around, I sprint toward my door and nearly crash into a wall in my blind, mad dash.

Feeling my way out in a panic, I finally find the door and skulk out, slamming it behind me.

When I reach the safety of my room, I lean against the wall and blow out a breath.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph…

Get a hold of yourself, Rory . I’ve dealt with worse, so much worse.

I cannot let some possible-mafia prince with a huge cock derail the best opportunity I’ve had since arriving on this side of the Atlantic.

And while we’re being honest here, I may as well just admit to myself I’ve stepped right into the fire.

With everything I’ve observed in only a day here, the likelihood of the Geminis not being involved in illicit dealings is highly unlikely.

Growing up in a mob family, the signs are all here.

Pushing off the wall, I march across the room and sink into the soft mattress, drawing in a deep breath. How did I end up in bed with the mob again?

Alessandro’s guard isn’t just a security guy, he’s trained . He’s armed, positioned near the exit, earpieces in, eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting an ambush. Or an explosion.

Then there was the glimpse I caught of Marco Rossi’s reinforced Range Rover when I had my interview. The windows were thicker. The doors heavier. No regular CEO drives around like that.

Not to mention Alessandro’s overall demeanor, that unapologetic violence that simmers just under the surface. I’m fairly certain if I had the opportunity to check, I’d find a gun in his nightstand and a knife under his pillow.

I should know the signs because I grew up surrounded by men like him. I can easily spot the energy. The tone. The look in someone’s eyes when they’ve seen things no one should.

I heave out another breath and bury my head in the pillow. Would remaining within the Geminis’ sphere only be exposing myself to more danger or would it provide a modicum of protection against my own demons?

If Da ever found me…

Worst, what if Conall does?

Even if by some miracle, I somehow manage to avoid both, do I want to be dragged back into the life I fought so hard to leave behind?

My thoughts whirl to the past, to the first time at the ripe old age of six when I truly understood who my father was.

The fire crackles low in Da’s study, casting flickering shadows across the walls, licking at the mounted stag’s head and the framed photograph of their wedding day that Mam once told me she hated.

I sit on the edge of the leather chair, legs swinging above the floor, too short to touch the carpet.

My hands are sticky from the shortbread I’d snuck earlier from the formal living room.

The one we only entertain special guests in.

I don’t know why I’m here, only that my brother Bran dragged me in by the elbow and said Da was displeased.

Which is never good.

Da stands behind his desk, a glass of amber liquid in hand, swirling it like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

I squirm under his stare, but I don't speak. I know better.

Then the door opens behind me, and two men enter. One I recognize—Donal, one of Da’s lieutenants. The other… has a canvas bag over his head.

I tense.

“Turn around, Brigid.”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

I do as I’m told, even though my gut twists. The bag is yanked off, and a man crumples to the floor at Da’s feet. His face is bruised and bloodied. He’s crying. Pleading.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste the coppery scent of blood.

“This man,” Da says, setting his glass down with a gentle clink, “is what we call a traitor. You know what that means, don’t you, lass?”

I nod, lips pressed tight.

“It means he spoke when he should’ve kept his mouth shut,” he hisses. “It means he forgot who feeds his family. Who keeps his heart pumping in his chest.”

The man moans something, a string of apologies or prayers. I can’t tell which. Da doesn’t even look at him.

Instead, he walks around his desk, crouches in front of me, and gently tucks a strand of unruly red hair behind my ear. His hand is too warm and smells like pipe smoke and aftershave.

“You’re a smart one, Brigid. Sharp tongue, like your Mam. But this world we live in? It doesn't reward sharp tongues. It rewards sharp memory. Loyalty. Control.”

I nod again, heart hammering.

“You disrespected our guest today.”

“I didn’t mean to.” My voice comes out in a whisper. How was I supposed to know he’d be so sensitive about his toupee?

“I know.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But meaning has feck all to do with consequences.”

He stands, then signals Donal with a nod.

The snap of bone is deafening in the silence.

The man screams just once before his mouth is gagged. His hand dangles at a sickening angle, broken fingers twitching like dying spiders.

I flinch, but I don’t look away. I know he’s watching me.

Da turns back to me, takes a long sip from his glass. “You’ll remember this. Not because it’s cruel. But because it’s necessary. In our world, words can get you killed.”

He leans down again, voice low and cold.

“If you want to survive, Brigid O’Shea… you’ll learn when to bite down. And when to bleed.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

And walks away.

I don’t cry. Not in front of him.

But later, alone in my room, I scrub my hands raw trying to wash away the stickiness from the shortbread. And I know no matter what Mam says, no matter how many Hail Marys I whisper that I’ll never forget the sound of that man’s fingers breaking.

Not ever.

And that was why a decade later as I stood in front of that altar beside Conall Quinlan, I held my tongue and buried my blade in his leg. So that he would be the one to bleed.