Page 65 of Brutal Heir
Alessandro is beside me now, muttering curses, as he tugs me into his side. “Damn it, Rory, why didn’t you just stay put?”
“In case you haven’t figured it out, Rossi, I don’t do well with orders.” My voice trembles, but I smother the rising panic with sarcasm, my go-to defense mechanism.
“Clearly.” His gaze never deviates from the body.
“So what in the blazes happened?” I whisper. Was Amber involved in some illicit dealings with the Geminis? Did this whole mob connection go much deeper than I’d feared?
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He ticks his head at a computer on the desk along the far wall. Surveillance videos flash across the screen. “Vincent is combing through the footage now.”
“Shouldn’t you call the cops first?”
His eyes still refuse to meet mine, and his lips, the ones who’d been so close to mine only minutes ago, press into a hard line. “Not until I know what happened.”
“Alessandro—”
“No, Rory. That’s not how we do things here.”
I squirm free of his hold and plant my hands on my hips. “Then please enlighten me. Because the normal reaction to a dead body after the initial shock is calling the authorities. Unless there’s something else going on here?”
“I can’t afford that sort of negative publicity for the club right now,” he growls.
“A woman has been murdered!” I howl, pointing at the corpse. Sure, she seemed like a bitch, but still, her death can’t just be swept under a rug.
Alessandro towers over me, his hand curling around my arm. “And I told you I would handle it.” His eyes narrow as he regards me, the icy edge bringing memories of the past racing to the surface.
Memories of a man I thought I knew who turned out to be a monster.
I cannot repeat those mistakes again…
My heart riots in my chest, a tangle of fear and anger rushing to the surface. I try to fight the onslaught of images, but the corners of my vision darken, and I’m pulled into the past.
It’s late. Too late to be out alone, but Conall said he wanted to show me something.
The sky above Belfast is heavy with clouds, the kind that threaten rain but never quite deliver. We walk in silence down the narrow back road behind St. Finnian’s pub, our footsteps muffled by damp gravel. I’ve known Conall my whole life. He’s Bran’s best mate, and Blaine is his shadow. And for most of it, I thought he was charming in that cocky, too-sure-of-himself kind of way. The kind of way that makes a girl curious.
But something’s been off lately. A shift. A shadow behind his smile.
We stop outside the back of my da’s butcher shop, one of his many locales, and I wrinkle my nose.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me, his pale blue eyes almost translucent in the dark. “You’re not scared of a little blood, are you, Brigid?”
“I work here. I know what blood smells like.”
He smirks. “Then this won’t bother you.”
Conall pulls a key from his coat pocket and unlocks the back door. My gut goes taut. That’s Da’s key. But before I can question it, he’s already inside, motioning for me to follow.
Against every instinct screaming at me to run, I step in after him.
The stench hits me like a wall—blood, piss, sweat, and something worse. Rot. Panic.
“Conall?” My voice wavers.
“Back here,” he calls.
I move toward the back cutting room. My boots slip slightly on the damp tile, and when I round the corner, I stop cold.
