Page 98 of Brutal Heir

Now, how do I tell her?

As the wine flows and the seafood disappears, the din crescendos around us. There are heated debates over the soccer match, old stories retold for the hundredth time, and the never-ending clink of wine glasses and champagne flutes. For once, the chaos doesn’t feel suffocating.

It’s still noisy. Overwhelming. Maddening at times.

But it’s different now. Somehow, Rory always knows when the room gets too loud for me. Because her hand finds mine under the table, fingers lacing through my own without a word. She keeps me steady. Calms the storm I’ve carried inside me since the explosion. Since long before that, if I’m honest.

Matteo catches my eye from across the roast branzino and lifts his wine glass. Then mouths,“Whipped.”I flip him off behind Rory’s back. He just grins wider.

But he’s right.

I glance sideways again, watching as Rory laughs at something Alessia says, her eyes lit up in the glow of the chandelier.

She’s not just my nurse.

She’s not just the woman who stitched me back together.

She’s the only reason I still know how to breathe in a room like this.

And tonight, surrounded by the commotion and history and people who wear scars like heirlooms, I don’t feel broken.

Not even close. I feel like I’ve finally found my place.

Right here. With her.

CHAPTER 38

MY CHRISTMAS

Rory

Streaks of sunlight stream into the bedroom, drawing me from sleep. My head slowly bobs, the soft rise and fall of a bare chest beneath my cheek. My internal clock nudges me awake, but the warmth of his body lulls me back under. Alessandro.

I can’t remember ever sleeping so well as in this man’s arms.

I’m sore, a delicious ache pervading muscles I didn’t even know I had after the night of endless sex. I’ll say one thing: the patient has surpassed the teacher. The first few times we slept together he was gentle, taking it slow. I was afraid to somehow hurt him, but now?

The man is a beast, fecking me in positions I didn’t even know existed.

And shite, I can’t wait for him to wake up and do it all over again.

After last night at the Valentino-Rossi Christmas celebration, I needed a distraction. Not that it hadn’t been lovely, but sitting there amidst all that chaotic love had sent memories ofmy dismal past rushing to the surface. Even now, the memory creeps in, slithering into the sun-drenched room like a cold draft beneath a locked door…

The table is too quiet.

No one laughs. No one argues. Not like they used to.

The candles flicker against the soot-streaked windows, casting warped shadows along the wallpaper that had begun to curl at the corners. Mam used to tape them back up with bits of leftover ribbon, always humming some old Irish hymn under her breath. Now, they peel freely, little curls of decay marking the days since she’s been gone.

Da sits at the head of the table, eyes glassy but spine stiff, a tumbler of Jameson clenched so tight in his fist I think the glass might shatter. His plate sits untouched, the silver fork pristine beside the slab of dry ham and overcooked cabbage.

I can still hear the echo of Mam’s laugh, just barely. Like it imprinted itself on the walls. Like maybe, if I hold perfectly still, I can trap it before it fades entirely.

Blaine picks at his potatoes. Bran stares at the flickering TV in the other room, the static hum of the BBC anchoring us in the silence. No one says a word about Mam’s empty chair, though it screams louder than any of us ever could.

I force myself to chew the rubbery meat even though my throat has gone dry. The knife in my hand trembles just slightly. I feel the weight of Da’s stare before I even look up.

“What are you blubberin’ about?” he mutters, low and sharp, his words slicing cleaner than the blade in my palm. “It’s Christmas. Eat your damn food.”