Page 58 of Brutal Heir

I close the distance between us and lift his chin, so his gaze meets mine. “You can do this. Youneedto do this for the sake of your club.”

“What about my face?” he hisses, jerking his head so quickly I release his chin. But before he can get away, I curl my hand around his arm forcing him still.

Turbulent eyes meet mine, and the depth of pain hidden beneath the surface is heartbreaking.

With my free hand I gently caress his cheek, the one with the tight, ravaged skin, and lightly brush my thumb over the uneven patches. Drawing in a breath muddled with his intoxicating scent, I whisper, “You are a beautiful man, Alessandro Rossi, and no scars will ever change that.”

“I think you need your vision checked, little leprechaun.”

I shake my head. “I can see just fine, McFecker. And from where I’m standing, you’re even more attractive than before. Those scars don’t make you less. They prove you survived, and damn if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

A twinge of crimson floods his cheeks as he regards me.

“But if you insist on being a stubborn gobshite, I’ve already spoken to Vincent, and he loved my idea about a masquerade party tonight.” Releasing him, reluctantly, I spin around and produce the two masks I had Mrs. Jenkins buy this morning.

One is red and gold with flickering flame motifs, gemstones, and phoenix feather accents, while the other is charcoal black with silver wisps curling like smoke and crackled texture like scorched earth. Fire and smoke. Together, they’re chaos and calm.

He reaches for the black one, and a reluctant smile smothers the frown. “Well, how can I say no when it seems as if you’ve thought of everything?”

“You can’t.”

CHAPTER 24

POWER

Alessandro

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.

Intomylion’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 iswhat 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. Notduring hours. Not sincebefore.

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, shedoesbelong.

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.