Page 26 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

POWER

A lessandro

The thundering bass pulses beneath my feet, steady and sharp like a heartbeat I haven’t felt in months.

My own.

The masked crowd swirls ahead in a riot of silk and champagne and too many damned eyes. Normally, I’d eat that kind of attention for breakfast. But tonight, my skin prickles beneath the tailored jacket, the scars tighter than usual, like they know I’m stepping back into the lion’s den.

Into my lion’s den.

I hesitate just inside the threshold, behind the velvet curtain, hand clenched around the edge like a lifeline.

For a second, all I can think is what the fuck am I doing here?

I’ve watched this club from afar for months, from cameras and spreadsheets and security reports, but never like this.

Not in person. Not during hours . Not since before .

I can feel the eyes. Or maybe I imagine them. Doesn’t matter. Every one of them is looking at me and wondering what’s left of the king they used to know.

Then her hand finds mine.

Warm. Steady. Real .

Rory.

She stands beside me like she’s been doing it all her life, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wear a fire-drenched mask and cling to a half-broken mob heir like she belongs.

And fuck me, she does belong.

Her mask is a blazing thing—gold, scarlet, kissed with flame-shaped metal that flickers in the light with every step she takes. Mine is smoke, dark and twisted, with curling silver tendrils licking the edge of my scarred cheek, the only part of my face I was willing to show.

Together, we are fire and smoke. Heat and aftermath. Rage and ruin.

“You ready?” she asks, voice low but unshakable.

“No,” I admit, letting the lie fall away. “But I’m going in anyway.”

I step forward. My foot crosses the line between the shadows of the corridor and the strobe-lit glamour. The music flares. Heads turn. Masks glitter.

And no one looks away.

But with her hand locked in mine and the mask shielding half the face they used to worship, I raise my chin. My back straightens. And for the first time since the explosion, I feel something more than pain. More than shame.

I feel power.

Because I may be scarred, but Rory’s right, by showing my face here I’m proving I am not broken. And with her burning at my side, I’m ready to set this whole fucking city on fire.

The crowd descends on me the moment we set foot into the lounge.

“Alessandro, you’re back!”

“Mr. Rossi, such a pleasure to see you.”

“You look incredible.”

The heartfelt greetings, condolences, and praises spew forth, one after another.

Then come the questions, the never-ending litany and the inevitable looks of pity.

Keeping the smile plastered on my face becomes nearly impossible after the first half hour.

Only Rory’s firm shoulder to lean on and steady grip on my hand keeps me grounded.

The mayor finds his way from the VIP room down to the lounge to greet me, a blonde escort glued to his side. I force the smile for just a little longer, staying in the man’s good graces essential to our business, legitimate and otherwise.

“Alessandro Rossi!” He smacks my bad shoulder with a meaty paw, and I grit through the pain as stars explode across my vision. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”

“Yes, same here, Mr. Mayor.”

Through the antique Venetian mask, his beady-eyed gaze flickers to Rory, and lust blooms in those pale hazel eyes. “And who is this beautiful woman?”

I open my mouth to respond, but not a single word comes out. Damn it, why didn’t I think about this earlier?

Rory extends her free hand while keeping the other firmly entwined with mine. A beaming smile curls her crimson-stained lips. “Rory Delaney, Alessandro’s date. Pleased to meet ya.”

“What a heavenly creature,” he croons, eyes flaring as they rake over every inch of exposed, milky flesh, and the burning desire to gouge his eyes out nearly overwhelms me.

If I still ruled this city, the mayor would’ve known better than to ogle what’s mine. But now? I’m not sure what power I still hold, and I hate that more than the pain. So, I curl my fingers into a tight fist and draw her closer to my side.

“That she is. And thirsty I imagine after all the chatter.” Dipping my head to the mayor, I offer a quick goodbye before ushering Rory toward the bar.

While I’m not certain if she actually needs a drink, I certainly do.

“Shite, that was intense,” she whispers once we’re finally freed from the mass of bodies.

“That’s exactly why I prolonged this evening for so long.

” Avoiding the line at the bar altogether, I tug Rory to the far corner of the club to the private elevator.

Her fingers tighten around mine, just for a second.

Maybe it’s the lights, or the masks, or the ghosts I still carry, but I swear I feel her hesitate.

I almost stop. Almost ask her what’s wrong.

“Come on,” I say instead, to ease her mind. “I just need a break.”

She nods, bottom lip snagged between her teeth.

Riding the elevator in a comfortable silence, we finally reach the third level. To my sanctuary.

Down a quick corridor, and then I’m unlocking the door.

A cool breeze whips over my skin as we cross the threshold.

The moment the door slams closed, quiet envelops the dimly lit industrial space.

Exposed metal rafters crisscross the high ceilings, and my desk backs against an original brick accent wall.

The balcony doors across the chamber are already ajar, the icy December air sending a chill up my spine.

Exactly what I needed after the claustrophobic interior.

Two cocktails sit on my desk, glistening beneath the pendant light.

Thank you, Lance .

The guy may be a terrible flirt, but he does his job well.

“So this is the great king of the Velvet Vault’s office?” Rory saunters around the space, running her finger across the sleek glass desk before eyeing the art plastered on the walls.

It’s a little-known fact that my uncle Nico, Matteo’s father, is quite the artist.

“These are beautiful,” she murmurs, pausing at each one before stopping in front of a vivid painting of his wife, my aunt Maisy.

“Mmm,” I murmur before reaching for the vodka tonic on my desk. The depths of my uncle’s love for his wife surprises me sometimes. For such a brutal man to love so deeply is entirely unexpected.

Picking up the other glass, I offer the champagne to Rory. I’ve never seen her drink anything but water and coffee, so I had to guess on her drink. “I hope it’s okay, I didn’t know what you preferred.”

“I’ll never say no to a bit of bubbly.” She grins, swiping the flute from my hand. “Especially if we’re celebrating a special occasion.”

My brow arches as I regard her. “Oh, and what’s that?”

“The king’s legendary return to his kingdom.” She clinks her glass against mine and for the first time all night, the smile that spreads my lips is a real one.

I swallow down a big gulp, my eyes locked to hers over the rim of the crystal tumbler. The premium Polish vodka slides down my throat, so damned smooth, imported just for my club. I’ve tried to avoid alcohol with all the meds, but Rory’s right, tonight we’re celebrating.

The entire drink goes down smoothly, perhaps too easily, but when I drop my gaze from Rory’s eyes to her flute, I find she’s nearly guzzled down its contents as well.

“Take it easy, Rossi,” she scolds, green eyes piercing through the flames of the mask and soft auburn curls cascading down her bare shoulders.

“Relax, tiny tyrant, I didn’t take any pain meds tonight just for the occasion.”

“Well, look at you thinking ahead.”

“I have a tough nurse, and she’d beat the shite out of me if I disobeyed her rules.”

“Smart man.” She swallows down the remainder of the champagne as I chug down the vodka.

Apparently, a few months without drinking, and I’ve become a lightweight. Already, the warm buzz seeps through my senses, clouding my thoughts and quieting the incessant doubts.

“We should probably get back down to the party if we’re going to catch this culprit red-handed,” I mumble. Even if it’s the last thing I want to do right now. But staying in my office, alone with her, with alcohol dulling my inhibitions, is dangerous.

Especially when my thoughts creep to the past, to the countless women I’ve had on their knees right here in this very place. But with Rory, it would be different. I would be the one on my knees for her …

Shaking my thoughts of the stupid, I turn toward the door and offer Rory my arm.

“So if I’m the king of the Vault…”

“Then I’m the queen, obviously,” she blurts.

She says it like a joke. But for the first time in months, I wonder what it would feel like to let someone wear that crown beside me. For real.

She easily slips her arm through my offered one, curling into my side like she was meant to be there. And that damned hope kindles behind my ribs, and the warm haze of alcohol is too potent to shove it down this time.