Page 28 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

THE GEMINI HEIR

R ory

The muffled shouts over the thumping bass only heighten my irritation as I stand at the corner of the bar watching Lance juggle bottles of liquor and fine crystal tumblers.

If I wasn’t so annoyed at Alessandro right now, I’d actually be enjoying the show.

The man is a fine bartender. But after that dance with Alessandro…

to be brushed off like this is absolutely infuriating.

“This is complete bollocks,” I hiss.

I lean against the back bar, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place. Lance pretends not to notice the storm cloud brewing on my face as he grabs another martini glass, the third one in under a minute.

The club is insanely packed.

“Fun night, huh?” he offers, not quite meeting my eyes.

I grunt. “Thrilling.”

He wisely falls silent.

Alessandro Rossi is a walking contradiction.

One second, he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in his world, and the next he’s tossing me at the nearest bartender like I’m some damsel who needs minding.

And fine, I might’ve been trembling like a bloody leaf after that encounter at his physical therapy office last week, but that was different.

That was real trauma. This? This is just insulting.

I glance toward the door he disappeared through with Vincent.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it. The look in the manager’s eyes had nothing to do with VIP drama or even someone skimming cash from the tip jar.

This was something big. Alessandro could have let me come.

He knows I can handle myself, scars and all.

But the real issue, the one I’m trying not to obsess over, is that almost-kiss.

Because for a second, back on that dancefloor, nothing else existed. Just the music and Alessandro’s breath and the way he looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer he’d never said out loud. And damn it, I leaned in too. I wanted it. Still want it.

God, what is wrong with me?

I’m supposed to be helping him recover, not imagining his damned lips on mine or obsessing over the way his hand felt on my waist like it belonged there.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Lance’s eyes flick my way as he pours another whiskey for a masked guest.

“I’m good,” I mutter. “Unless you’ve got something that can erase memories.”

He snorts. “If I did, I’d be a billionaire.”

I force a smile, but my eyes are already back on that closed door.

Because whether I like it or not, I’m in this now. And I need to know what the hell just pulled Alessandro away from me before that almost-kiss becomes a never-was.

So I gingerly creep closer to the door until I’m leaning against it. Sneaking my hand behind my back, I try the knob. Shite. Locked.

Figures.

If I wasn’t being watched, I could jimmy the lock with my hairpin dagger. Even with my hair down this evening, I never leave home without it. It’s tucked into my bra like a proper lady. At least Da taught me a few useful things growing up.

But there has to be a key around here somewhere, right? I scan the area beneath the sprawling bar—boxes of booze, crates filled with tumblers, flutes and glasses of every shape and size. Then I spot it, a metal drawer with a key still inserted into the lock.

Where there’s one key there must be more.

I sidle closer and the next time Lance gets called across the bar, I give the drawer a little tug. With one eye following Lance to make sure I’m not caught, I rifle through the assortment of receipts, paperclips and pens. My fingers finally latch onto a keyring.

Closing my hand around it, I slip it out and hide it behind my back. Lance eyes me from across the bar as he pours a cosmopolitan for a flirtatious blonde. I throw him a quick smile as I back up toward the door once again.

I almost feel guilty.

Alessandro wouldn’t really fire the guy, would he?

Guess I’m taking my chances.

With his attention on the blonde with a sexy tiger mask, I ease the key into the lock behind my back. A quick flick of my wrist and the lock disengages. My pulse skyrockets, exhilaration trumping all else.

I’ve got you now, McFecker.

Twisting the knob behind my back, the door swings open, and I dart inside, slamming it closed behind me.

That metallic stench hits me like a fist to the gut. It’s sharp and unmistakable. Blood.

I’m vaguely aware of Alessandro’s presence but my vision tunnels, ignoring his order echoing in my head. Get out of here, Rory . I don’t care. I need to see.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting a harsh glare over cold cement and chaos. And then I see it.

The body.

Splayed out like a discarded rag doll. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Eyes wide. Lifeless. A puddle of red pooling beneath the lifeless form.

I stop cold and clamp a hand over my mouth.

The air seizes in my lungs, and for a second, it’s not this body I see.

It’s another. On another night. In another room.

Everyone says you never forget your first. They were feckin’ right.

The smell, the silence, the stillness, they all claw their way down my spine like ghosts that never really left.

My hand shoots out and braces against the wall. “Bloody hell…”

Alessandro’s voice slices through the fog. “Rory?—”

But I can’t look at him. Not yet. I’m too busy keeping myself upright, keeping my knees from buckling beneath the weight of what this means.

Someone is dead. Here . In his club. In our club.

And it’s not just the violence that turns my stomach, it’s the familiarity of the entire scene. Of the life I’d fought so hard to run away from. My pulse spikes. Then recognition slams into me like a freight train.

The blue dreadlocks bathed in crimson.

“Oh my God,” I finally whisper now that I’ve found my voice. “I know her.”

It’s Amber, the server I met on one of my first visits to the club. The one whose nasty comment about her boss had my blood boiling. Well, I can’t say I’m sorry she’s gone. Anyone who makes such a cold, unfeeling comment about a man who’s suffered so much deserves punishment.

Maybe not death though.

Alessandro is beside me now, muttering curses, as he tugs me into his side. “Damn it, Rory, why didn’t you just stay put?”

“In case you haven’t figured it out, Rossi, I don’t do well with orders.” My voice trembles, but I smother the rising panic with sarcasm, my go-to defense mechanism.

“Clearly.” His gaze never deviates from the body.

“So what in the blazes happened?” I whisper. Was Amber involved in some illicit dealings with the Geminis? Did this whole mob connection go much deeper than I’d feared?

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He ticks his head at a computer on the desk along the far wall. Surveillance videos flash across the screen. “Vincent is combing through the footage now.”

“Shouldn’t you call the cops first?”

His eyes still refuse to meet mine, and his lips, the ones who’d been so close to mine only minutes ago, press into a hard line. “Not until I know what happened.”

“Alessandro—”

“No, Rory. That’s not how we do things here.”

I squirm free of his hold and plant my hands on my hips. “Then please enlighten me. Because the normal reaction to a dead body after the initial shock is calling the authorities. Unless there’s something else going on here?”

“I can’t afford that sort of negative publicity for the club right now,” he growls.

“A woman has been murdered!” I howl, pointing at the corpse. Sure, she seemed like a bitch, but still, her death can’t just be swept under a rug.

Alessandro towers over me, his hand curling around my arm. “And I told you I would handle it.” His eyes narrow as he regards me, the icy edge bringing memories of the past racing to the surface.

Memories of a man I thought I knew who turned out to be a monster.

I cannot repeat those mistakes again…

My heart riots in my chest, a tangle of fear and anger rushing to the surface. I try to fight the onslaught of images, but the corners of my vision darken, and I’m pulled into the past.

It’s late. Too late to be out alone, but Conall said he wanted to show me something.

The sky above Belfast is heavy with clouds, the kind that threaten rain but never quite deliver.

We walk in silence down the narrow back road behind St. Finnian’s pub, our footsteps muffled by damp gravel.

I’ve known Conall my whole life. He’s Bran’s best mate, and Blaine is his shadow.

And for most of it, I thought he was charming in that cocky, too-sure-of-himself kind of way.

The kind of way that makes a girl curious.

But something’s been off lately. A shift. A shadow behind his smile.

We stop outside the back of my da’s butcher shop, one of his many locales, and I wrinkle my nose.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me, his pale blue eyes almost translucent in the dark. “You’re not scared of a little blood, are you, Brigid?”

“I work here. I know what blood smells like.”

He smirks. “Then this won’t bother you.”

Conall pulls a key from his coat pocket and unlocks the back door. My gut goes taut. That’s Da’s key. But before I can question it, he’s already inside, motioning for me to follow.

Against every instinct screaming at me to run, I step in after him.

The stench hits me like a wall—blood, piss, sweat, and something worse. Rot. Panic.

“Conall?” My voice wavers.

“Back here,” he calls.

I move toward the back cutting room. My boots slip slightly on the damp tile, and when I round the corner, I stop cold.

There’s a man tied to the meat hook rail system with his arms stretched above his head, face bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. His shirt is shredded, skin slick with blood, and his chest no longer rises or falls.

“What the fuck—” I gasp.

Conall stands beside him, calm as anything, wiping down a small knife he picked up from the counter with a stained cloth. “Didn’t expect him to last this long, to be honest.”

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

He looks at me then like he’s proud of himself. “He sold us out. Passed info to the McKennas. Thought he could play both sides.”

“You tortured him?” I whisper, my whole body going numb. “Here? In my da’s shop?”

He shrugs. “It’s clean. Convenient. Familiar.”

“You’re feckin’ insane.”

Conall’s eyes flash with something chilling. Amusement? Satisfaction? “Don’t act so innocent, Rory. You think your da hasn’t done worse? Your brothers? This is the world you live in. You just haven’t seen it yet.”

“No.” My voice cracks. “This isn’t who I am.”

He steps toward me, slow and deliberate, until the blood-slick knife is inches from my chest. “Not yet. But you will be.” His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise. “You were born into this, Brigid. It’s in your blood. Sooner or later, you’ll stop pretending.”

I wrench away, breath caught in my throat, bile rising.

That’s the moment I see it. Not a boy I once thought I might love, not Bran’s best mate or the cocky guy who made me laugh, but the monster beneath the skin. Cold. Calculated. And utterly gone.

And it’s the same moment I start planning my escape.

It’s that look I see in Alessandro’s eyes right now. He’s not Conall. He’s not . But the tight grip on my arm and the hard edge in his eyes, it’s too close. Too damned close.

I’ve been blind for too long now. I didn’t want to accept the truth right in front of me.

The truth of who Alessandro is. The Gemini heir.

The way he checks every room before entering, never sits with his back to a window, watches exits instinctively. Even in his current condition, it’s muscle memory. Ingrained in his being likely since he was a child.

I want to scream. I want to run.

The former would draw too much attention, so instead, I whirl around and race for the door.

Alessandro’s shouts echo in the distance, but they’re drowned out by the mad thundering of my heart and the roar of panic rushing my veins.

His voice follows me, reverberating with panic, maybe regret.

But it’s too late. I’m already unraveling.

And I don’t know if I’m running from him, or from the girl I used to be, the one who thought she could escape monsters by crossing an ocean.

Weaving through the mob of drunken socialites, I don’t stop running. Not after I race through the velvet curtains or feel the icy cool breeze on my skin.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.