Page 98 of Brutal Heir

He ended the call without saying goodbye.

“What was that about?” I asked, my so-called American suspicion, as he liked to call it, rising.

He took my elbow and led me to the plane seats toward the front of the plane.

After I sat, he buckled the seat belt for me.

When the plane came to a rolling stop, I peeked out the small window to see a red carpet with stanchions and a crowd of paparazzi waiting.

Sebastian buttoned his suit jacket. “Ready?”

With a flick of my hand, I unbuckled my belt and stood. “I assumed you’d go out first and greet the photographers, and then I’d follow after they left.”

Without responding, he placed his hand on my lower back and led me forward.

The moment the plane door opened, chaos descended.

A wall of sound hit me first—shouts, rapid-fire questions in a cacophony of accents, and the sharp pop of cameras clicking in unison.

Bright flashes of light erupted, blinding in their intensity, each burst chasing away the shadows, only to leave me blinking in their wake. The air was crisp but carried a tang of jet fuel lingering from our landing.

Figures surged forward, a blur of motion that resolved into sharp-edged bodies jostling for position, cameras raised like weapons. The glassy lenses obscured their faces, but their voices pierced through the frenzy:

"Sebastian, over here!"

"Are you two together?"

"Sebastian, guardaci qui!"

"One shot for the cover, please!"

"È vero che state pianificando un viaggio insieme?"

"Is this the diamond girl from the party?"

"What’s your name, honey?"

"Puoi sorridere per noi?"

"Lei è il tuo nuovo amore?"

I instinctively shrank back, my shoulder brushing against Sebastian’s chest as I moved closer to his reassuring presence.

His hand tightened subtly at my back, a silent promise of protection amidst the storm.

The cameras tracked us relentlessly, capturing every nuance, every flinch. I could feel their gazes like a tangible weight, the intensity pressing against my skin, prickling my nerves.

I’d arrived in Italy.

The country I had sworn to my mother I would never, ever set foot in.

She had left this land under the shadow of fear, fleeing when she was pregnant with me, her life threatened by enemies she would never fully explain.

I grew up knowing Italy only through her stories—dark, chilling tales of betrayal, danger, and a past she had buried deep.

She was terrified of ever returning, and she made me promise I wouldn’t either.

Her voice echoed in my mind, sharp and certain: Promise me, no matter what, you’ll stay away. It’s not safe.