Page 121 of Brutal Heir

His head dips, mouth finding mine. That need burns brighter, and all thoughts of timeliness evaporate when he lifts me off the floor and wraps my legs around his hips.

The new year can wait. Alessandro is all the future I need right now.

Eventually, we do make it to the party. My hair is a mess, lipstick smudged, and we’re just late enough for people to guess why. But I’m still too high from the buzzing orgasm to care.

If you had told me a few months ago that I’d be ringing in the new year in a glittering Manhattan penthouse full of mob royalty, wearing a sparkly dress I definitely couldn’t afford on my old nursing salary, I would’ve laughed in your face.

But here I am sipping champagne worth more than my childhood home and letting Alessandro’s hand rest possessively on the curve of my lower back while his cousins and twin sister laugh and bicker around us like there isn’t a bounty on my head just outside these walls.

I should feel like an outsider here surrounded by mob royalty and million-dollar views, but somehow, I don’t. I feel like I belong. Like I’ve carved out a space in a world that wasn’t supposed to be mine

Serena’s penthouse is all glass and gold, glowing like a fine diamond suspended above the city. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows give a sweeping view of the skyline, all lit up and sparkling like it’s celebrating right along with us.

“Alright, everyone!” Serena clinks her glass with a fork, standing on a velvet ottoman in heels that defy gravity. “Drinking game time!” she shouts over the chaos.

Antonio rolls his eyes from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch, but he’s smiling. One hand is already reaching to pass around little cards with prompts. Matteo, of course, snatches the first one and reads it aloud with a dramatic flair.

“Drink if you’ve ever had sex in a car,” he announces. “Bonus gulp if it was in the past year.”

I glance up at Ale, who raises a brow like he’s daring me.

“You first,” I challenge.

He downs his champagne without hesitation. And I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve heard all about the infamous playboy, Alessandro Rossi before the explosion.

“Well, that tracks,” Alessia mutters from the other side of the couch, fake gagging.

Alessandro sticks his tongue out at her, and she laughs, then shoots a grin at me in a way that makes me feel like I really do belong here. Somehow, I’ve gone from fugitive ex-fiancée tothe girl who’s included in even the family’s most scandalous drinking traditions.

When it’s my turn to draw a card, I read it aloud in my best dramatic TV announcer voice. “Drink if you’ve ever been in a fistfight.”

Half the room drinks. I drain my glass.

“Wait, Rory?” Isabella laughs. “You’ve been in a fight?”

“One?” I scoff. “Try three. All girls. One bottle of whiskey. One was wearing heels. I won every time.”

Alessandro looks both horrified and deeply turned on.

“That explains so much,” Matteo says, grinning as he grabs another bottle off the bar cart. “God, I love you.”

“Back off, Matty,” Ale says with a smirk, pulling me against him so my back hits his chest and his lips brush my ear. “She’s mine.”

Heat flashes across my skin, even in the middle of the laughter and chaos. His fingers slide over my hip like a secret promise only I can hear.

The music shifts into something a little slower, a little smoother, and suddenly the game is forgotten and people are pairing off to dance. Serena loops an arm through Antonio’s and drags him to the center of the room. Isabella and Raffaele are quick to follow. Alessia gets pulled away by one of Serena’s friends, Luca or Leo, I can’t remember, and Matteo dramatically offers his hand to Vinny, Bella’s younger brother, who flips him off but ends up swaying with him anyway.

“May I have this dance, Red?” Alessandro murmurs against my hair.

“You dance?”

He shrugs. “For you? I’ll make an exception.”

He pulls me into the center of the room, his hands resting low on my back as I slide my arms around his neck. The music hums beneath our skin. Lights from the city glitter behindus. His thumb strokes lazy circles on my hipbone, and for a moment, everything slows.

No Irish mobsters. No bounty. No lies.

Just us.