Page 85 of Brutal Heir

With a quick check in the rearview mirror, I find my driver’s dark eyes darting between the traffic ahead and the backseat. Now is not the time for this discussion.

“Fine,” I finally mutter. “Just anxious to have this thing at the Velvet Vault over with.”

She nods and turns her attention back to the window. What could be so fucking interesting about the Hudson River in the middle of winter?

If I’m being honest with myself, it isn’t just Rory that has my nerves on edge. It has been over a week, and we still haven’t found Amber’s killer. I’ve been at the club nearly every day, questioning the staff myself, but so far, nothing. I even brought Matteo in to check the security system when the half hour of video footage we needed was mysteriously missing. He confirmed the cameras had been tampered with, but more than that, he couldn’t say.

Which is why we’re currently on our way to the Vault at nearly midnight. If I want answers, I need to be there when the action happens, not at three o’clock in the afternoon when I typically come.

There will be no masks tonight. Just me. All my scars out for all of Manhattan to see. Shifting in the seat, I adjust my collar, the heavily starched cotton irritating the scars along my neck.Already, I’m dreading putting on the jacket. It’ll only chafe all the delicate skin below. But I can’t show up to the Velvet Vault on a Saturday night in scrubs. Especially not this close to the holidays. Christmas will be here in a week, then New Year’s Eve, one of the biggest nights of the year for the club.

Everything must be settled by then.

Amber’s family put out a missing person’s alert, and the cops have been on my ass all week. They’ll never find her body. And a part of me feels guilty as all hell about it. Her family needs closure, and they’ll never get it.

The fifty grand I donated to the search fund does little to assuage the guilt.

The car slows, and I glance up to see the purple neon sign of the Velvet Vault and the two-block long line behind the infamous velvet rope. Rory perks up at the sight, sliding to the edge of the seat before a yawn spills out.

“You didn’t have to come,” I whisper. The little leprechaun is an early riser and at this rate, we won’t get home till dawn.

“And miss out on a night at the notorious Vault? I don’t think so.” She smirks, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach her eyes, not like it used to.

“Do you want me to drive around to the back?” Sammy calls out from the front seat.

Glancing at the traffic, I shake my head with a grunt of frustration. “Nah, it’ll be quicker if we walk. Just drop us off here.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He parks the Range Rover right in front of the entrance, and two security guards surround the vehicle.

Sammy opens Rory’s door first, and I slide across the seat to follow. The moment my Ferragamos hit the sidewalk, blinding lights flash across my face. I nearly stumble back, but a firm grip curls around my arm.

“I got you, Rossi,” Rory whispers. “We can’t have you making an arse out of yourself in front of the paparazzi.”

Merda. What the hell are they doing here?

Weaving my arm around Rory’s waist so we look like a couple instead of a nurse holding up her pathetic patient, we march toward the entrance. No point in going in through the back now that we’ve been spotted.

“Mr. Rossi!”

“Mr. Rossi, over here!”

“Who is the beautiful woman at your side?”

The paparazzi are ruthless, their intrusive lenses catching every detail, every narrowed glare, twist of the lips, cursed scars. “Damn it,” I growl. I should have listened to Sammy and sat through traffic just to avoid these vultures.

Rory’s hold only tightens around my arm as we weave through the masses with the two security guards leading the way.

Some young guy slips between the crowd, shoving his camera in our faces. “Mr. Rossi, is this the new woman in your life? You haven’t been spotted with anyone since your tragic accident. Wanna give us a name for theNew York Post?”

“None of your fucking business,” I snarl.

Rory tugs me behind her and slams her palm into the asshole’s camera. “Smile all you like, lad, but keep that lens up my skirt, and I’ll shove it so far down your throat you’ll be taking selfies from the inside.”

The young man’s eyes widen, and he drops the camera as Rory throws him a cheeky smile.

“Well done, Red,” I murmur as we’re finally ushered through the threshold by security.

“That eejit was getting on my nerves.” She shrugs before releasing me. “You okay?”