Page 68 of Brutal Heir

The shadows in the unfamiliar room shift, stretching like hands reaching for me. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe?—

I kick at the blanket, fighting to get free, nearly falling off the couch as I scramble, my hands shaking as they clutch at the side table. The lamp teeters, wobbles, before I manage to steady it, my breath tearing in and out of my lungs in shallow, desperate gasps.

My eyes dart to the thin line of light under the door that leads to Shelly and Mack’s room. Not to Alessandro’s. If I’d been at home, at the penthouse, he’d be just on the other side. One word, one knock, and he’d be there.

No. You don’t need him. And he doesn’t need your brokenness bleeding all over him. He has enough to deal with.

Except maybe I do need him.

My knees pull up to my chest, and I hug them tight, pressing my forehead against them as I rock, back and forth, back and forth, like that might quiet the chaos screaming in my head.

“Breathe,” I whisper, the word shaking. “Just breathe.”

But even as I sit there, the dark presses in around me. I can still smell him, feel the weight of him, hear the low, vicious chuckle he made before everything went black.

And I know no matter how far I’ve run, no matter how many walls I build, some ghosts always find a way to follow.

I banish the dark thoughts and focus on the sunlight, on the chaotic pulse of the city to ground me. It was just a nightmare brought on by the night’s grisly events. That bastard will never hurt me again.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, I walk on. Unlike last night, the streets are bustling with cars and pedestrians rushing to work.

Today, I’m not one of those people.

Instead, I’m going to make up for a long overdue visit with an old friend.

There’s only one person in this godforsaken city who won’t tell me to forgive and forget. Only one soul I trust to call bullshite when they see it. Paddy Flaherty.

And no, this little excursion has nothing to do with the fact that I’m trying to avoid Alessandro.

Or his dozens of text messages.

And voicemails.

Dipping down beneath the busy streets to the subway platform, my thoughts drift between my dark past and bleak future. I refuse to read the messages from Alessandro. If I do, I know I’ll lose all resolve.

And if I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I know I’ll have to go back home—I mean his penthouse—eventually.

Damn it, his apartment is not my home! Why do I keep doing that?

Probably for the same reason I keep imagining Alessandro’s lips pressed against my own.

The subway screeches into the station, whipping strands of brilliant red hair across my face. Holding my coat tight around myself, I squeeze through the sliding doors, battling a guy with an expensive brief case in a three-piece suit and a teenager toting a cello, and drop down in a seat. At least Shelly had been nice enough to lend me a new set of clothes, so I wasn’t forced to walk the streets in that scandalous dress all day.

Seeking refuge at the home of the newly cohabitating lovebirds was a big mistake. I shake my head, trying my best to loosen the nauseatingly sweet images of my old roommate and her boyfriend making out on the couch all night. The couch I had to sleep on.

I mean Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m not against a little PDA, but that was out of control.

My phone buzzes in my coat again, and I pull it out this time just to make sure it’s not Paddy. I scan the screen and immediately regret it.

Alessandro: Please come home, Rory. I need you.

I shove the phone back into my coat pocket, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. A tangle of unwanted emotions batters my chest, ripping me apart from the inside. Because God, as much as I refuse to admit it, I need him too.

What feels like seconds later with the intense company of my churning thoughts, the subway grinds to a halt at the Lower East Side station. As I trudge the remaining walk to Holy Cross Nursing Home, I mentally chastise myself for not having come sooner.

Paddy Flaherty is the only patient I still keep in touch with. Over the year he’d become like family. Like me, he had no otherrelatives here in Manhattan, and truth be told, the man was a laugh riot. Even after his cruel past. His wife had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and he was her sole caretaker. One day, she’d left the stove on and nearly burned down the entire building. Paddy barely survived. His wife wasn’t as lucky.

After a quick check-in at the front desk where I flash my nursing credentials, I wander through the quiet halls, straight for Paddy’s room. Most of the residents are still asleep, though I catch glimpses of a few in various states of undress as I pass their rooms.