Page 14 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

A TRAGEDY

A lessandro

Day three with the little wildling and somehow, I’ve managed to survive her healthy meals, strict wound care schedule and those tight-ass scrubs she wears that cling to every sharp curve of that dangerous tiny body.

I glance up at her from over the rim of my afternoon espresso and catch a glimpse of the leprechaun lanyard hung around her neck which clasps a hospital ID badge.

She hadn’t mentioned anything about going in today, but then again, I guess she doesn’t owe me a detailed report of her daily activities.

Even if she hasn’t left my side once since she started working for me.

So I can’t keep the question from popping out. “Are you going into the hospital today?”

“Aye, I have to meet with the lass from HR at six to complete some paperwork.” She bats auburn lashes. “Why, are you going to miss me?”

“Right, like I miss your gentle dressing changes.”

A wicked grin curls her lips, and again I find myself imagining what those pouty lips would feel like wrapped around my cock. A surge of heat rushes to my dick at the mere thought and just like that I’m hardening.

I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so fucking thrilled.

Luckily, my naughty nurse can’t see my tented sweatpants under the table.

Maybe I can put my dick to the test at Serena and Antonio’s engagement party tonight.

There has to be at least one willing single girl there.

The errant thought surprises me for a few reasons.

One, I hadn’t even considered being with a woman in forever, not since the fiasco on Thanksgiving and two, there’s an odd sense of wrongness about even thinking about it.

My gaze flickers to meet the lively emerald one across from me.

It can’t be because of her, right?

She’s my nurse. And as much as I hate to admit it, she’s a damned good one, and I should not be thinking about her in any other capacity. Despite what that sharp tongue does to my cock.

Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to her fingers, which are toying with the lanyard. “Is that leprechaun giving me the finger?” I barely suppress a laugh.

“That’s not just any leprechaun. His name is McFecker.”

“You named that thing?”

“Of course. He’s my emotional support leprechaun.”

“Wait a second, I thought I was McFecker.” Fuck, was that a hint of annoyance in my tone?

“Oh, you are the new McFecker. He’s the original.” She shoots me another grin, and I can’t help a smile from melting across my face in return. It seems to be happening a lot lately.

Not wanting to dwell too much on what that might mean, I opt for a change of subject.

Despite spending the past seventy-two-plus-hours glued to my side, I’ve learned little about my new roommate.

Whenever I’ve asked about her past, she finds a way to avoid the topic, shooting off some snarky remark to deflect instead.

“Speaking of origins,” I begin, “Bella and Serena mentioned you just moved here from Ireland a year ago?”

“Umhmm.” She reaches for her mug of cappuccino and buries her nose in it.

“What made you come to Manhattan?”

I swear the woman takes the longest sip known to man. An endless minute later, she finally lifts her gaze to mine. “I just wanted a change of scenery.”

“I don’t blame you since you grew up in a barn.”

She grinds her teeth but that easy smile returns all the same. “Exactly.”

“What about your family? Everyone still in Ireland?”

“Aye.”

Usually, the woman can’t shut her mouth but whenever her past comes up, she becomes a locked vault, steel-sealed and dead silent.

“Where in Ireland did you say?”

“Belfast,” she all but snarls.

“Ah, Northern Ireland then. That explains a lot.” Figures the firecracker would come from the tension-fraught region.

As I ponder her secretive past, it occurs to me that she must have studied nursing in Ireland since she’s only been here for a year.

I wouldn’t imagine a small town to have had a ton of burn cases, and yet, she said she’s had plenty of experience.

Coming from Belfast, it’s a bit more believable.

Still, something about the story doesn’t track…

I’m about to ask more when she leaps up from the table, practically knocking down her chair in the process. “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’m going to find Mrs. Jenkins to make sure she’s all set with your dinner menu. She’ll stay with you while I’m gone.”

“I’m more than capable of being by myself for a few hours.

” I’m not sure why I haven’t mentioned Serena’s party.

No. That’s not true. It’s because I’m fully aware she’ll insist on coming with me, and the idea of going to that party filled with family and business acquaintances with my nurse is out of the question.

I would rather not go at all and deal with Serena’s wrath.

“Of course you are, but I don’t trust that you won’t indulge in crappy take-out instead of the nutritious, protein-packed meal I had Mrs. Jenkins prepare.”

My eyes roll so hard I hope only the whites show.

She waggles a finger at me, clucking her tongue. “Keep that up and they’ll freeze that way.”

“You’re an eejit,” I shoot back, attempting my best impression of that sexy Irish lilt.

This draws out a smile, her intense irises sparkling like the finest jewels before she turns for the hallway. “Later, McFecker,” she calls out over her shoulder.

And I can’t help my gaze from trailing after those tight little scrubs or the way my eyes linger long after she’s disappeared.

Hours later, the melody of an old Frank Sinatra number fills the foyer of Serena’s apartment, the tune in complete odds with the music my cousin would typically pump through the speakers.

It must have been my Uncle Dante’s pick, a nod to the classics for his daughter’s engagement party.

The whole thing was set up to prove to the other powerful crime syndicates that the joining of the Ferraras and Valentinos was a calculated move, not a kidnapping gone wrong.

Only Serena would fall for the man keeping her hostage.

The crooning vocals curl around crystal chandeliers and sleek marble floors, softening the sharp edges of an evening that is anything but romantic.

The air is heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and aged scotch, a heady mix that clings to tuxedos and sequined dresses.

I’m the only asshole here in sweatpants, thanks to my compression garments.

Waiters glide between guests like shadows, balancing silver trays piled with oysters and caviar blinis.

But even beneath the glitz and gold, there’s a tension here.

A tightness in the smiles. A sharpness in the glances that linger too long.

This isn’t just a party, it’s a performance. A calculated spectacle meant to tell the world: the Ferraras, Valentinos and Rossis are united now. Touch us at your own peril.

Alessia wheels me into the living room, and I plaster on a practiced smile, readying myself to deal with the oncoming stares.

Every move, every inhale is a performance of my own.

I keep my spine straight, my expression bored.

The stares hit me before we’re even halfway across the floor.

Some are subtle, a flicker of pity, a poorly concealed wince.

Others are less graceful. One guy straight-up gawks like I’m a damned ghost. A few raise their flutes toward me in silent toasts, like surviving a car bomb is something to celebrate.

I already want to leave.

I can make out my parents and both Valentino siblings huddled in an intense conversation with one of the other major players in Manhattan.

The damned Irish mob has made its way to our shores forcing the Italians to forge new alliances.

Likely the cause of their hushed conversation.

It’s not a completely new development of course, but they seem to be proliferating too quickly, like fucking rats.

Then there are the usual players, the Red Dragons, Aunt Jia’s Four Seas, the Russians, too many to name, and some young new player, La Spada Nera, or some bullshit.

Why did I come again?

Serena spots me and hurries over in sky-high heels like she’s floating.

“There you are!” The white silk dress hugs her every curve, and she’s practically glowing with Antonio by her side.

Ignoring my twin, she dips and presses a kiss to my cheek before wiping off the red lipstick with her thumb. “I thought you weren’t going to show.”

“I considered it,” I grumble.

“As did I,” says Antonio with a smirk.

“Oh, shut up, Toni. If I have to be here putting on this charade, then so do you.”

“I’m kidding obviously, amore . There’s nowhere I’d rather be than by your side.” He brushes his lips against her forehead, and the move is so nauseatingly sweet it makes me squirm in my wheelchair. Which reminds me I need to get the hell out of it.

Flipping the hand brakes on, I attempt to force myself up and Serena rushes to my side. The pain flares up my spine as I lock my legs and push to my feet. A few heads turn. The pity turns to surprise. Maybe even admiration. But I don’t want that either.

“Let me help you,” Serena whispers.

“I’ve got it, Sere,” I grit out.

Alessia waves a dismissive hand. “Just let him do it by himself. He’ll only bite your head off if you try to help.”

At least my sister is learning.

Bella appears a second later with Raffaele, her bodyguard and boyfriend, trailing beside her. At least Rory is nowhere near as bad as Raf. He doesn’t leave my cousin’s side for a second.

“You made it, Ale!” Isabella pulls me into a hug just as I manage to straighten. I feel the tug of the compression garments beneath my clothes, but it’s nowhere as bad as it used to be when I was putting them on. Rory does seem to have a special touch.

In more ways than one.

“I did,” I whisper into her ear. “But I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”

“Oh, come on.” Her lips screw into a pout. “We miss you, Ale.” She glances around Alessia toward the door. “Where’s Rory?”

Running my hand across the back of my nape, I release a noncommittal grunt. “Prior engagement.”

“Oh, man, I was so looking forward to chatting with her,” Serena interjects.

“About that, you two need to stop interfering in my life. That pesky little leprechaun is going to be the death of me.”

Serena narrows her eyes in my direction. “Then why do you look so much better than when we saw you last week?”

“Coincidence,” I mutter.

The melodic tune of Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night fills the foyer and Serena nearly swoons. “Toni, this is my favorite!” She grabs her fiancé’s hand and totes him toward the dancefloor in the center of the sprawling penthouse. “We have to dance.”

“Of course, amore , whatever you want.” With an indulgent smile, he allows the bride-to-be to haul him away.

The spotlight follows them with her laughing, him whispering something into her ear. Everyone watches, and no one speaks for a long minute.

Then Bella turns to me as Raf’s fingers entwine with hers. “Come dance with us.”

“Nope, your little Irish tiny tyrant hasn’t worked that sort of magic on me yet. I think I’m still a few months away from breaking it down on the dancefloor.”

“I’ll stay with him.” Alessia’s bored expression remains unfazed. “No one here is interesting enough to dance with anyway.”

“Okay, but after this song, we’re catching up.”

“Sure, Bella.” I give her my best smile, the one I reserve only for the baby of our cousin crew.

As soon as my cousins disappear into the crowd, I lean against the wall and heave in a breath. I watch them for a long minute, both girls, giddy and in love. I should be happy for them.

I am.

But I’m also bitter as fuck. Because no woman will ever look at me like they look at their partners.

I used to be the man all the women wanted—first pick, last call. Now I’m the tragedy they pretend not to see.

With bitterness coating my veins, I whirl toward my sister. She stands a few feet from the bar, eyeing the custom cocktails. The ones I would have loved to indulge in myself. “You don’t have to babysit me, Alessia. Go have fun.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, go.”

“You want me to walk you to the couch or something before?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She nods, lips in a tight line and heads straight for the bar. The party swells around me, more laughter, more champagne, more deals being struck in quiet corners while Frank croons about strangers and fleeting nights.

And yet the only stranger I’m thinking about is the one who isn’t here.

Rory.

For a moment, I swear I can smell her. It’s something sweet and sharp, like citrus and spice. But it’s just the perfume of some socialite drifting past.

My gaze snags on the door like she might still walk through it.

Only she doesn’t.

Dio , you’re a stronzo .

When I realize she’s not going to, I turn straight for the bedrooms down the hall. I need to escape; I need to be alone with my own misery.