Page 16 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

A MAFIA HEIR

R ory

By day six, we’ve fallen into an easy rhythm, and I daresay, the broody Gemini heir has actually started to trust me. The baths and dressing changes aren’t quite as awkward anymore, and he no longer fights me on every single one of my suggestions.

Mrs. Jenkins flutters around the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of the most amazing frittata I’ve ever had. If I survive the seven days, I’ll be rolling out of here at the end of the contract term.

Alessandro sits across the island from me, scanning his iPad as he sips the cappuccino Mrs. Jenkins just made. The woman is an angel who whips up the closest version of a caramel macchiato I’ve had outside of Starbucks.

“Another latte, dear?” She tips her chin at my empty mug, a few strands of silver hair falling free of the tight bun.

“No more for her.” Alessandro chugs down the remainder of his coffee and stands. I’m pleased to see he doesn’t even wince at the movement. “We need to get going.”

“Where? Physical therapy isn’t for another two hours.”

“I need to stop by the Velvet Vault on the way.”

“For what?” I barely hide the surprise in my tone. Every time I’ve brought up his nightclub, his expression shutters, and he can’t seem to get away from me fast enough.

“ Dio , Rory, what’s with the inquisition? I need to speak to Lawson. He’s the finance guy over there.”

“This is great, Alessandro. I think it’ll do you good to start getting out of the penthouse more. Going back to work is exactly what you need.”

“I never said anything about going back to the club. That’s why I have a manager to handle all the day to day shit. I don’t belong th?—”

His words fall away as a sullen mask descends over his features. From everything Serena and Isabella told me, the Velvet Vault was his baby. He lived and breathed that nightclub, and now he wanted nothing to do with it?

Well, I do not accept that. Along with his rehabilitation, my goal will be to get that stubborn eejit back to work. Nothing better for the soul than some honest labor.

“So you’re just going to sit around the apartment all day sulking and driving me crazy?”

“You don’t have the job just yet, Red. Tomorrow’s the last day of your probationary period. You could still fuck it up.”

I scoff. As if. “I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Rossi, and you know it.” I shoot him a grin.

The corner of his lip twitches, but he doesn’t fully give into the smile.

“One more thing, if you plan on getting out of the car, do me a favor and change your clothes. I can’t have you in my club looking like a crazed leprechaun.

” He eyes my green scrubs splattered with sparkly shamrocks with barely veiled disgust.

Normally I’d argue with the arse, but I can’t deny I’d appreciate a change from the daily routine of scrubs. “Fine,” I mumble.

“Good. We leave in ten. Sammy will have the car waiting in the garage.”

With that, he marches down the corridor toward his bedroom and for the first time since meeting the ill-tempered fecker, I catch a glimpse of that future CEO energy. Decisive. Controlling. Powerful.

No wonder he had the women falling to their knees for him.

“I don’t hear you moving, little leprechaun.” His voice echoes from down the hall, drawing me from my thoughts and spurring my feet forward.

I take it back. I’m not sure I like this version, after all.

Alessandro holds the front door open, and a wave of cool air brushes over my skin. I step into the Velvet Vault and immediately question if I’ve just wandered into the lair of a Bond villain or a high-end den of sin.

Even in the late afternoon light, the place drips with decadence. Shadows cling to the rich burgundy walls, the air thick with the faint scent of cigar smoke and aged whiskey.

Alessandro prowls in, his entire demeanor changed the moment we crossed the threshold.

He stands straighter, the dark jacket, the first time I’ve seen him in one, molding to his broad shoulders.

His strides are purposeful, and a gleam of pride reflects across those mismatched orbs.

He’s the king surveying his kingdom, a land of whispered deals and veiled threats.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I thought he looked good before, but here at home in his domain? He looks like a feckin’ god.

“Mr. Rossi, thanks for coming.” A man in a navy suit appears from behind the bar where a bartender wipes down the counter, and a waitress counts the cash from the tip jar.

Mirrored backlit shelves climb to the ceiling, filled with every rare and illegal liquor you can’t find in a regular Manhattan club.

Even in the quiet, the space hums with the kind of tension I haven’t felt since Belfast. Not the good kind—the kind that coils in your gut and whispers: something bad happened here. Or is about to.

The financial manager, Lawson, eyes me for an instant before his gaze swivels back to Alessandro. “It’s nice to see you out of that wheelchair, boss. I assume this lovely lady is the reason?”

Alessandro grits out a smile, flashing teeth.

“I hope that means you’ll be returning to the club soon?”

“We’ll see.” He signals toward the main lounge area where low-slung velvet couches in deep wine and ebony are scattered in intimate clusters. “Now, shall we get down to business? I have another appointment I need to get to after this.”

Lawson dips his head and allows his boss to take the lead.

Before he moves, he turns to me, eyes more vibrant than I’ve seen in days.

“No need for you to be bored poring over financial statements with us. Feel free to show yourself around. Or better…” Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he whistles, the sharp squeal like a crack across the cavernous, vacant space.

The bartender and server both immediately stop what they’re doing and spin toward the sound.

“Hey, Lance, Sienna, which one of you want to give Rory here the grand tour?”

“I’ll do it,” the bartender calls out. “I’m all finished up here.”

“Good.” Alessandro eyes me expectantly before tipping his chin toward the man.

“Now, behave yourself,” I mutter before turning to follow the bartender.

A rueful chuckle squeezes out through his thinned lips. “I’ll be on my best behavior, Red. Dio forbid I slip across the slick marble floor and break my neck.”

“You’d probably do it just to spite me.”

Shaking his head, he whispers, “Go and let me take care of this so we can get out of here.”

Though he says the words, his entire demeanor screams the opposite. Alessandro is more at home here than I’ve seen him anywhere else. Why would he be in such a hurry to leave?

The bartender approaches with a smile, distracting me from my wandering thoughts. Warm hazel eyes meet mine, and I’m already sure this guy is killing it working behind the bar. He’s all perfect teeth and chiseled cheekbones. “Rory, right?”

“Aye, pleased to meet ya.”

He runs a hand through thick, dirty blonde locks. “Lance. I’ve been the bartender here for over a year now. You work for the boss, too?”

I bite my tongue before the truth spills out.

Knowing how sensitive Alessandro is about it, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t want me telling everyone I’m his nurse.

“Aye, administrative matters.” I don’t know why I lie, but the words come too easily.

Maybe because deep down, I know what this place is.

And if I admit what I really am to him, to myself, I’ll have to admit I’m part of it again.

“Sounds boring.” He chuckles as he leads me past the main lounge where Alessandro and Lawson are huddled around a small table. “Come on, I’ll show you the VIP room. It’s the best part of the place.”

The sleek elevator in the back corner zips us up to the second floor as Lance chatters on about all the celebrities he’s spotted since working here.

I keep trying to get a sense for the true purpose of the lush nightclub.

Is it simply a front for the mob? If Lance has been working here for a year now, he has to know.

The elevator doors glide open, revealing the decadent VIP lounge looming over the dancefloor below.

Leather couches are sprawled across the marble floor each one angled like a confession booth designed for sin and secrets.

Dark velvet curtains divide up the space, giving each section a sense of privacy.

I could feel the remnants of the late-night debauchery still lingering, waiting for nightfall to reclaim them.

We walk beneath a chandelier that doesn’t belong in any club; it should be in a palace.

Twisted wrought iron vines with flickering faux candles.

Gothic. Moody. Much like the club’s king.

As Lance leads me to the glass railing that overlooks the first floor, my eyes immediately chase to the dark king. He leans over the table, brows furrowed as he scans a stack of papers.

Are they laundering mob money?

I have to find out. When I fled Belfast a year ago, I swore I would never return, not only to my home but to that way of life. Now with every day that passes, I’m more certain I’ve fallen right back into that blackhole.

“Hey, Lance,” I whisper, “is there any truth to the Gemini mob rumors?”

He blanches, his open expression suddenly shuttering, and it’s all the confirmation I need. “I—uh…”

I hate putting him on the spot, besides, I already have my answer. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Turning my gaze back to Alessandro, my ears straining to make out his hushed whispers, memories from the past threaten to pull me under. I fight it for as long as I can, because the truth is I don’t want to face the reality.

I’m only eight, but the pub already feels like a second home.

It’s the kind of home that smells like spilled whiskey, fried grease, and old secrets.

I sit on a stool near the back, swinging my legs, and a Fanta clutched in my hands.

It’s too sweet, too cold, and doing nothing to stop the nervous flutter in my belly.

Da said we were grabbing dinner, said Mam needed a break. But I know better. This isn’t about chips and curry sauce. This is business.

Men linger in the corners, nursing pints and low voices. Their laughter isn’t light. It’s heavy. Dangerous. Like they know things that would make other people run.

Da slides into the corner booth with Brian and Malachy, the same two men who always show up when things go quiet at home for too long.

I should stay where I am. I know that. But something pulls me to the curtain that separates the back hallway from the booths.

I move slow, soft-footed like Da taught me, and tuck myself behind the thick drape.

“He’s talkin’,” Malachy mutters, his voice sharp. “To the Garda, no less. His brother’s got him spooked.”

Da doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s done, then. No more chances.”

My heart stutters.

There’s a clink of glass. Someone exhales. It sounds like finality.

“Make it look clean. Accident. I don’t want the kids touched.”

“Aye, boss. He won’t see it comin’.”

My Fanta slips in my grip. I back away slowly, careful not to make a sound. The breath in my lungs turns to ice as I push the pub door open and step into the freezing Belfast night.

The cold slaps me in the face, but it doesn’t chase away the truth that just settled in my bones.

Da isn’t just a pub owner or a butcher.

He’s a man people fear. A man who decides who lives… and who doesn’t.

And that’s the moment I stop seeing him as my hero.

And start seeing him for what he really is.

I blink quickly, chasing away the dark memories, and drag my gaze back to Alessandro, but the chill in my bones doesn’t fade.

No matter how far I run, the past keeps catching up.

And this man… this place… might be exactly what I was running from.

I stare at the man hunched over the table in the dimly lit lounge.

From this distance, cloaked in shadow, the scars and ruined skin disappear, leaving only the man he used to be.

His eyes lift to mine for an instant, the turbulent light and shadow, warring for dominance.

And finally, I see him for what he really is.

A mafia heir.

And once again, I find myself snared in the same lethal web I’ve spent the last year running from.