Page 30 of Brutal Heir

Claimed by a man who didn’t ask permission.

And I had no idea how to stop him.

CHAPTER 9

SEBASTIAN

Icould still taste her reluctant kiss.

Her futile struggles against my embrace had been a turn-on.

My palm itched with the anticipation of holding her down by her wrists while I…

“So was Plan B a success?” Rafaello entered our Parisian home carrying a case of wine, breaking into my illicit thoughts.

At my questioning look, he shifted his arm to show the name on the box, Cavalieri. “Enzo sent a case of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano d'Abruzzo dei Cavalieri as a thank you for taking care of that bullshit business with the Columbians. He said the last body was fished out just yesterday.”

A note was taped to the top. After tearing open the envelope, I read it out loud. “No Italian should endure the indignity of drinking French wine.” I tossed the note aside. “Funny. Did you want that or a spritz?”

After placing the box down, he wiped the cardboard dust off his hands. “Spritz. I’ll save the wine for dinner.”

I surveyed the bar ingredients lined up on the sideboard by our staff. “Venetian or Tarocco?”

Although the Rue de Lille apartment belonged to the family, I hated everything about it. Cold, sterile, and soulless. All white walls, brutalist cement, strange metal sculptures, and oversized glass.

It reeked of my mother’s post-modernist rebellion phase.

My brother settled onto an ugly mustard-yellow leather sofa, the only splash of color in the room. “Tarocco. What are you doing here? I thought you were going to stay at the Shangri-La.”

After adding the gin and Cappelletti over ice, I pulled the crystal stopper off the carafe of blood-orange juice and poured a healthy splash before finishing it with some lemon juice and a dash of vanilla syrup.

Capping the cocktail shaker, I raised my arm and shook it over my shoulder as I answered. “I am. I’m just here for apertivos.”

Rafaello stretched out his arm and selected an artichoke and fried pancetta crostini from the selection of snacks prepared by our Italian chef.

Our Italian animosity toward all things French ran deep.

So deep, we always brought our own staff when we traveled to Paris for the shows, preferring home food to the rich French cuisine.

Before taking a bite, he asked, “Not staying for dinner?”

“I have other plans.”

A smirk played on his lips as he wagged his eyebrows. “Would this be Plan B? Should I be worried there is a female tied spread-eagle on the marble slab down in the hammam?”

My cock lengthened at the thought of Sabrina stretched naked over the Turkish bath marble bed down in the basement.

To conceal my erection, I stalled while opening the prosecco to refill Rafaello's drink.

Dammit.

Being this attracted to Sabrina wasn’t part of the plan.

I’d sworn not to touch her.

Using the judge's innocent daughter as a pawn in our twisted game might make me a monster, but I'd resolved not to be a heartless one.

Then I'd kissed her.