Page 2 of Brutal Heir

“You cut it close, lass,” the driver mutters in that thick Mayo accent.

I slam the door shut behind me, heart racing, gown drenched, and hands trembling.

“I did it,” I whisper as I tear off the sopping wet veil.

“From what Brian tells me, you stabbed him pretty good.” At least all those years of medical training went to good use. Thethought is fleeting as I catch a glint of something in his eye, pride, maybe? Funny, that a stranger could give me something I never felt from my own father. “Whether he bleeds out or not, that’s his problem now.”

At least it slowed him down and the spray of blood caused enough of a commotion to keep his guards busy. I nod quickly and sit back in the seat, trying not to focus on the deep ruby splotches across the white lace. I can’t stop shaking.

What if I didn’t stab him deep enough? What if he comes after me?

The van pulls away, and I cock my head over my shoulder through the rear windshield. And everything I’ve ever known disappears into the Belfast rain.

CHAPTER 1

TO PRETENDING

Alessandro

New York City – Present Time

The happy, bubbling sounds of laughter ricochet across the grand dining room of my parents’ penthouse as we all gather around the table. My twin sister, Alessia, sits beside me, arguing with our cousin Serena about CityZen’s latest fashion line. Apparently, Sere is underwhelmed by my mom’s company’s marketing efforts. My mother, the formidable Jia Guo Rossi, watches the exchange, a grin teasing at the corners of her lips. Though she seems to be engrossed in their conversation, I still feel the occasional glimpse in my direction. She barely left my bedside for months…

Serena lifts her crystal flute in a toast, spewing some bullshit about family and then the soft melody of clinking glasses sails across the dining room. It’s amazing how they all act like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t come back from Milano wrapped in gauze and stinking of burned flesh.

Tightly wrapping my fingers around the delicate stem until I’m afraid it might shatter, I lift my glass in a mock toast. To pretending. To pity disguised as affection. To the ghost at the end of the table.

The kitchen door swings open, and the mouth-watering scents of roasted turkey, savory vegetables and…marinara sauce fill the air because it wouldn’t be a holiday without pasta in this household. The cook, with the help of another server, a cute blonde, carries out the enormous, basted bird and an array of silver platters teeming with more food than we could ever eat despite our large numbers. Two generations of Rossis and Valentinos gathered on Thanksgiving Day, pretending all is right in the world.

But no one pretends harder than me.

I offer a tight smile on occasional intervals, nod when addressed and even reply when necessary. It’s a well-practiced act that I’ve forced upon myself to keep my family from smothering me.

Are you okay, Ale?

Is there anything I can get you?

The scars look much better today.

You’ll be back at the Velvet Vault before long.

All their concerned questions and wary glances are absolutely unbearable. So instead, I force a smile and pretend the last three months since the jet explosion haven’t been hell.

Everyone's laughing, smiling, reaching across dishes like we’re some warm, functional family. Like I’m still one of them. But I’m not. I’m not Alessandro Rossi, heir to the Gemini empire. I’m a fucking shadow of him, burnt, broken, and half-stitched together.

The blonde server moves between my mother and me, her light eyes dropping to the wheelchair I sit in before offering a smile. It’s one I hate, one I’ve been the recipient of for too manymonths. Despite the warm grin, all I see is the pity in her gaze. In everyone’s gazes. “Dark or light meat, Mr. Rossi?” she finally asks.

“Dark is fine.” The darker the better. In fact, I wish I could disappear into the shadows and never see the light of day again. I tug at the hospital scrubs I wear on most days, the most comfortable clothing over the compression bandages that still cover the majority of my body.

“Let me get that for you,A Lei.” My mother, wearing one of her own designs, a ruby red dress with gilded dragons that reflect her Chinese heritage, reaches over the platter to serve me like I’m a child.

“Ma,” I bark, sharper than intended. “I can get my own food.”

“I was only trying to help…”

“I know, but I didn’t break my arm.” It’s only covered in gruesome, painful scars from the explosion on that runway in Milano.

“I know that,” she snaps right back, the blood of the dragon that runs through her veins making an unexpected appearance. “Not everything is aboutthat, A Lei. Can’t a mother who has barely seen her son the past month, spoil him a little?”